Moorhouse Inn
In the midst of this grief we are expected to make Christmas dinners for the public. We go about like automatons. Today I decided not to cry because we are seeing Mum this evening and I am drained. We went to John's at 5pm via Marlene's where we deposited Samuel. The Harwoods asked no questions, but looks say it all. With John & Janette to Airedale (Hospital). We found Dad in the day room making whoopee with the nurses having a seasonal fuddle. He took us to Mum's room. She was very yellow and in bed wrapped in a blue woolly cardigan and exceedingly cheerful. The conversation was superficial. She explained the rudiments of Ludo and Postman's Knock to an innocent Janette and chattered about anything but her illness or situation. The terrible thing is that she has to stay in hospital for Christmas. It could be her last Christmas. Dad kept up his usual jovial banter, but he must be going through Hell. He told Mr Hall, on being given the news, that 'you have just shattered our family'. Mum did appear frail, but where does her operation end and her illness begin? After lots of kisses we left at 8:30. Mum told us she had seen an announcement in the local paper that Edith Blackwell had died on Dec. 4th. 'Poor old Edith', she kept repeating. My mother will never be old. I feel eaten away inside.
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