Friday May 3, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

It is six years today since the sainted Margaret [Thatcher] began her premiership. She is in Bonn at the moment attending a so-called economic summit which seems to me to be more like the 'Ronnie Reagan Show'. The poor US president is out of luck at the moment. His speeches seem jumbled and mumbled, and he looks confused and vague for most of the time. He is 74.

I have been reading a review of Anita Leslie's book 'Cousin Randolph', a biography of Winnie and Clem's wayward , prig of a son. It must have been awful for him having such a great man for a father and I suppose this must account for Randolph's faults. How many great men have produced sons to equal them? Where are the offspring of James Callaghan (who?), Harold Wilson (who?), Lord Home of the Hirsel (who?), Denis Thatcher, Dr David Owen, Donald Sinden, &c.

Society tit bits: Elizabeth Countess of Leicester is a gonna. Daughter of the Earl of Hardwicke, mother of Lady Glenconner, and grandmother of the naughty Charlie Tennant. She was a Lady of the Bedchamber to the Queen 1953-73. The Waleses are still afloat.

-=-

Thursday May 2, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Dad phoned. Mum, he says, wants to return home to Waltergarth next Tuesday. The decision is made. John is going to take her home. My God it will be her final journey. So sad to think she has been putting off going back to Swaledale because she thought we would leave her in Horton churchyard. If only she had confided in me. 

Waltergarth ...

This evening two thugs in a large white van removed the telephone box from the pub foyer and made off with it. The bloody call box must only have had a couple of quid in it. What a laugh really. I had expected it for a while. A PC Jarvis came in giggling and took away a couple of beer glasses used by the thieves - for finger printing purposes. The theft was the hot topic of conversation tonight in the pub. I went to the Junction (pub) to phone Dad. Hilda and Tony visited them last night - late on. Dad took Tony to the Oddfellows (pub) for 4 pints of Tetley's. Poor Dad. He gets little time off.

-=-

Wednesday May 1, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Cold, blustery. May Day. Horrific. To Shipley and the denist this morning where Ally had a chipped tooth looked at. Samuel and I went to look at books and buy a [news]paper. I bought a novel by Brenda Jagger for Mum and a picture frame for a group photo I've given her. Samuel played with a plastic green frog in the shop. 

To Sue's for lunch. We sat in the garden. Soup and sandwiches. On to Club Street at 2. Mum is awful, A shocking mess. Weary, weepy and weak. I sat with her alone and she clutched my hand. The only reason she has never gone back to Horton is that she doesn't want to die at Waltergarth and be 'left behind buried in the village'. She says she wants to be laid to rest in Guiseley cemetery to be 'near somebody' and deplores the idea of cremation. Once said she went on to say she would not speak of such morbid things again. She had the same conversation with Dad last night, which broke him up. I kept my calm and felt better knowing of her wishes. She did stress that she wants 'no bun fight' afterwards. I agreed with her. Wakes are ghastly. I will go away and get quietly pissed. Ally sat on the bed with her afterwards and began to cry, but Mum cheered her. Such a brave angel she is.

-=-

Tuesday April 30, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Mum.

Mum returned to Club Street from hospital. She left the hospital by car -- she didn't enjoy the recent trip by ambulance. Dad did not expect to see Mum come out of Airedale. Mr Armitage had expressed the opinion that she 'might go'. And, for the first time since Christmas Mum has talked of going home to Waltergarth. This would make Dad very happy, I'm sure. He always looks so lost at Club St, and would be kept busier at Horton. Could Mum withstand the solitude though?

We had a restless, uncomfortable night off. We argue so much these days, not seriously or about anything of consequence, and we blame it on the tension and worry of recent months. We really should pull together at such a time of grief. I suppose it will come.

News: Pictures of the mantilla-clad figure of Diana with the Pope dominate the front pages. Lady Katharine Seymour, great aunt of the Princess of Wales and a lady-in-waiting to the Queen Mother, is dead.

-=-

Monday April 29, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

The Waleses with the Pope.

Our bloody phone is on the blink and I spent the afternoon going around the streets trying to find a working public appliance. Futile. Eventually, I phoned the hospital from Audrey's and left a message with the sister on ward 19 that I was 'cut off' in Leeds but thinking of Mum all the same. She looked so very poorly yesterday. Auntie Hilda is very concerned about Dad. What will become of him? He has always relied on Mum for everything, and to imagine him coping without her is impossible. They are such a loving, devoted couple.

The Waleses have had an audience of the Pope. I saw it on the telly. Diana in black, and draped in veils, &c. There is a rumpus over the Queen supposedly halting plans for the couple to celebrate Mass in (Pope) John Paul's private chapel in the Vatican, and then for them to take breakfast with him. It just isn't the done thing. The princess is still demure. 

Sunday April 28, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

3rd Sunday after Easter

Bacon, eggs. I enjoy Sunday mornings. At 3pm we took Samuel to Pudsey where Hilda and Jill looked after him whilst Ally and I went to Airedale (Hospital) to see Mum.  He wasn't upset when we left and was very interested in Pepper (the Yorkshire terrier). Driving rain and cold.

Mum was asleep and the TV was silent but for the occasional clicking of snooker balls - Steve Davis is at it again. She was soon awake and smiling. Poor Dad looked very forlorn. Mum is uncomfortable and the dripping wound in her tummy doesn't help. She says that in this stay in hospital she has been a coward, and depressed. She seems to think she can return home tomorrow, but it doesn't look likely. She asked to go back to Club Street for some peace, and that the pub 'saw me through the winter'. She added that the bustle, activity, and smells would be too much to endure now. Someone had done her make-up and it looked awful. She looked smudged and dazzling. We left and went back to Hilda's for 6 and on to the Moorhouse. 

Gary worked. Not too busy.

-=-

Saturday April 27, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Samuel's peals of morning chatter woke me at 8 and I left Ally asleep and created a sumptuous breakfast for my boy. We both sat in the kitchen eating bacon, eggs, and fried black pudding. My head was pounding. I did the tills and Samuel played with his toys. Dad phoned at 9am. Mum feels poorly and in some discomfort from the meddling. I worried all day. Samuel and I went into the cellar to look at the bottles. My wife stayed in bed until 3pm. By this time I had also provided my son with lunch - fish. What a little housewife I am. It was a subdued afternoon downstairs. People with red eyes kept coming in and giggling. 

Mum phoned me at 6:30 feeling better. She said she is phoning us all because she doesn't want us to worry. Auntie Hilda phoned them this morning but Mum was too ill to have any conversation, and Hilda came away very upset fearing the worst. It was good to hear Mum's voice.

We both went downstairs at 7. It was Gary Booth's first appearance behind the bar. He did very well. Competent. 21. No trouble. Exhausted tonight. Quiet in the bars. A steady initiation for Gary. Bed at 12.

Gossip: The Hon Carolyn Herbert has become engaged to a bloodstock agent called Warren. She could so easily have become Duchess of York. How very sad. I do suppose that Prince Andrew's future wife is now a podgy 13 year-old schoolgirl at Roedean.