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Grief and Psychics
Kate struggles to accept her mother’s death
My mother died three and a half years ago this week. It was a cold rainy day that she passed away, her Land Rover stuck in a ford which was flooding around her. The neighbour, Mr Jones, from the cottage on the corner, fought his way through the rapidly rising waters to try to force the door open and rescue her from the muddy deluge which was creeping up her legs, filling her new shoes and completely ruining her favourite crimson suit.
Tying a rope around his waist and attaching the other end to a tree on the bank, Mr Jones shouted instructions to the concerned motorists who were further blocking the road to call for help, his voice snatched away on the gusting wind. He strode manfully into the raging torrent, half blinded by the hard, bitter rain, images of being presented with a Pride of Britain award by Piers Morgan filled his misty mind.
She was already dead by then of course. A heart attack, probably brought on by fury that the river had the temerity to inconvenience her by flooding just as she was on her way to lunch with the husband of the local council leader, and Mr Jones tried to hide his disappointment about the diminishing effect this had on his heroism.
‘I’d have saved her if I could, Kate,’ he said to me at the funeral, hands shoved into the pockets…
