It was not till we
moved to Templecombe that I realized how I had taken Mother for
granted. She was always there, except for times in Africa with Father,
as she had always been. Now Father was a parish priest, biking up and
down the village or cradled in his study reading obscure divinity books.
It was difficult making ends meet and 'paying guests', including Auntie
Bessie, who supplied our first fridge, the Hampshire's and a couple of
billeted airmen, stayed in succession.
One morning early she woke me, her voice trembling, to say my Home
Guard sergeant was on the phone. Invasion was still possible: Gordon,
Hugh were gone, now me? But it was only an exercise and we spent all
day pretending to delay a regular Army column moving through the
parish. The Railway Home Guard did better than us: they strung
exploding fog signals across the road.
She had very painful corneal ulcers. One day I came across her crying,
bent over the paraffin cooking stove with its bubbling glass reservoir;
in the cold, stone-floored scullery, with no one to help her.
I wish I had helped them more. I wish I'd not taken them for granted,
working to keep me in Medical School, long past the age when they could
have retired to build rock gardens and fish ponds. Doris' memories
