Just before I left Mum's tonight- we were standing together by the table as she tidied up after tea- I opened up the library book I had in my bag. Under Milkwood by Dylan Thomas. I asked if I could read my favourite lines to her.. these ones-
Mr Edwards: Myfanwy Price!
Miss Price: Mr Mog Edwards!
Mr Edwards: I am a draper mad with love. I love you more than all the flanelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world. I have come to take you away to my Emporium on the hill, where the change hums on wires. Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket. I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday roast.
Miss Price: I will knit you a wallet of forget-me-not blue, for the money to be comfy. I will warm your heart by the fire so that you can slip it in under your vest when the shop is closed.
Mr Edwards: Myfanwy, Myfanwy, before the mice gnaw at your bottom drawer will you say
Miss Price: Yes, Mog, yes, Mog, yes, yes, yes.
Mr Edwards: And all the bells of the tills of the town shall ring for our wedding.
At 90, Mum can't read much anymore. Even with a halogen light and a large magnifying glass, she struggles to see more than blurry images on a page. As I read I heard her repeating the cloth names after me, making little pictures for both of us.. candlewick in bedspreads, tussore silk, crepe evening dresses, ticking in mattreses.. those tiny change tins before cash registers..and it struck me that there could be nothing more lovely than sharing A Play for Voices on a winter's night with my mother's voice whispering in the kitchen beside me. An echo in the wings.
Oh she said as I finished, it's beautiful.
