She was born and grew up in Southend-on-Sea.
One of the very few stories I can remember mum telling me of her childhood is of when she broke her arm. She had been dancing on a table. This was much against the advice of her own mother. She fell off. In the matter of fact way that stories were told in those day, she went to hospital and got it put in plaster and it healed.
She was, if I remember correctly, the middle of three children and had two brothers. The older one moved to Scotland with his Scottish wife. He later caused a family break-up trying to inherit her mother's estate, and as a result, I never met that uncle.
At some point she discovered a relative in Harold Hill, who we visited annually. He was an old man and fond of telling his war stories and singing the songs from his era. I don't think mum particularly enjoyed these visits, but she insisted we made them until he died.
Mum loved her push-bike. She would cycle whenever she could. She had not learned to drive in her younger years, and despite many lessons with my dad (who drove for a living) she could not master the fine control required for hill starts. I didn't realise until much later how surprising it was that this never caused a row between them, at least not one that we heard, as my sister and I were sat in the back seats.
The bike was walked along side her as she took us to school each morning, about a mile walk. After dropping us off she would cycle home, or to whatever else she did. Sometimes one of us, usually my younger sister, would be allowed to ride on the saddle. One day my sisters foot got caught between the peddle and the bike frame. I'd never seen my mum panic before, she tried and tried to free my sister, but was unable to. I offered to help, and soon had my sister free. Normally, in a crisis, my mum was unflappable and rarely got visibly worked up or upset about anything.
When I was old enough to have a second-hand bike, I spent a lot of time cleaning it. As mum's was also very old, I offered to clean hers as well. She, rather reluctantly, agreed. I like to think she was genuinely pleased with the result, if she wasn't she certainly gave me the impression that she was.
I remember her writing a lot of letters, sometimes to her MP. She would research carefully and write the letter, then read it and re-write it. There were always pads of blue writing paper in the house. These were not her political views, but issues that were important for us as a family. She would also write letters to companies. When a plastic toy was improperly made and ruined some of our clothes, her letter resulted in the biggest tin of sweets I had seen being delivered to us with a letter of apology.
Mum was very good with young children; she had wanted to be a teacher, but the circumstances of her life had prevented her from going into training. When I was talking to her about my 'O' levels, she told me that 'people like us' don't pass exams. I think she was preparing me for not passing, as I was pretty confident.
She spent endless Saturday mornings with me in the local library, helping me take notes from the encyclopedias and other reference books to complete the latest home work assignment. My writing was appalling, hers was always very clear and consistent. Her notes were much more useful than mine.
As a child I was frequently unwell, and spent many days in bed. I was also a Star Trek fanatic. When I was too ill to get up and come down stairs to watch it, she watched it for me then came and told me the story. She didn't like science fiction.
When I told her I had started to attend a church, she warned me about sects, and wanted evidence that the church was mainstream. By this time I was in my 20s, it didn't matter, my mother would always protect me if she could. That conversation, like so many others went on for a long time, she always had time for us and was always willing to talk. Conversations were always easy with mum.
Although trained as a hairdresser, mum did not do regular work while we were young. When dad was made redundant, she got a job in a local factory, in the evenings. That she could still look after us. The job did not agree with her, I can't remember why. She stuck at it long after she should have stopped.
Grandma only saw one of her grandchildren - my sisters oldest son. By the time Jo was expecting she was already ill with an aggressive strain of leukaemia. Sitting on her hospital bed telling us that the diagnosis was terminal, she said 'I just want to get out of this deadly place'. It was a kind of pun and broke the sombre mood.
She was convinced that Jo was expecting girls, and she was right. She passed on 12 hours before they were born. She would have loved to meet them, our sons, and my sisters other daughter and son. It was not to be.
