“Damn Cuban cigars didn’t do the linen tablecloths much good, and, when I went home every fortnight, my mother complained that the smell permeated all my clothes.”
What tablecloths, what cigars?
It doesn’t take a high IQ (or a leap of imagination) to surmise that important folk smoke fat cigars. It’s simply a well-known fact. And why was such a young girl (circa 1942) only “going home to Mother” every two weeks? Okay, let me back up the timeline.
It’s middle March, 2021, you know, the year that was going to be really, really much better than 2020. Comparatively and subjectively speaking I guess it was/is; at least I cuddled my grandbabies this year and coronavirus seemed to be under control in Australia and New Zealand. However, here I was in hospital, again, in a four-bed ward, all of us with chronic lung conditions, so, you know, Covid-19 is our enemy big time!
Hoping for a shower, I set off quickly just as I heard the bathroom door close.
The cigar-mentioning lady across the way giggled.
“Buggar,” she said. (Is that a hint of a Jordy accent?)
“Indeed,” said I.
This, still very attractive woman, had intriguing eyes, mischievous eyes, eyes that still sparkled at 98 years old. She and her neighbour had discovered a mutual
interest in history of the early part of the 20th century, music and film of the same era. Me too, same.
Turns out, all of my fellow inmates had been trying to avoid hospitals during 2020 too. Gosh we’ve been lucky.
Turns out, earlier in the day, the hospital had to admit Covid-19 patients from Papua New Guinea. Turns out, our much-loved Pacific neighbours needed our Aussie help, quick smart. Turns out, the hospital was now in lockdown and we would not be getting visitors anytime soon.
Seemed like all our phones ‘went off’ simultaneously as word reached concerned family and friends; we were fine.
I travel everywhere with my PC. Music is the only thing that will soothe this beast so, yes, I asked if anyone had a musical request. Music from the 1940s, ’50s and ’60s flooded the ward; nurses, orderlies, cleaners, food service folk all bopped, grooved, twisted and jived’ the first day of lockdown away.
I turned my attention to our cigar-referencing friend and told her I had a tune just for her. ‘We’ll Meet Again’, sung by Vera Lynn wafted through our Covid-19-induced jam session. With tears in her eyes, she came and sat on the end of my bed.
“Were you in the War?” I asked gently.
“Not really,” she said. “I was just a waitress.”
“I didn’t think anyone would be able to afford those big fat Cuban cigars in the war years. Which restaurants did you work at?” I received eye contact and ‘shut-up’ messages from the others.
“I’m still not supposed to talk about it,” she explained. “I was one of four waitresses classified as able to serve Winston Churchill at Westminster.”
She continued, “It really was annoying because we had to live-in. And, yes, those cigars were horrible. My mother hated the aroma of the smelly things when I visited. I still miss my mother.” She spoke wistfully absent-mindedly, unaware of our presence.
My chin noiselessly hit the floor; not the mother thing, the Churchill thing.
No, I can’t tell you her name. No, I can’t explain the whys and wherefores that lead a young girl from the Tyneside conurbation in north-east England into the exclusive halls of the heart-beat of World War II, that’s her story to tell and it’s an absolute cracker.
Moral of this story, in my opinion: No matter how important you become, no matter how many years pass or miles travelled, the biggest part of your heart will always be reserved for your Mum. Happy Mother’s Day.