A SONG FOR JENNY
A Mother’s Story of Love and Loss
JULIE NICHOLSON
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010
© Julie Nicholson 2010
Julie Nicholson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007250790
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780007440054
Version: 2015-07-03
This book is dedicated to Jenny’s family. The writing of it is dedicated to Lizzie and Thomas.
Contents
Time is constant, life changes
Traeth Bychan, Anglesey, Thursday 7 July 2005
I awake to a tap on my bedroom door and the rattle of china as my uncle comes into the room with a cup of tea. ‘It’s going to be a lovely day’ he says as he puts the cup and saucer down on my bedside table.
I mutter a sleepy ‘thank you’, watching through half-closed lids as he leaves the room, a dressing-gowned form capped with a head of snowy white hair. I lie still, becoming aware of the early-morning sun pouring in through the curtains and the gentle chirping of birds outside the window confirming the lovely day. The room is bathed in a warm and creamy glow. I watch the curtains for movement, for sign of a breeze; there’s not a flicker in their long creamy folds. As I laze in a half-asleep, half-wakeful state, the sound of a distant kettle boiling reminds me of my waiting cup of tea. Propping myself up on one elbow, I lean over to drink some, narrowly missing banging my head on the frame of the bunk bed. I take a couple of sips, replace the cup in its saucer and pick up my watch to check the time before lying back on the pillows: 7.40 a.m. No rush to get up. Looking above I contemplate the strips of pine in the base of the top bunk, crossing from side to side, supporting the mattress, bedding tucked neatly around; even the underside made up with care and precision, no crinkles or creases. I smile, remembering countless arguments and negotiations between children over who got the top bunk.
Voices and noises merge from other parts of the house: a teapot being filled; cupboard door opening and closing; bathroom door locking; a cough. Still I lie, cocooned in the bottom bunk while sounds, sun and domestic activity wash over me. Holiday mode!
An image of the church where I am Priest-in-Charge intrudes briefly. With a blink it is gone. There is no one to call me vicar here and I can relax in the knowledge that I am what I have always been with these people in this place, daughter and niece. For a week; no clerical collar or ministerial responsibility, bliss!
This holiday is a bonus for me. My parents planned to visit my uncle and aunt and I was in a position to take some time away from work at short notice in order to drive them, leaving Greg, my husband, at home in charge of the dog and other household delights. While I’m languishing under the covers, enjoying a lazy start to the day, Greg will already have left for his office, avoiding the worst of Bristol’s morning rush-hour traffic and be getting ready to begin a day’s work.
I close my eyes, not sleeping but thinking, daydreaming, and roaming back over years of visits to the island. I try to work out how long it is since my Uncle Jimmie first came here to work; it seems like a lifetime ago. It is. I was in my teens. Had it not been for that move I may never have ventured far enough into North Wales to discover this small Isle of Anglesey, and a whole chunk of family history would have been different. Is that fate or serendipity or maybe just plain old chance? One action leads to another. My uncle, aunt and cousins moving to Anglesey from Gloucestershire set in motion a whole other sequence of meetings and relationships. There’s a thought and not yet eight o’clock in the morning! I consider writing the thought down, it may come in useful for a sermon, but decide the effort of getting out of bed and looking for a pen is too great. I ponder