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I regretted in retrospect that Roger and I did not see my family that Christmas; of course we did not know it would be the last for both my parents. Because my mother was still in hospital in London, my father went to stay with Auntie Mary. She was his cousin and only living relative. Auntie Doria, as we called her partner, was her companion in their house in St John’s wood and as much an ‘aunt’ to us family as Mary herself.

My brother John, with his wife Janet and six-month-old Annabel went too, and my mother was allowed to join them for the day. Roger and I had decided we couldn’t cope with any more family, on either side, and just wanted to be together. It was not well received by either set of parents, so Roger volunteered to do some On-Call – usually done by the non-Christian Indian doctors – and clinched it. So Christmas was a calm time, waiting for our baby, in our own little flat.

It had already become obvious that my mother could no longer stay at home in Croydon. My father had the sad job of seeking out a permanent nursing home place for her. He also began the huge task of clearing and selling Gardole, our childhood home, with my brother John’s help. He made arrangements, in his usual stoical way, to move into a Residential Hotel in Croydon. They also had the task of clearing out the house and its attic, stuffed full of clutter. I was unable to do anything to help. I was grateful that they were doing it, but also upset and mourning the knowledge that so much was being thrown out without my having any chance to check it out. They did make every effort to keep things for me, especially my childhood books, but of course couldn’t really second guess what I would have kept myself.

My father initially found a nursing home very near the hospital in Bucks, making it a long journey for him. I seem to remember the idea was that I would be able to see her a lot, with the baby, and that later a place might be sought nearer Croydon.

As it turned out, I never did visit the nursing home. Just after Christmas, she was readmitted to the Red Cross Memorial Hospital as an emergency, with an infection. She was delirious and seriously ill. We were warned she would probably not survive the night, and my father came to stay with us.

That night, as a result of stress and alcohol withdrawal, Roger became agitated, psychotic and paranoid. He talked wildly, believing my father’s presence would somehow harm the baby. When I tried to use the telephone – being pretty panic-stricken myself – he pulled the cord from the wall. That did it! I insisted we walk round to the hospital.

They really didn’t know what to do with us. I was checked over and kept in the Gynae ward for a couple of days, being almost at term with the pregnancy. Roger was locked in a side room of his own ward until the psychiatrist came and told them not to be so silly. So the medical authorities had three of us in different wards until the psychiatrist sorted us all out and started some ongoing therapy for Roger. I was allowed home to the flat and my brother and Auntie Joyce, my mother’s sister, came and supported my father and I.

My mother survived the night and I sat with her in the hospital ward each day before my baby’s birth. She lived for another six weeks and although she didn’t really know where she was or what was happening, she seemed much more at peace. Often, she talked as if she was on a ship; sometimes a holiday cruise ship such as we had taken down the Rhine when I was in my teens, or sometimes it seemed more like earlier memories of her own life, of her returning from India. She often became anxious, particularly as to whether I would be able to get off before the boat sailed. I would hold her hand and try to reassure her. We could not let ourselves fully acknowledge that we were facing a deeper separation and a longer voyage than anything either of us had experienced before.