thefan
Ink Global international editor
CHRISWRIGHT
is proud to
announce that he oncewon secondprize inabeauty contest.
Of course, over the years we found other things to
squabble about.We’d be watching an oldmovie onTV
andGill would insist that CaryGrant had once played
James Bond, or someone would dare to breathe during
theQueen’sChristmasBroadcast,andTillywould spend
anhour goingon about how she’dmissed the important
bit.For a finale,shewoulddropavital part of ourholiday
meal on the kitchen floor: “Now lookwhat you’vemade
me do!”
Then, slowly and steadily, our mother descended
into the fog of dementia. At first it wasn’t so bad—I’d
pretend tohave lent hermoney the previousweek; she’d
joke about forgetting to take her forgetfulness pills.But
that didn’t last. I came home oneDecember to find that
neither of us knewwho shewas.Shedidn’t get crosswith
Gill orme that year,but shedid seemquite annoyedwith
a point right in front of her nose.
The last Christmas we spent together was at Gill’s,
maybe a decade ago.There were a few of us there that
day, friends and extended family, sitting around a long
wooden table, all of us grinning insanely at mymum. I
foundmyself thinkingabout theoutrageousdemands she
used tomake, such as that I give her two red properties
in exchange for a single blue, on the basis that she had
raisedme, all the sacrifices she’dmade. I looked over at
her—the faraway frown, the averted eyes—and knew
thenwhat real loneliness was.
Iwouldn’tdescribewhathappenednext as aChristmas
miracle, but it was definitely a stroke of luck.We had
the radio on, and the Eagles’ “Hotel California” started
playing. A few bars in, someone began singing along:
“My head grew heavy andmy sight grew dim/I had to
stop for the night.”Soonwewere all doing it,our voices
rising until we weren’t singing anymore but shouting,
deliberatelymangling the lyrics: “They stab itwith their
silly knives, but they just can’t kill the bees!”
Itwas as if ablisterhadbeenburst; the tensiondrained
from the room,and the rest of themeal was amuddle of
laughter and “pass thegravy.”Later,afterwe’d cleared the
plates,my sister slappedher palms on the table and said,
“Shall we have a game?” I can’t be sure, but I thought I
saw a flicker of something onTilly’s face, the look she’d
get when she knew, but couldn’t prove, that you’d been
takingmoney from the bank.
