Recalling Mum - Tess Rowley

This year I’ve reflected on the snippets of my mum’s pandemic stories that I’d never really listened to. For once, in my busy life, time stood still. I started piecing together the patchwork.

You see, Mum was born in 1918, three months after her father, age twenty-four, died from the Spanish flu pandemic. Unlike Covid19, the Spanish flu favoured young adults for its grim harvest.

I wasn’t listening the day she told me her birth story. My teenage ears were tuned into Radio Luxembourg. Mum’s words crystalised in the air, salty from her tears. ‘It’s the onions,’ she explained, wiping her nose on the apron she always wore.

But some residue from those earlier years, in England, must have settled on me. I live in Australia now, and this 2020 pandemic has caused me to wish I’d listened more, when Mum was most ready to talk about her childhood and her mother, Annie.

The pregnant widow, Annie, wailed from morning to night, causing the family to think the baby would never come out if she didn’t shut up. On the contrary, Mum was born prematurely, not expected to survive. Her mother’s depression deepened.

On hearing of one young man, whose shallow breathing had gone unheard, causing him to be buried alive, Annie became hysterical, demanding her husband’s body be exhumed.

The tragic mother and baby were taken into the family home by her two spinster sisters-in- law, who feared for Annie’s sanity. This must have been challenging for everyone.

Annie’s health remained fragile. She died when Mum was ten years old. The sisters continued to care for Mum, often reminding her she was a child of charity.

In 1939, Mum, now a midwife, was nursing in London.

England had declared war with Germany. She often spoke about those six years of terror. Bombs dropping on the hospital where she worked, whole wings collapsing, burying new mothers and babies. Mum scraping through debris to locate a whimpering newborn, lifting it to safety. Cycling around London as a District Nurse. Hearing the air raid sirens screeching, warning everyone to get inside quickly.

I wrote Mums’ memoir during Queensland’s Covid19 lockdown. Each day, as I walked the streets, respecting social distance, grumbling if a jogger brushed past me and coughed, Mum’s grim experiences walked with me. Like a lost child, I sniffed the air and listened.

Any carefree young years were stolen from her, yet she always maintained a positive attitude. She died in her seventies, from a stroke. I flew home immediately. She’d lost her speech, but when we embraced, she whispered my name.

2020 caused me to walk in my mother’s steps for a small part of her journey. In spite of her diminutive stature, her strides were longer than mine. I sought answers to her stories, my breath gave life to the questions. Mum never really left my side. It took Covid19 to reunite us. My writing is a tribute to her and I’m recording every step.