William Grange

by Michael Walling, Enfield, United Kingdom

Over the course of 2019, it had become clear that Mum wasn’t coping too well. She could still manage around the house, but getting to town was proving ever more problematic. She didn’t drive, her arthritis was getting worse, the bus service was being reduced, and the house was at the top of a hill.  And then there was the loneliness. Dad had died in 2014, and ever since she’d been alone in the house, with just photos, clothes and objects for company. 

I pictured her looking at pictures. Here she is on her wedding day. Here’s my handsome blonde brother - dead at the age of 22, dead now longer than he was alive. Here are my children, their eyes reaching to her from an autistic silence. Here am I, getting on a plane to god knows where to speak to god knows who about god knows what. 

Her friends don’t come any more. They are dead, or senile, or housebound. One of them phones every night from his sickbed in Manchester.  “Did I tell you” he asks “that so-and-so has died?”

The idea was to get her a flat in the middle of town, a short walk from the shops, with a manager on site and call buttons for emergencies. William Grange is newly built: it has a communal lounge with armchairs and limitless coffee. There are movie nights, quizzes and jigsaws. There is company and conversation. 

 The move happened on March 12th. She’d been in the house for 45 years. 

I picture myself looking at pictures. Here she is staring at her clothes strewn across the bed, as the gentle Viking from the removal van asks if he can pack them up. Here she is sipping tea at William Grange, with huge bags under her eyes, as I rush away to make sure the furniture is going into the right places. Her am I, getting into my car to rush back to god knows what work somewhere or other.

I went back the next weekend to sort out the boxes. The communal areas were shut and the movie night was cancelled. The restaurants were all closed, so we got frozen pizzas. BT hadn’t managed to get her landline sorted yet. On Monday, I was back in London when the Prime Minister announced the emergency measures.  I can’t travel to see her. She can’t leave the flat. Someone else has to buy her food and leave it outside the door. 

On Wednesday of this week, BT finally got the landline in. We spoke on the phone. It was the morning of her 85th birthday.