December 10, 2008: the twists and turns of memory lane

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Dec 10: the twists and turns of memory lane

Marianne Talbot on the poignant role of memory - and its loss - in her mother's life

For years after dad had his stroke I had planned to take mum to South Africa. My fear of flying always got in the way. Then I was told about mum’s Alzheimer’s. The diagnosis trumped my fear and the holiday was booked.

Mum’s dad came from South Africa. He was an officer with the King’s African Rifles. He was also a married man. Mum’s mum was 17. She was obviously as gullible as 17-year-old girls usually are.

When mum was born a notice was put in a number of local papers asking for someone to care for a new-born girl. The woman who became mum’s ‘nana’ read the notice, exclaimed ‘poor bairn!’, and so mum spent her first eight years in South Shields, County Durham.

It was, apparently, a magical childhood. Mum and her ‘brother’ Matt used to tumble out of bed, throw on shorts and hurtle down the cliff path to the beach, where they spent the day. At weekends they would take the Tyne ferry to visit nana’s sister. Nana’s husband was a ferry pilot, and mum basked in the status this gave her.

When mum was 8 her mum married. Mum’s new step-father, Teddy, was a man in a million. Mum adored him. But she did not appreciate being torn from her life in the north. She hated London, where no-one could understand a word she said. She was told her father had died in the war. She felt betrayed when she learned the truth. But it was her mum, not her dad, she believed had betrayed her.

I never shared mum’s feelings about her dad. My thoughts were always for his wife, and for the 17 year old whose life he might have ruined.

But he can’t have been all bad. At least he kept in touch. Mum even met him. She only had hazy memories of having tea with ‘uncle Richard’, but how poignant these memories became once she realised...

And how she longed to discover more about her beloved father. So it had always been her dream to go to South Africa.

Before we went I did some homework, discovering where mum’s dad had lived, worked and was buried. I wrote to the people living in his old house, hoping we might visit. But they didn’t reply. I also wrote to the cemetery where he was buried, but we could find no trace of his grave.

But this was all one to mum. She was finally in South Africa, finally breathing the air breathed by her beloved dad. It was worth conquering my fear of flying to see mum’s delight in achieving this dream.

What matter if now she remembers nothing?

Saga and caring

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