Wednesday April 3, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

To Club St this afternoon with Samuel's high chair. He had his tea there. Mum came down to see us and was propped up with pillows by the piano. Gone is that friendly amusing chatter. That lovable wit. She just sat and watched us. Sam kept making wild dashes to the kitchen and the cellar steps. He is happier in our enormous flat. 

Our last night (holiday looming). Marjorie. Quiet.

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Tuesday April 2, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

I am such a dreary old pillock. I do not ask for sympathy, but you really cannot expect me to pen flowing prose. Here I am only days away from the commencement of my fortieth decade and life seems so pointless and futile. If I was in Mum's shoes I'd be so bitter and resentful. How can we all come smiling out of all this. God knows. That's if God really cares. Sometimes I do wonder.

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Monday April 1, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Club St.

Mum and Dad moved out and went to Club Street. We went to Bradford in a convoy fashion. Mum did very well. It was horrible watching her struggling down the stairs to get to the car. We, that is Ally, Sam and I, went to Duckworth Lane to get Mum some 'Orovite 7', recommended by an old customer John, who lost his wife last year. Whilst we were out Mum climbed the stairs at Club St and wept at the sight of her bedroom. She thinks we have gone to too much trouble. I am a morbid old sod, but I look at her and wonder if she will ever leave our little cottage alive. She is so frail and burnt out. What torment.

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Sunday March 31, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Palm Sunday / British Summer Time Begins

I hate all this buggering around with the clocks. Felt tired all day. To Club St this evening to conclude the decorating. I thought we would be able to escape the pub at 9 o'clock, but by 10 we were still hard at it. I wanted to nip over to the Butcher's to look at Rob & Kath's baby. At 10:30pm Ally was complaining of feeling hungry and so I phoned the Berni Inn, but we were too late to eat. Instead we went to Giuseppi's Backyard in the centre of Bradford. We were the only customers. I had a cold trout followed by a marinara pizza washed down with a dry white wine. Ally demolished a corn on the cob. I spent my Grand National winnings. £4 in all. 

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Saturday March 30, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Grand National day. Yes, and for the second year running I won the pub sweep. Much talk of a 'fix', &c. Hilarity.

Uncle Peter phoned to say that he and Auntie Jean and Beverley want to come and see Mum this evening. She viewed this with some trepidation. I was put in a spot, but told them to come. They came at 8. Mum was propped up in bed, with subdued lighting, but she looked quite bright. Ally was watching 'Dynasty' and we pointed Peter in the direction of the lounge, and after five minutes he said: "Come on, let's go and see auntie." In they went. Mum gave them a pile of old photographs to look at, and they sat with her for half an hour. Beverley is an attractive girl - leather pants, &c. They stayed until after 12 and went back to Pudsey in a taxi. I filled Peter in on my family tree developments. Amazingly, he knew nothing. 

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Friday March 29, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

My cousin Sam is back looking frightening. Quite hideous. Frankenstein-like to say the least. Shaved head, mad, wild eyes, and a melancholic expression. Weird old fashioned clothes too. And he was smoking a pipe. Very reminiscent of Grandpapa Rhodes. A sad, pathetic figure. He asked for Great-Aunt Ann's address and went away with it saying he'll offer to do her garden and run errands. Like a boy scout. He will probably frighten the life out of the old girl. He asked to see Dad but I knew that Dad didn't want to come down. I suppose I should have let Sam go upstairs, but Mum was in no mood to see anyone.

-=-

Thursday March 28, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Sunny start, but dull by lunchtime. Up at 7 an hour before Samuel. We breakfasted on beans and poached eggs and went for a walk up Dewsbury Rd. Ally collected my anti-Tara pills from the chemist. 

Dear Auntie Hilda is 49 today. Mum slept well but felt horribly sick and vomited at the smell of the aroma of food and our cooking fat. She was down in the dumps too, like she was on Lynn's birthday. God knows what she must be going through. To have an imagination is always an asset, but not at a time like this. Dad was later pottering about making a sheep's head broth.

We were so very excited about our 'Greek' evening. We went out at 7:30 to town by bus. More or less the full company of our lounge customers. To a pub, I've forgotten which, and then on to Scorpio's for 9:30. A merry evening. Ally and I sat with Pam, Tina and Carole (daughter of one of the Bachelors group). Taramasalata  and lamb kebabs, &c. Much wine. Much dancing. They had me up limbo dancing, supposedly in celebration of my coming birthday. Quite jolly. 2:30am finish. Home in a taxi with a poor bugger who'd been on the ouzo. Really awful.

-=-

Wednesday March 27, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

An early start. Up at 7. Dad went to Horton and he deposited me at Beeston Medical Centre en route. I sat in one of those horrible queues full of wheezing old men and snotty-nosed wailing three year olds. Very lowering it all is. Saw Dr Danks at 8:30 who prescribed some pills which will prevent me going into an asthmatic attack on seeing Tara (the retriever) next week. I am told that they do not mix with alcohol. Back home for 9. Mum was bright and cheerful and I made a mug of Complan  and helped her to sit up. At lunchtime she poked at a beef curry, but didn't eat, and then had six fried scampi which she enjoyed.

-=-

Tuesday March 26, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Uneventful. Not feeling very descriptive these days. This year has been full of gloom. The wind has been knocked out of our sails. Here I am, at 30, but for a week. I have a pot-belly in the making and signs of a developing double chin. Not a grey hair though, but neither has my mother.  ___________.

-=-

Monday March 25, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Armitage came to see Mum. He can do very little but he does boost her morale and always goes away leaving her cheery and fighting. I do not think Mum sees enough of the health people. She now has bigger and stronger sleeping pills. 

Archie (left).

To Archibald Drummond Adams's funeral at Cottingley (crematorium). The crematorium resembles a cinema. A full Moorhouse Inn turn-out. (The Rev Terry) Munro took the modern, almost slapstick service. Pitiable, really. Mavis (Adams) didn't weep and sat with a stony face throughout. I found a back-row seat and travelled in a taxi with Taffy, Lesley Heaton, and an anonymous mourner. Aren't funerals awful? The pub was packed afterwards. Archie would have liked that. 

Tonight was also like a gala night. The mourners, covered in cuts and bruises after a brawl in the club, hit the booze with a savagery that took my breath away.

-=-

Sunday March 24, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

5th Sunday in Lent

Still groggy. Feel half dead. Watched Peter Sellers in a 'Pink Panther' film this afternoon. Ally made gammon at tea tea time. My wife resents me being ill and banged around a good deal. Mum instructed me to go to bed, but I managed to stay on my feet.

-=-