mum and dad
There's a favourite picture of my parents that I took maybe four years ago on my phone. In it, my dad is leaning over a sink, his shirt off while my mum rubs shampoo into his hair. She's pulling a face she would hate, one of concentration, mouth loose and slightly open. In the foreground is a Denby teapot that was my Grandma's and on the wall is a clock, also hers. It tells a story, like all pictures do.
It's a holiday snap from one of my family's many annual trips to Norfolk. We've been going since I was a child, first in an old faded blue caravan, then a long beige box that my Grandparents bought and now a modern one with central heating that belongs to my dad's friend. It's in the woodlands, hidden from view with a deep incline on one side covered in bracken and broken attempts at tree-swings and woodland shelters. The old pathways my brother and I hacked out have long since grown over. But still, we return to this place every year without fail.
The caravan is important because it's the reason my mum is washing my dad's hair in the sink. My dad had a stroke 14 years ago that left his left side paralysed and as such a cramped, slippy caravan shower poses a serious hazard. He prefers a wet cloth and craning over a tiny sink to falling and busting a limb. In fact that same holiday I remember he fell over in the bedroom and it took all three of us to get him into the right position where he could hoick himself up with my mum and I either side to steady him.
Holidaying in the caravan with my parents (my brother, perhaps wisely, no longer comes) is always slightly fraught. Tradition says there has to be at least one argument: it should preferably be early-on, about packing or what we're having for tea. Another popular choice is for my dad to dither for so long to get ready, and not really want to go anywhere different than the same rotation of seafronts we always visit, that mum and I sit on the sofa in a huff or idly reading (me) or cleaning (mum) until we both can't help spouting passive aggressive comments. These soon boil over into annoyance and we all moan at each other, declare we won't go anyway then, and finally decide on a nice walk along the seafront that my mum suggested in the first place. My dad will be tempted out by the lure of fish and chips and a crack at the arcades.
In my family, arguments, especially between my parents, are frequent but quickly resolved. Rarely lasting more than an hour, always ending in a declaration of their love for each other, perhaps with an aside from my mum of even if he drives me bloody mad and/or even if I don't like him all the time, I do love him you know. That's why I like that photograph so much. I can't remember if it was taken pre or post argument, but it shows the story of my parents' marriage and the aspect of their relationship that I've always admired: their care for one another.
My mum is literally my dad's carer now (in that she is paid a carer's allowance and gets in free to National Trust places) but they took care of one another long before my dad's stroke. They have shown me what a stable happy relationship looks like: it has arguments and life doesn't make it easy but it's underpinned always with a deep love and affection — a partnership I suppose, an agreement that they are in this together.
My mum often told me growing up to find someone kind like my dad. She always said that was the most important thing, above looks or money (my dad certainly has neither of those) — to find someone kind. To find someone kind who will wash your hair in the sink, to find someone kind who will give you their last pound for the 2p machine, to find someone kind who loves you even when they don't like you right now and would you please just leave me alone for five minutes so I can put this stuff in bloody the car.
So, if you can find someone kind. And maybe find someone else to do the holiday packing.