Fiction/Short Story
Still Alive Mother?
A senior reflects on her past and present circumstances and rebels
Introduction
This inspiration for this story came from a comment made by my elder daughter when she couldn’t get hold of me for a day (I’d left my phone at home while I attended a writing workshop). She sent me a tongue-in-cheek text message which read: Still Alive Mother? It was that ‘What if?’ moment which acts as a prompt and starts the creative flow.
This story is a competition piece which was shortlisted in 2023. It has proved to be a favourite with its audience with comments such as: This was a joy to read, with a wonderfully dry, biting, subtle, almost black humour giving a brilliant kick throughout and The dialogue is a powerful force in the piece.
Still Alive Mother? is written as a monologue in which the narrator wrestles with aging, lonliness and the perception of needing help from her daughters, who live far away. Despite her advancing years, she emphasises her independence and active lifestyle, from driving to managing her home and garden.
The recurring theme of the mobile phone highlights the modern connection between the narrator and her daughters. It serves as a lifeline for communication, albeit with occasional frustration and humor about its whereabouts.
The narrator’s grief over her husband’s death is palpable. She reminisces about him and their life together, juxtaposing memories of their disagreements and love with the practicalities of his sudden passing.
There’s a clear generational divide between the narrator and her daughters, seen in their differing perspectives on property investments and the practicalities of everyday life.
The narrator’s dry wit and sarcasm add depth to the narrative, revealing her resilience and defiance against societal norms and expectations about aging. Through her musings on life, death, and relationships, the narrator develops a personal philosophy shaped by her experiences. Her refusal to accept certain modern norms or succumb to societal pressures underscores her strong character.
The stream-of-consciousness style of the monologue provides an intimate portrayal of the narrator’s inner thoughts and emotions, offering a raw and unfiltered glimpse into her life. Overall, the story blends humour, nostalgia, and poignant reflections on life’s transitions and challenges. It portrays a woman who, despite her age and loss, remains spirited and independent, navigating the complexities of family dynamics and modern technology with resilience and wit.
The story is below. I would very much appreciate it if you could read, enjoy, clap and leave feedback.
Still Alive Mother?
Where’s that dratted mobile phone, Charlie-boy? Bloody thing! Have you seen it? I can hear it pinging, but I can’t find it. Are you sitting on the wretched thing boy? Scooch up, mind your tail, let me look under the cushions.
It’ll be a message from one of the girls. You know one or the other texts me each night before bed. They thought it a good idea — now that I’m on my own. They text: Still alive mother? I text back: Still here, night-night, or some such. If they don’t hear back from me (within half an hour or so, they said) they’ll know something’s up with me, and they’ll alert the authorities — whatever that means. What they think’s going to happen to me I’ve no clue. It’s not like I’m decrepit. I’m in good shape for my age, still driving, still getting out, pottering about the garden, taking lovely long walks with you… looking after myself nicely, thank you. Just as well, I’d get no help from them seeing they live no-where near.
Before I got you — when I worked — I ran my own business for a while you know … yes I did — my mobile used to ping all the time then — messages, emails, diary reminders, work appointments. Then, when I retired, it was mainly Parish Council emails. I was the Deputy Mayor of our little town for three years — that kept me busy, always something to read, and answer, and do. What with Council meetings, civic do’s, parades, meetings and greetings, church services and the like the weeks shot by. Now, the phone only pings once a day … just before bed. I can still hear it pinging! For god’s sake where is the bloody thing?
I moved here after Bert, my husband passed away, Charlie (why we just can’t say died I don’t know. Folk don’t seem to like it … when you say died … it seems to make them go all over-ish). Bert would have loved you, he always wanted a dog. Anyway, after he died I fancied a nice little bungalow. Just the right size for me, and for you boy. I’m not getting any younger, and you’re getting on a bit yourself you know. You’re such a sweet boy, yes you are, a lovely companion. I love you to bits. Yes I do!
If Bert were here he’d say: bloody dog! He’s a bit of a barker! But he wouldn’t mind really. I don’t mind either. If you didn’t make a racket sometimes, I’d never hear another noise whilst sitting here — besides that nightly mobile phone ping that is. Oh, there it goes again! Can you hear it? I bet it’s a text from Fran saying: Still alive mother? with one of those silly yellow emoji things at the end.
You know, Charlie, Bert dying was a shock. I wasn’t expecting it, but … when I think about it, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t warned him.
‘You need to watch what you say to folk these day, Bert,’ I said to him. ‘The Daily Mail says all the young men carry knives these days. And, the older ones aren’t much better with their road rage and sucker punches.’
He’d just look at me as if I were mad, roll his eyes, and mumble something under his breath about ‘bleddy wimmen’. I blame the male menopause, Charlie — yes, blokes get it too, you know — only theirs is something to do with test-ost-er-one (I think that’s right). They get more of it, apparently. Makes them more aggressive, so they say. I’d noticed it with Bert. Always shouting at folk when we were out in the car.
‘Well, the wanker shouted at me first,’ he’d say.
I’d say, ‘Well, that’s probably because you were taking up two lanes, straddling the white lines in the middle of the road. How’s he supposed to know what you’re doing, he’s not a mind-reader.’ That didn’t go down well either, so he’d start on me.
I wasn’t with Bert when it happened, Charlie. Apparently, the man driving the car behind him tried to overtake him — Bert in the middle of the road like always. The other driver was late for an appointment they said. Anyway, just as he started to overtake, Bert made up his mind about which lane he needed to be in and, well, they collided. Not too much damage to the cars, the policeman said, just a bit of paint chipped off the bumper but, Bert kicked off like he had a want to do. Called the bloke an ‘effing wanker’ or some such, and that was enough. One punch they said … that’s all. One punch sent Bert reeling backwards. He cracked the back of his head on the kerb … it split open like a walnut, they said.
When I got to the hospital, they told me Bert’s brain was dead. I said, ‘How do you know, how can you be so sure?’
‘We’ve done all the tests,’ they said. ‘Does he want to donate his organs?’
‘He does not,’ I said. ‘Besides he’s still breathing, he’s not dead yet.’ They called in a Consultant to explain it all to me. ‘
We need to harvest the organs while your husband’s body is being kept alive by the machines,’ he said. ‘If we turn the machine off, the oxygen won’t circulate, his organs will be compromised, we won’t be able to use them. Bert’s not coming back from this Missus,’ he said. ‘But, he can save someone else’s life.’
Well! Was I shocked! I wasn’t expecting that! No, not at all. Fran was on holiday of course — in Egypt. Mary was away somewhere or other … something to do with work.
‘Well,’ I said to the doctor. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s not dead until his heart’s stopped beating and his lungs have stopped breathing.’ And that was that.
When the girls finally got here, they said I should have let the surgeon take them, Bert’s useful bits that is. They’re no good to him now they said … but I didn’t like to think of his heart, and what-nots, walking around in someone else’s body when all I wanted was him, home with me — I do miss him.
Anyway Charlie, as I was saying. I moved here, to this little bungalow. It had two bedrooms, a cosy sitting room, bathroom and kitchen. A lovely garden for you to run around in — and it’s right next to the bus-stop and post-box. The Co-op’s just down the road if I want some groceries. It needed some work, but I had the time — still had a 70’s formica kitchen, and dated pink bathroom suite. That’s all I was going to do — have a new bathroom with a shower put in, and a lovely fitted kitchen.
‘Oh,’ my girls said. ‘Why not convert the loft space, there’s room up there for two extra rooms. We can stay with you when we come down to visit then.’
I wasn’t keen.
‘Too expensive,’ I said. ‘Anyway, the attic rooms would only be used a couple of times a year.’
‘Look on it as an investment, Mother,’ they said. ‘It’ll add value to the property.’
‘Do I need to add value to the property?’ I said. ‘I think I’d rather see the money in my bank account. I can buy myself some bits and pieces for the house when I see them.’
Anyway, they didn’t listen, thought they knew best. They got some builder chap they know to call on me, the husband of some old school chum they said. He agreed with them.
‘A new kitchen and bathroom won’t add value to your property Missus,’ he said. ‘But, a roof conversion — well, it could add another £100,000.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘I read an article in The Daily Mail that said you’d be lucky to add 10% more to the value than it costs to get done.’ They all looked at one-another and laughed.
‘Mail readers, eh?’ they said. ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Mother, especially The Daily Mail.’
So Charlie-boy, here we are, £25,000 later and I’ve two extra bedrooms which need heating, and an ensuite shower room in the roof space — which, of course, nobody uses — except for a couple of times a year. The kitchen and bathroom cost me another £20,000 so, now the builder friend is better off, and I’m skint.
I was moaning about it when I talked to Fran on video-call the other day. I said: When are you coming down to try out the attic rooms?’ She leafed through her diary and said: I’ve no spare weekends now until October.
‘October?’, I said. ‘October? That’s five months away … why did I spend all that money again?’
She said, ‘We told you, mother, it’s an investment.’
‘Not for me, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘It’s not going to do me any good. I’ve no intention of moving again. The only ones who are going to see any returns on my ‘investment’ boy are those two and their no-good husbands.
There’s that dratted pinging again! Where the hell have I put my phone? It’ll be Mary this time. I bet Fran will have rang her and said: Have you heard from Mother, she’s not answering my texts. Do you think she’s snuffed it?
Well, if I could find the damn thing I would answer it. I’d say: Hello? Sorry … no, still here, I’m not dead yet.
I bet they’ve got the bloody Estate Agents on speed dial: Hello? Yes, Mother didn’t answer our texts yesterday. Nip round and give us a probate valuation will you. Yes … for the solicitor. We need to get the bungalow on the market quick sharp. Yes, four bedrooms, modern, big garden, nicely kept.
I’m more use to them dead than alive now, Charlie-boy — yes I am. They get all offended when I suggest it: Now Mother, they say. Don’t be like that. You know that’s not what we think.
“Do I?’ I say. ‘Actions speak louder than words girls, so when are you going to visit?’ Do you know what Charlie? I can’t be bothered to look for my phone any more. I think I’ll head off to bed — that’ll set the cat amongst the pigeons, give Fran and Mary something to think about.
Night, night, Charlie-boy, see you in the morning.
(ping…ping…ping…ping)
The End
