Tag Archives: mother

A Nightingale in Winter

Letter of Love and Fear is a story that compliments my novel A Nightingale in Winter.

Dear Mamma

I thought of you in the middle of the night as I crept down the stairs, avoiding the creaking step, silently counting until I reached the hallway without the aid of a candle. The grandfather clock was like a sentry as I squeezed myself into the kitchen. The kitchen smelled of beef stew and cakes, but since Mrs Crookes had left it all as shiny as a new pin, ready for the morning, I knew this was supplied by my imagination, reminding me of the small moments of comfort I have received in that room over the years. The kitchen is the most human room of the house. I shall miss it, Mamma. I shall miss the servants. I have been as close to them as I have been to any human being so far in this life, and it is bewildering to be striking out on my own. But it must be done.

Can you picture me, hiding in the scullery until the first embers of day break? As the sun came up over the hedge I knew I must leave, or risk an encounter with a kitchen maid, or Grooms with the firewood. So I fetched my valise from its hiding place in the wood shed and crept out into the chilly darkness to start my adventure. The train would not be at the station for another hour, so I concealed myself in a laurel hedge and settled down to wait. It was very dark and damp in there, and I fancied spiders were running from the glossy leaves and right down my neck. It was not in the least bit pleasant, but it was as nothing compared to my terror of being apprehended by Father before the train arrived. 

And so I stood still and allowed the spiders - be they real or imagined - to go where they willed until it was time to depart my hiding place to purchase my train ticket. This I did at the very last moment, leaving it until something of a queue had built up and there was less opportunity for conversation. "Going to London are you, Miss Martin?" "Yes, I'm going to France, to nurse the wounded."

Sometimes, Mamma, I ask myself if I would ever have escaped if the War had not come, but you and I both know the answer to that question, I think. I would not.

Your loving daughter,

Eleanor. 

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This is my first blog post in a while. The last one - which I have just deleted - was written in the approach to Christmas when I was stressing about getting through the festive period with my mum visiting.

My mum could be a difficult person - hard to please at times, and quick to show her displeasure if things weren't right. We did experience that over Christmas, but we also had some joyful times, and created some happy memories for her. I'm extremely grateful for that, because Mum died on 8th March this year.

When I was growing up, I was always extremely close to my mum. From her, I got my love of the countryside and of trees, wild flowers, animals and nature. She taught me the colloquial names of the wild flowers we found, like eggs and bacon and snap dragons, and these captured my imagination.

Mum with her beloved dog Jasper on a hot summer day in the 1970s.

She made me and my brothers clothes, and said that in one green and white dress she made me, I blended in with the trees and the soft fairy grass that grew in our local wood.

Later, when I began to write, she was thrilled to pieces to receive a signed copy of my first book, and proudly collected copies of all the books that followed. She was my biggest fan, always encouraging me.

Ageing changed her, narrowing her focus to her own life and its slowly diminishing activities. But she loved us still, and I know her grandchildren gave her a huge amount of pleasure.

During the necessary business of sorting out her clothes and belongings I feel I have rediscovered the mother I remember from earlier times - it has been a delight to find our old Mother's Day cards and school projects safely stowed away in drawers and to revisit the love expressed within them.

I found her exam certificates and remembered all the times I helped her to revise - she trained as a primary school teacher in her early forties - and felt proud all over again at her achievements.

Before she died, I spoke to her almost every day at six-thirty in the evening. I know how much these phone calls meant to her because she frequently told me so. Sometimes they were an inconvenience to me, or a source of frustration when it seemed she just moaned and complained about everything, refusing to try to see any positives. Yet even at the time, as I listened to it all, a part of my mind told me that I would miss the calls when they had to end.

And I do.

Love you, Mum.

Mum at Dunwich Heath, Suffolk, 2015