My Mum by Jennie Hart

My Mum

 Was she meant to go

when winter beckoned her

unexpectedly?

I do not know

I remember she left in haste

like a firework’s flash

I wish I had known she was leaving

Until that day, her bright nature

dazzled

she shone with light

It seemed to me

the whole town loved her

were warmed by her glow

her flame

always burning

She was always busy

mostly resolute and smiling

I saw her once

by the fireside

cleaning grey ashes

from the cold grate

silently crying

Dad was a moody man

unpredictable

fighting his own demons

When young

his father beat his mum

Perhaps he beat his son

Dad banged his bed

to frighten the cockroaches

made doctor’s deliveries barefoot

Mum owned a shop

baked Christmas cakes

and spiced loaves for the town

In December

mum was fraught

Dad slapped white paint

on plastered walls

desecrating the holy space

where new-baked cakes

and spicy loaves lay ready

Cold wet paint splashed

on cake frosting

Odour seeped into icing

Her popular emporium

stored all one could imagine

A cornucopia of thrills

For the mill girls, young lads

the working men

starting shifts or leaving

mum opened early

each day around seven thirty

The girls bought sarsaparilla

Milky Bars and Woodbines

Sought nylon stockings

luxurious

skin-toned

gossamer-fine

The postman, our doctor

the Station Master

smoked Capstan or Park Drive

Older men Saint Bruno

or Old Holborn

rolled their own in tea-breaks

the working-man’s lifeline

All year long

Mum made wedding cakes

for brides on their special day

created in her unique way

Celebrity chefs might want

to emulate her style

pretend it was their own

but all the while

it was my mum’s

Youngsters came for lemonade

in bottles not in cans

bought Mars Bars

pork pies, crusty rolls

with luncheon meat

cheese or spam

Mum made a corner

for the children

at kids’ eye-level

no need to stretch

tantalising treats

Swizzle lollies, wine gums

Sherbet dips and sugary sweets

At the weekend

Northern Dairies ice-cream

and ice lollies

Sometimes by Christmas

mum was too tired

to wrap presents

one year I wrapped my own

the surprise a pretence

I was young

I liked the thrill of opening

I pinned up silver garlands

wove tinsel round the tree

I was so excited

She was exhausted

Sometimes on Christmas Day

a knock at the back door

a tardy customer

for a packet of Paxo

a tin of peas

a packet of fags please

Mum was the essence

of our north-east town

a summer breeze blown in

from heaven knows where

to give her time

to all those housewives

mothers with babies

worn-out men and old ladies

who stopped to shop

To bicycle riders

not called cyclists in those days

who paid tuppence to my mum

to leave their bikes

propped up by the shed

not sheltered but safe

in her hands

Mum and her shop are long gone

from that shabby terrace

on River Head

along from the old Blue Bell

where men played darts

or dominoes

and sad women

laughed and sang

stayed drinking late

It was exhaustion the doctor said

He got it wrong

It was a stroke

She did not get the proper care

I wish I had known

Jennie, Mum, Grandma, Baby Cousin