happy birthday mum

My mum, born Elizabeth Middleton in Eastbourne, a lesser resort on the south England coast overshadowed by it's sexy nearby neighbour Brighton, would have become 81 years old today. And I, dutiful daughter - or as she said on her deathbed 'never the daughter I wanted' - would have called her from the safe distance of another continent. And would have arranged for her favorite fresias to arrive at her door. A cruel unnecessary early death took that ritual from us when she died when I was 37, and she a ravaged 62.

I often think that I have no real idea who she was - Elizabeth, who renamed herself Charmian and who barely finished school, and married a Jewish intellectual 24 years older than she was, after being introduced to him in a hotel bar in central London where she worked as a chambermaid. I think The Strand Palace Hotel if I'm not mistaken. Introduced to Julius by another expatriate German Jew old enough to be her father who had tired of this smart, beautiful, but immature 19 year old. Her mother's family were a grand proud south England family. But because it clearly runs in the family, Florence Dulcie Booth (the only grandparent I knew) had run off with the son of a Scottish cattle trader, one of 12 children only half of whom made it out of childhood, from the Aberdeen area. Gruff, dashing and apparently quite brutal it is a very good thing that I never met James Middleton. But the physical way in which he disciplined his own 2 kids - my mum and her brother - left indelible marks on my face and on my soul nonetheless.

My Mum always said all she wanted was to be a mum. A loving family around her. A grandma. But then did nothing really to ensure that outcome. Always searching for adventure, always leaving for another risk, always leaving. After my Granny died in the hospital after a stroke, my mother cleaned up her apartment with such speed that I didn't even have a chance to gather together some of the sweetest memories and mementos of my gran to take with me. My mum arranged for the entire contents of the flat to be removed. My grandmother's most personal items, my rocking horse, letters, photos,my grandfather's uniform and regimental sword. Even my grannys' astonishing collection of cigarette cards of film stars and cricket players. She didn't take a thing. When, a few years later I asked her why, she answered simply 'Darling you remember, I left in a hurry'. I certainly remember the leavings, and how many times I watched as animals were left behind, being gathered up by strangers to be removed. To where? Now, of course I know. Then, the powerlessness of childhood left me with no other option than to construct another wall...

I adored my mother. Adored and feared her dependence on me. Her tears and rages, her sobbing uncontrollably and the hand with those long graceful fingers slapping with a crack across my cheeks. Her laugh and smiles, her dirty sense of humour, her deep humility and shame, her ability to turn her back on me as I begged her not to go. By the time the Summer of Love in 1967 arrived I was being thrown out of the boarding school she had abandoned me in and the headmistress was writing a desperate plea to my father 'What is to become of Jill? She is filled with rage towards her mother.'

The problem is I had no idea I was filled with such rage. I sought out my mother's love again and again but always with the same result. And I would have her back in an instant if it were only possible. Happy Birthday Mum.

Comments

[susie]

wow. beautiful jill. tell us more!

susie

[Deborah Wolfe]

Why do I suspect a few tears fell as you wrote that?

[nina]

mother daughter relationships have the strangest dichotomy. Or perhaps its the unseen emotions lying underneath which make it so. I tend to agree with Deborah, I felt a few tears in this post. If they weren't yours then they must have been mine.

[Deb in Minnesota]

Jill, your mother left too soon. But we are here to say, "You are a special daughter." Hugs.