Who, What, Where, When and Why?

Marjorie Jean Harrison was shaking her head again as if he could see her through the ghastly mobile phone, “I’m telling you Bartholomew it’s definitely not the 6^th. I would remember because I always sit in the garden on the 5^th of March to remember the first spitfire that flew over back in ’36. And I didn’t.” When Marjorie says something, she means it. Bart shrugged it off, “It’s ok, working from home means everything rolls into one for me too at the moment. Everyone’s struggling.” Her eldest son was right, a world in lockdown seemed to pass you by without going anywhere, but for Marjorie it didn’t sit well. She was a proud woman, the strongest, most active 92-year-old around. As independent as the day she signed up to drive machines in the war and just as tough.

Marjorie could tell stories that painted a canvas, the adventures she’d been on, the people she’d known, she could recite every name, every date. The colour of the uniform the first men wore as they were setting off on their journeys, that it was early spring when she’d been working on the farm and decided that mending the tractor and gathering the food wasn’t enough in her opinion to do her bit. She’d recall every item she packed in that little battered case and the grey woollen coat she’d thrust on as she marched to catch the 13:09 into Paddington. She’d loved driving the old wagons to pick up any injured folk caught in the blasts during the raids, it was thrilling, and she was someone you wanted in a crisis. That was where she thrived, her level-headed can-do attitude is something that hasn’t faded over time.

Maybe she wasn’t the smooth-faced young thing that smiled from the black and white photograph in the hallway, with smart tie and uniform as precise as the brown waves that curled down to her neck. But she was a no-nonsense kind of lady and everyone knew it. She had never been one to sit around and wait for company to waltz her way, she was never lonely, but it was only proper to converse with your neighbours. So, every other day she would clutch her ‘wretched stick’ that she only used to appease her children- who would be sure to ask the neighbours if she was using it -and head off to the village shop. With a friendly ‘good morning’ to the couple in the next garden who Marjorie thought must be new owners as she didn’t recognise them, she strode off, soaking up the spring sunshine with her head held high.

There was Alfred, as usual, the charming but cheeky cashier ready to hold the door for her. It was something she secretly enjoyed, chivalry was something that had just about passed the test of time. Maybe it was her age or her presence that softly yet firmly commanded respect from those around her, either way she was always welcomed everywhere she went in the village. She skimmed the headlines -tut, more restrictions- picked her usual loaf of bread and eggs and headed over to Alfred. “Eggs again young lady,” he teased, “You must have been busy baking, you only got some on Tuesday.” He was starting to sound like Bartholomew, “Yes, well I’ve got to keep busy somehow with this wretched bother,” Marjorie replied with a tone that made a global pandemic sound like a minor inconvenience. Alfred chuckled and handed back her change, Marjorie looked down at it confused. “I gave you a £10 note, is that all I get back?” Alfred was adamant it was a fiver so she went along with it anyway, maybe he was a bit distracted today. He couldn’t be too many years her junior himself. Bless him, she thought, maybe he was losing his marbles.

On the way home, Marjorie had been so preoccupied with recounting her change again she’d meandered her way down to the river. It was a longer route home but no matter, it had started to warm up now and the swans were basking on the edge of the banks, what a lovely day. Pausing to admire the park around her, she settled on the wooden bench ripping a piece of her fresh loaf for the ducks to squabble over. A plump lady wandered past, “Are you ok, Marjorie?” She assured the lady she was quite well indeed thank you very much and watched her trundle away. After a few more ‘Hello dear’s and even a ‘You alright love?’, Marjorie thought it best to move along, she didn’t like being mollycoddled, she was perfectly capable of sitting on a bench in the fresh air without needing assistance from random strangers.

She shuffled swiftly up the gravel driveway, slowing only to soak up the scent of her hydrangeas. She tended them every year, they acted as a living symbol for the pride she had for every inch of her cottage, inside and out. Once over the doorstep she hastily began peeling carrots, the family would be here soon so she’d better get to work. It was the one day of the week she’d get to see some of the family or bubble or whatever they had to be called now. They’d soon be rumbling up the lane hungry for the roast dinner she’d be serving them. As she put the eggs in the pantry, she spied another box right behind them. Hands on hips, she sighed, wishing Bart would stop interfering, she may be in her nineties, but she doesn’t need spoon-feeding. She can get her own eggs! He’d already persuaded her to have one of those home delivery services from the big draughty supermarkets, but this was silly.

By the time Marjorie had put on her best cardigan and skirt the feast was almost ready. But everyone was hurtling up the driveway already, it was most peculiar. They were never early. She had only just checked her wristwatch, it said 1 o’clock not 2 o’clock. Maybe the batteries were going in that darn thing, technology was supposed to be a help not a hindrance. Nevertheless, she strutted over to the oak door and swung it back to hear the chatter and laughter of the family that was already swirling in the breeze and greeted them with a smile. They piled in bubbling with enthusiasm, the grandkids unable to dodge the kisses Marjorie planted on their foreheads. Billie, Marcus and Louise were curious, cheery children who teased each other and brought the mischief of youth over the threshold of Marjorie’s cottage every week without fail and took her back to her childhood.

When they were all settled at the table Louise requested her favourite story from Granny Marj during the war. The one where she’d trained as a nurse and met none other than the Forces’ Sweetheart herself before Vera had set off to Burma. Little Louise was obsessed with the glamour of it all, the romance of men leaving their beloveds and the bravery of the canary girls left behind. Billie and Marcus, however, didn’t want to hear that story again so they begged Marjorie for a new story while she and their mother Sarah carried through the dinner. “Now, now boys back in my day children were seen and not heard,” she teased with raised eyebrows. Obligingly though, Marjorie plummeted into the story of her first automobile, the Morris Minor that her and her late husband had saved every penny to purchase. She regaled them with tales of speedy trips to the hills (there were no seatbelts back then) where they were the only car on the road. Just a light blue snake weaving between the mountains searching for a perfect picnic spot or a lake to go skinny dipping in (“Mother, please don’t tell us about that,” Bartholomew chuckled.) Only Billie asking if there were any carrots, awoke Marjorie from her reminiscing. I’m sure I brought them in, Marjorie thought. “If you kids weren’t pestering your Nan for stories, she would’ve been able to bring them in in peace!” Sarah saved the day and wandered in the kitchen to retrieve the missing vegetables. Marjorie chimed in, “When I was a child, I’d get a clip round the ear for asking that, with food shortages it was make do and mend or go without!” Billie rolled his eyes as everyone sniggered.

They stayed well into the evening, gathering round the log burner to sip their cocoa while the children played. She loved nothing more than listening to stories about their lives, what was going on with juggling home-schooling three kids as well as work and joining in with her own trials from her era. They always told her she should write a book with all the stories she collected over the years, she’d been a paramedic, a nurse, a teacher and been to many different lands in her time. She stood up abruptly looking under the cushions for the television remote to give to Marcus. It was the most that blasted thing got used when they were round. “Mum what’re you doing?” Bart asked nonchalantly, she was always losing something. “I had the remote here somewhere earlier,” she answered while suspiciously lifting cushions. Marcus said she’d already given it to him, which baffled Marjorie, but she wasn’t too dazed to not see the way Sarah and Bart looked at each other. He’d been saying she should go to the doctors for an MOT for a while now, but she was adamant she was sharper than both of them and they should mind their own business. It’s this dratted virus, that’s all.

Thinking back, it was always something. But truth be told she didn’t want to be a big girl’s blouse and go to the surgery when there was nothing wrong with her. She liked her independence; she knew they’d blame it on the dreaded old age and probably try to stick her in some home or another. She knew she was a bit of a fuddy-duddy, but she didn’t need to waste her or the doctor’s time to tell her some gobbledygook about cholesterol this and low blood circulation that. Refusing to be a party pooper by causing a scene, she assured Bartholomew she would go to see the doctor even though he was just overreacting.

By the following week, it was time for her appointment with the old croaker and truth be told she was a bit nervous. Well not nervous, she was never nervous for something as straightforward as a doctor’s appointment. She could handle this with both arms tied behind her back. No, not nervous, maybe a little tentative is all, which is perfectly acceptable when you’re going behind enemy lines. The one drawback of living in the sticks meant she had to walk down to the local bus stop and hop on to ride it all the way to town to the nearest surgery. However, when she reached her destination, she had no idea where she was. There must have been a mistake, the driver must have changed her number before she got on while Marjorie was fetching her bus pass out and donning her mask. She’d ended up in the next town, 20 minutes further than she wanted to be. Typically, this part of England is as rural as they come, so when the next bus arrived, she’d long since missed her appointment.

Bartholomew was doing that intense concerned voice she highly disapproved of. Marjorie didn’t know where he got his stubbornness from! Nevertheless, the following morning he had bundled her into his night blue Audi that was engulfed by the pitter patter of drizzle which mimicked Marjorie’s thudding heart. He insisted on chaperoning her to the doctor and tenderly steered her up to the bubbly receptionist as though she were frailty embodied. Looking up at him she whispered ‘Joe’ as he was so similar to his father who had been a warm and gentle giant. The younger-than-ever receptionist closely escaped more than the raised eyebrow she received, after addressing Marjorie in a voice a few decibels louder than comfortable. Biting her tongue, she affirmed her details that had already been bellowed to half of the surgery. But she passed the first test, I’m not deaf, Marjorie thought, and was allowed to take a seat until she was called to her doom.

The doctor was a kind yet assertive lady who was respectful, smartly dressed and knew what was what, Marjorie approved so far. Bartholomew started to explain what he was worried about and it wasn’t until then that Marjorie began to feel ambushed. He began, “Well lately my mother hasn’t been herself.” Of course not, thought Marjorie, does one ever enjoy being on a lockdown like you’re back in the shelters. “She keeps forgetting she’s already been shopping, she doesn’t recognise neighbours who have lived next door for years. Also, the shopkeeper says she keeps paying the wrong money, she was even in the park with her coat inside out the other day, someone told me. I’m just worried because it’s everyday things like the time, date, names, getting on the wrong bus but what if it gets worse and it’s not turning off the stove?” Marjorie was startled, was it her? Could she be losing it and not know it? Dr. Wilson listened patiently and started her blood tests, questions and reassured them that it could be anything from a minor infection that caused a bit of confusion or something else. To tell the truth they were both troubled by the unknown outcomes, but Marjorie’s humour stirred them from numbness, “See Barty probably just a tricky cold that’s got the better of me.”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a cold. It was a word that spread uneasiness through the family more than the monotony of lockdown boredom. Dementia. Marjorie, who was always so sure of herself, was stunned. It was going to get worse; would everything just go ‘poof’ one day or would it be a slow descent into madness that she wouldn’t even see? She wouldn’t know it would be the latter until it had already begun, but she wasn’t there yet. Every meal she had with the grandchildren started to feel like it should be treasured as though it was so special and if she paid enough attention it may not be forgotten. She told her stories with even more vigour, spirit and adventure than before so they hung on every word in the hope they would remember them even when she didn’t. As the weeks grew on, Marjorie began to misplace things more often than she thought acceptable and started to become frustrated.

That was when she decided to begin work, she scrawled her stories down one by one, night after night. Marjorie Jean Harrison had a life worth telling the kids, then to their kids and so on and she may as well tell it while she could. She pulled out old tickets, tattered black and white photographs to fill them with the little details that made her anecdotes come to life. In the end she had a chronicle of tales she could hardly lift, using both hands to grasp the leather cover tightly as though it was a precious diary. Though in some ways it was, every word glowed with the moxie that Marjorie represented. It was a journey from a nigh-forgotten era and how people, time and the world had changed over her 92 -year expedition. Every page was crafted with her warmth, strength and level-headedness, which was sure to live on.

Over the next few years, the children kept visiting Marjorie even when she had to move into a home. They found one that was as pleasant and well-run as her little cottage. Of course, she was sure to keep the staff in check with her wit and charm, but they adored her refreshing nature. She wasn’t always aware of them or who they were, but she still greeted them with a fond smile and a can- do attitude. The children loved visiting her to tell her their antics and when it got late, Sarah would take the children home to give her a rest. Bart would stay late every night talking to a Marjorie who was oblivious of his love, mistaking him for a carer, his dad, a distant memory of someone she knew or sometimes a stranger. But it didn’t matter to him, every night he’d reveal a brown leather book that looked like it had seen better days. He would softly read her adventures to Marjorie until she would fall asleep. It would brighten her up without fail, where she would say she wished she’d been on escapades like the author. Even though she didn’t know the characters of her own epic stories, they would amaze her and take her to a world of wonder. With that book, Bart and his family knew the grit of a young girl named Marjorie would outlive them all as they passed it down generation by generation. Every chapter spoke volumes of her courage, but none more than the last line of the book. Marjorie had ended it with a blank chapter bearing the heading ‘Dementia: My Next Adventure’.