The Faltering Soldier
Tags: Lockdown, Memories, Wartime Memories, Pandemic, Family

As I replaced my telephone, an awful rush of realisation swept over me.

I had become reactive, angry and frustrated.

As I frowned at my behaviour, I sat down and tried to explain to myself when this change had started, and more importantly, why now?

I had been doing so well in ‘lockdown’, and in spite of some difficult moments I had congratulated myself on my achievements. I had survived the imposed isolation, managed without hugs and sometimes had even revelled in the knowledge that there was no rush to leave home on time, no pressure.

I wondered when had I morphed into this person that I didn’t recognise?

There had been an answerphone message from an acquaintance, a very caring person, but even before I answered it, I ‘knew’ why she’d telephoned. She must be wondering how I was coping, after all I’m in my eighties, live alone and have a special needs child. Bizarrely, I felt an anger rising, I did not want to be identified by my age, I didn’t want to be pitied. All my life I had been busy, very organised, independent minded, and my home was the family hub, I didn’t like the feeling that now people might think that I needed looking after, even though those thoughts were very kind. So, on telephoning back in response to the answerphone message, I donned a defiant attitude of how amazingly fine I was.

‘I rang to ask your advice’, she began. She explained that had an Autistic grandson and her family were at their wits’ end desperately searching for a suitable residential home for him. She apologised for any disturbance, but wondered if I could help.

As I listened, my stance had crumbled at her first words, and I found myself only too happy to dispense encouragement and hand over valuable knowledge and experience. It made me feel valued and needed.

Why then had I felt almost rebellious? Maybe because restrictions were being imposed on me, I wasn’t allowed to visit my son at will, I had to await permission. I’d been law abiding, so became increasingly annoyed by people who flouted the mask rule with impunity, almost daring one to react.

As I was mulling over my behaviour, my glance fell onto a photo of my mum, holding me as a baby during wartime. A favourite black and white snap, taken at a time when photos were few and far between. I picked it up and stared at it, recalling how amazing she had been, and although I was aware of her incredible story, I’d not paid much heed to it.

She had been a professional dancer, a beautiful chorus girl, who after ten years of ‘courting’ had married my dad. When war started and he was called up, she was left with a toddler (me), and his hairdressing salon, only staffed with one female stylist. All the men had gone. With no fuss, she taught herself hairdressing, managed the salon, revealing a sharp business brain and steered it into profit. Showing great fortitude, she stayed upbeat throughout the war years, quietly determined to succeed.

My mum’s face in the photo was staring back at me ….I could hear her saying….

‘Pull yourself together! It’s wicked to complain, you are so lucky, you have shelter, food, and are surrounded by family. So many people are worse off than you, stop behaving like ‘Calamity Jane!’

I stood there with the demeanour of a two-year old and realised she was absolutely right.

Stay safe everyone.