It takes a village to persuade my mother, Ann Ingle, to get off the island these days. At 86, with mobility and eyesight issues, each potential trip must be carefully considered. The unfailingly helpful assistance staff at the airports smooth her passage, but even travelling on the island takes it out of her. My mother’s aversion to leaving her home turf of Phibsborough is as much emotional and psychological as it is physical.
More than ever, she likes routine, knowing exactly how the day will unfold. Her morning begins with a cup of tea handed up to her by one of her housemates and ends with a play on BBC Radio 4 Extra. So I knew I had to come up with an intoxicating itinerary to convince her to abandon her extremely comfortable comfort zone, pack up her sleep apnoea machine, locate her passport and travel to her home city of London, a place she left to set up home in Dublin with my father 63 years ago.
“We might go to see Hamilton,” I told her, which elicited some positive noises. She’s a fan of musicals in general, with Les Mis being the exception. Controversially, we both have an aversion to that show and have been known to leave at half-time. “And you could come with me to the Tracey Emin exhibition,” I said, but Emin’s gloriously messy bed at The Tate Modern held no appeal.
She has other grandchildren and a son and daughter-in-law in London, so I wiggled that carrot in front of her. “Also, I will get you a salt beef sandwich.” The favourite snack of her youth did some persuading, but she still remained on the fence until, with a flourish, I presented my trump card: “You’ll be able to visit Joyce.” Joyce turned out to be the magic key that unlocked our family trip to London.
Her sister Joyce is 97 and lives alone in what we joke must be the Blue Zone around Ilford. Joyce used to be her father’s favourite daughter until “Baby Ann” came along when she was 11. After that Joyce had to live with being second fiddle. She forgave Baby Ann for this, though, and the thought of seeing Joyce, her older sister, her only remaining sibling, persuaded my mother to let me book the flights and the airport assistance and, as an extra bonus, tickets for Hamilton.
The journey there was uneventful. There are no kinder people than the ones helping those with mobility challenges navigate their way on and off planes. When we got to Ilford, Joyce was expecting us. She opened the door and threw her arms around my mother. “I thought I was never going to see you again,” she said to her little sister. I suppose every time must feel like the last time when you are 97.
My mother sat in front of Joyce, so her failing eyes could see her sister and so that her sister, who has a cochlear implant but not much else wrong with her, could hear everything Baby Ann was saying. “I don’t know what I am going to die of,” Joyce has been known to muse. There’s nothing obvious that is going to take her out. She makes her meals in the air fryer and is still handy with the knitting machine that sits facing a window in the sunny front room. She’s currently crafting a yellow cardigan for one of her four great-great-grandchildren.
Joyce is thinking of moving out of her house and into an assisted living place to be nearer her daughter. It has a conservatory where you can sit and talk to other residents if you want, but she’d have separate living quarters for when she’s not in the mood for company. “My pension will pay for it,” Joyce told us. “But there’s no room there for me at the moment, I have to wait for someone to die.” Then she laughed. Joyce’s laugh is sudden, startling, loud and long. A laugh that makes everyone else laugh. You know the kind.
On my urging, Joyce told us the story of that time during the second World War when she went to do some messages for her mother and brought Baby Ann in the pram. She was coming out of the shop when an air raid warning startled her and she ran home. When she got there her mother said, “Where’s Baby Ann?” Joyce had left the pram outside the shop. She ran back and thankfully Baby Ann was still there, unharmed.
[ I’m missing some teeth but I can’t stop laughing or grinningOpens in new window ]
There was another time, a few years later, when Joyce was supposed to pick Baby Ann up from nursery but when she got there was told Ann, now aged four, had gone home by herself. There were two ways home. One way was relatively safe. The other was through Leyton Marshes, which was filled with bomb craters. Joyce ran home terrified that Baby Ann had wandered home through the marshes and fell into a hole. When she got back Baby Ann was still alive and being praised by her mother instead of admonished: “Clever Baby Ann!” You can see how it must have been annoying for Joyce, all the same.
The London trip was a success. My mother devoured her salt beef sandwich and some divine mussel flatbread in Straker’s of Notting Hill. There was a big family dinner in my brother’s place and lots of noisy card games.
But Joyce was the highlight. “I hope I see you again, Ann,” she said, hugging my mother as they parted, sounding as uncertain about any future assignations as is prudent when you are three years short of a century. They’ll be laughing together again soon enough if I have anything to do with it.