Thursday December 27, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

We are still sitting around in festive paper party hats cracking nuts and scoffing chocolates. I never get the chance to speak to Papa in private and I do not know whether he thinks Mum is progressing, if at all. Her appetite is non-existent now. At lunchtime Auntie Hilda and Uncle Tony appeared and seemed stunned by Mum's appearance. Mum sat in a high-backed chair, her long, thin fingers resting on the arms. Hilda seemed to fix her eyes on them for ages, aghast at the yellowness. Mum was bright and laughing and drank several Beachcomber Creams. She now finds alcohol distasteful. Lynn, Dave and the children came in and Mum promptly went to bed. They had been to the 'January Sales' in Leeds. _________. I showed Hilda to the door and she looked quite dreadful and asked: "We are never going to have any results from these tests, are we, Michael." I shrugged and shuffled from foot to foot in the cold. The afternoon had taken it's toll on Mum's strength and for the rest of the day she was weary.

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Wednesday December 26, 1984

Moorhouse Inn

A quiet day. It was hardly worth opening. Mum and Dad stayed in bed late. She became more hideously yellow this afternoon, even her scalp where the yellow glowed through her hair. We went down to see Audrey in the bar but I came back upstairs at 2 and lay on the bed chatting to Mum. We ate a carbon-copy Christmas lunch at 3:30. Ally cracked a tooth on the Christmas pudding which had become brittle being over-cooked in the microwave. The piece of tooth hit the table with a crack and then disappeared. Archie came in pissed tonight and I gave him a few harsh words and off he went in a huff. A quiet gloomy evening.

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Tuesday December 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Christmas Day. Up bright and cheerful, 'O Come All Ye Faithful' blasting away on the stereo followed by Nat King Cole which choked me a bit. Mum was up and dressed in red and wearing a party hat for 10 o'clock when Lynn, Dave, Sue and Peter arrived with their multitude of offspring. Samuel was stunned at the sight of all the other children ripping open presents and playing with Christmas wrapping paper. We opened the pub from 11 until 1, and the day downstairs felt like a Sunday lunch type of day and wasn't over-festive. We were upstairs again by 2 o'clock and all the others left us, departing to Guiseley, and leaving us in peace. Mum cannot really cope with too much activity. I suppose it's very frustrating for her. Just as we sat down to lunch at 3 John and Janette came in with the children, except Hannah of course. Mum ate a good dinner but we didn't do anything too heavy. Turkey, new potatoes, asparagus, &c. We watched the Queen and then switched the box off. The TV is a nuisance at Christmas. The Queen spoke of family and showed a clip of the royal christening from last Friday (Prince Harry). A hoo-ha apparently because Princess Anne wasn't asked to be a godmother and so instead she went out to shoot rabbits on her Gatcombe Park estate. What rot. Collapsed after dinner. Mum becomes snappy on an afternoon, and realises this but can do nothing about it. Janette got her head bitten off for calling Dad 'Dad'. 'He's not your Dad', she growled. _________. Mum drifted back to bed at intervals. Dad was very pleased at the amount of lunch she consumed because her appetite is now non-existent. When Mum is out of the room Dad becomes very emotional. We gave them a Sam Chadwick print of Pen-y-Ghent and he knows exactly where it was painted from in Horton. F & B phoned and we all chattered. They sent us a gold carriage clock and we spent ages trying to get it to go. The battery was dead. A blissful evening with our feet up eating chocolates and drinking. I snored in an armchair for an hour or so. Mum enjoyed a sip of something called 'Beachcomber Cream' . By 11 we were all bushed. Dad and I had a pile of salmon sandwiches after Mum and Ally had retired and he very touched at our Christmas together and despite the sadness we all have etched upon us it has been a Christmas day of peace and thankfulness because we are so fearful of what next year might bring.

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Monday December 24, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Christmas Eve, and strange as it may seem it wasn't horrible. Out to the shops at dawn to buy booze, poultry and more booze. The car groaned beneath the vast weight. Ally went out again at 11, and I blew up balloons to festoon the tap room. Mum phoned to say they'd be with us for 12, and they did just that. Mum negotiated the stairs and puffed and panted to the top. We sat in the sun drenched lounge eating salmon sandwiches from the Minton china. Well, why not. Mum looked shocking in the afternoon. It is so good to have them here. The greatest Christmas present we could have asked for. Let us hope to God it won't be Mum's last. Life without Mum will be one Hell of a lot gloomier. It isn't until something like this happens that you realise how much you like your life for the other people in it. I have always done things to please her. The void will be unbearable. We only have one mother, don't we? Not hideously busy in the bars. I kept nipping upstairs this evening. Placido Domingo or Pavarotti was on the telly. It is a shock for me to see Mum slumped in a chair with no energy or bounce. Will she ever regain strength or is this the beginning of her deterioration? 

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Sunday December 23, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Frances Baker.

We phoned Lynn and arranged to meet David at Club Street at 2:30 to collect our double bed. This all went to schedule and we were back at the Moorhouse for 4. David helped me erect it, and we put up bunk beds in the office for any Christmas visitors. Ally had an enlightening time around our (Christmas) tree with Frances. After studying it for a while (the tree) Frances exclaimed: "They are very big balls ... but not as big as ours ...". It's the Tranmere syndrome, you know. She also spotted crumbs on the floor and asked if they were from Samuel's lunch, but then said "Oh no, they can't be because lunch was such a long time ago." Katie is very sweet and seems to be in her own private little world. Lynn didn't come and was at home. I am numb with shock. At times I go into uncontrollable fits of shaking and break down crying, and at other times I can talk about Mum quite calmly. I feel guilty smiling and laughing with customers. Mum's life is over at 50.

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Saturday December 22, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

New Moon

We decided today to go back to Airedale Hospital to see Mum but as We were steaming about she phoned to say they are releasing her for Christmas and asks if she can still come here as originally planned. What joy. This really put the Christmas spirit back into us. We went to Airedale. Dad was elated that Mum can 'go home' as he put it, although at the mention of Waltergarth she turned up her nose saying it will not be very festive at Horton-in-Ribblesdale. Poor Mum is hideously yellow, but we no longer mention it. All the joking about it has gone. Dad gave us £20 to contribute to the Christmas fayre which I took reluctantly. We have decided to bring our bed from Club Street. Mum finds it comfortable.

Friday December 21, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

A party for the bar staff tonight. We have to keep going. I smoke and drank like a fish. Do fish drink? My knowledge of fish isn't good. They might not even smoke either. It was only staff and Karma & Co, John, Janette, Tina, and Sam Rhodes Snr. Very late night and we ended upstairs listening to records. Janette was violently sick, but not because of booze. Apparently she has a kidney disorder. The girl refuses to visit a doctor. Very foolish.

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Thursday December 20, 1984

 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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Wednesday December 19, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Last night we called in on Auntie Mabel before going to Guiseley. She was very optimistic about Mum and wouldn't accept our bulletin that she is 'very poorly'. Dad has decided to tell no one of the seriousness of Mum's condition. We are told we can say her condition is serious but the word 'cancer' is outlawed. Mabel spoke of God and of having faith, &c. She says Hilda has been phoning throughout the day with nothing but doom and gloom. We cannot convince Mabel that Hilda's fears are so much closer to the truth. _________. On to Hilda's but they were at Macro, and we saw Diane. We called back at Hilda's at midnight. Samuel slept on the settee and they gave us a stiff drink but Mum was barely touched upon but by the look on her face  we can see that she knows.

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Tuesday December 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

John took Dad to see Mr Hall at 7:30am and he told him no more than what he told him so bluntly on the phone yesterday. Dad stayed until 9pm with Mum. She was expecting to see gallstones in a jar next to the bed and was told they had 'crumbled to nothing' in the operation . Dad says she just gave Mr Hall a long, hard look, but said nothing. He did tell her that she has a 'tumour' and that they are sending tissues for tests, when in actuality they are going to do nothing, because nothing can be done. 

(large redaction).

I am at a complete and utter loss.

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Monday December 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

The worst day of my life. Nervous all day about Mum's operation and she phoned bravely in the morning to say she was already on a drip and ready for the surgeon at 2pm. We had to cook and be friendly downstairs when all day our thoughts were with Mum and Dad. Dad went to Sue's to await the result. I phoned him at 3 and said something silly which made him break down. He is wallpapering Sue's loo to take his mind off things. We were having tea later at 4:30 or so when Dad phoned and he seemed cold and without emotion and told us that the news is bad and that Mum has cancer in her stomach, liver and pancreas. I dropped the phone and went into the kitchen crying. Ally screamed and when she picked up the phone Dad couldn't speak. I fell onto the bed. (Large emotional segment redacted). Ally asked Audrey to open the bar and we drove to Guiseley. _________________. Dad went to Airedale at 7:30 where Mum is conscious and oblivious to her condition. Dad will see Mr Hall at 7:30am tomorrow. 

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