At My Mother's Knee Read Online Free PDF Page A

into the bag, not that he would, she
would wrap her cardigan over the top of the earth to make it
look more 'convincing'.
    She spent hours in that garden tending to her flowers. Roses
were her speciality; she grew almost every variety from the
delicate tea roses to the big blowzy blooms that truly
intoxicated you with their heady perfume. Refusing to wear gardening gloves, she preferred to feel the soil with her bare
hands. After an afternoon spent pruning her roses, she would
emerge from the garden weary but content and, standing in the
front room, would hold out her cut and bloodied arms and
hands wearing the martyred expression of a nun with stigmata.
    'Do you think I should go for a tetanus?' she'd ask, the
blood running down her arms from various thorn wounds, 'or
should I chance it with a bit of Dettol?'
    She always chanced it.
    No sensible cat within a five-mile radius of our house would
chance it near Molly O.'s garden though. No cat in its right
mind would put a paw inside the garden gate for fear of bitter
and sometimes deadly reprisals. The neighbourhood moggies
had obviously passed a message around the feline grapevine
telling all members to keep away from the madwoman at
Number 23's garden regardless of how inviting the beds of
flowers and tasty blackbirds looked.
    She loved to listen to the birds. There was a robin that she
was particularly soft on, and she would lovingly buy him mealworms
from the fishing tackle shop in town.
    'Do you know why the robin's breast is red?' Without
bothering to wait for an answer, she would go on to relate the
tale of the robin's breast as she had done countless times
before.
    'When Jesus was on the cross,' she would say, adopting her
pious voice, 'the brave little robin, who was brown all over in
them days, tried to ease poor Jesus's suffering by pulling out
the nails in his poor bloodied hands. As he tugged at those
hard iron nails, red with Jesus's blood, he stained his breast
and that's why it's red today, as a testament to that little bird's
undying bravery and loyalty. So think on, my lad, and don't
start screaming like a bloody big ciss when that plaster on your
knee has to come off tonight, think of poor Jesus.'
    Mum enjoyed telling this fable of the robin. I'm still
reminded of it whenever I see a robin in the garden and they
are my favourite birds, just as they were hers. I also think of
Jesus when I'm pulling a plaster off my leg, a lot more painful
since I hit puberty. As the plaster is ripping chunks of hair out
of my leg, I even shout his name, the full title: 'JESUS
CHRIST!'
    All was harmonious in the garden of Number 23 until the
arrival of a strange black and white tomcat, an enormous beast that was oblivious to all of my mother's frantic protestations
from the frontroom window. The monster would pause
momentarily as it strolled across the postage-stamp lawn and,
with a yawn, would glance up contemptuously in her direction
before it moved on at a leisurely pace to have a nice lie-down
on a bed of pansies. Completely ignoring her, it would stretch
out its paws luxuriantly and roll around, flattening the flowers
with its massive girth.
    'Me pansies!' My mother would be driven insane by this
effrontery and the air would turn every shade of blue as she
charged out of the house, hurling a lump of coal at the creature
with the speed of a fast bowler at Lord's. She would invariably
miss. My dad said there was more coal in the garden than there
was in the coal bunker in the back yard. It was beginning to
look like a slag heap. The battle raged, and as the weeks progressed
the garden began to show the wear and tear of an
urban war zone.
    The cat would lie in wait for the birds, hidden in a bed of
lavender and poised to pounce. It would pee scornfully against
the front door and on the coal in the bunker, which made the
entire house stink of cats. Cocking its insolent arse in the air it
would crouch behind the roses and defecate, digging up
delicate plants as it buried the