A few days earlier we had driven her for an hour or two around Inverclyde for a last look, though the journey was never billed as such. Now the 18th of December is not a good time to be not well, far less going into the hospice, if you come from a family of butchers. When mum was comfortably installed, and we were taking our leave of her, she quietly said to me I’ll see if I can hang on until you get all the turkeys out the door.
And hang on she did, holding court as one after another came to wish her well on her journey. With the turkeys out the door she was happy to hear that all had went well. I’d better see if I can hang on till you get the steak pies away next week then, she said.
On our last trading day of the year with the Ne’er Day pies flying out the door I got the call mid-morning from the hospice. 'You’d better come down'. She was sleeping.
Her hair swept straight back. The struggles of the previous months had left her. She looked youthful.
Her breathing was getting weaker. Her fingers getting colder as I held her hand. And exactly as the Westburn Church clock chimed twice she left us.
No drama. A moment of privileged beauty. That was it.
Over. I spent a few minutes alone with her. I kissed her forehead and said thanks, before leaving to speak to the undertaker.
I duly headed back to the shop, where they were getting cleared up. Did you get rid of all the pies, I asked. We sold the last about two o’clock, says Eddie.
I smiled. Few of us locally will not h.