Ons Dorp, Henderson

What we leave behind

 

Mum sulked. She’d finally agreed that Dad could go into a room at the care centre.  She’d also agreed that we could move the sofa he slept on during the day with him so that something familiar would be in the room with him. She allowed him to take her framed embroidery of the Morspoort of Leiden.  She slumped into her armchair.  It was like we had dismissed her talents as a caregiver.

Dad was slightly younger than Mum.  He was the adventurer, she wasn’t.  Once, she'd chased him halfway across the world, not just to avoid being classed as the maiden aunt. She was probably genuinely in love, but terribly unsure. She found a busy life for herself.  It was more to her liking, to have a God-given mission to be a fulltime mother to five children, than to be at her mother’s beck and call. So far, so okay. 

And now, fifty-plus years on: he was moving out. 

It took her a few days to get used to the idea.

The unit at Ons Dorp, Henderson

At least it wasn’t going to cost her anything to have him up there.

To start with, Dad ate with the other inhabitants at the care centre. He wanted her to join him at the social table, but she wouldn’t.  She’d eat in her unit, just thirty footsteps away down a gentle slope. 

He was probably bored in that room, nice as it was. He shuffled down to visit her in his slippers.  He possibly wanted to watch the sport on the TV as well. 

She took him back to his room, like a naughty child running away.  “Did you tell them you were coming over here?” she scolded. 

“He can’t come over here,” she reported, wild-eyed.  “He’s not my responsibility any more!” 

‘Ons Dorp’ is a retirement village in Henderson, established by the Dutch community for the migrants from the 1950s who were now at that age when you could forget hard work and enjoy the life choice you made. 

‘Unbelievable!’ said Mum when she and Dad finally moved in there.  It was one of her signature expressions.  The tone could carry delight, like winning a small raffle; or dismay, like a ding in the car.  

The lovely thing about Ons Dorp is it's distinctive Dutch atmosphere. The architecture helps; and its inhabitants still display vestiges of Dutch symbolism - such as windmills and Netherlands flags on national holidays. You could be there and own its heritage without feeling like an imposter.

The sofa was not at all elegant.  It was a three-seater, velvet chocolate brown, with chunky wooden arms on either end worn smooth with age. A pillow could comfortably prop there for an afternoon nap in front of the football.  Over later years it acquired a day-blanket where Dad could snore while Mum did her jigsaw.  Quite what happened to those puzzles I do not know.  Once she’d finished one, Mum would number every piece, all 1000, from left to right, top to bottom, in case whoever did it next got stuck. She was doing me a favour.  The care centre library may have benefited.  

The Morspoort.  One of the two remaining gates to the ancient city of Leiden, around the corner from the Kort Galgewater. We knew about this from photos, and then, from the framed embroidery on the wall of the unit: it was where our Oma and Opa on Mum's side lived with their youngest grandchildren for many years.  So romantic, to be living opposite a canal.  So Dutch. 

The Morspoort was nostalgia for Dad. Dad talked about the football he played at there as a young kid. He was probably supposed to be doing something else.  He had a sparkle in his eye when he told that story, looking at the embroidery as though it was the real thing.  

Morspoort, Leiden

Mum shrugged.  ‘I left it all behind.’ Not dismissive, but almost as though she didn't want to own it.

And now she’s leaving Dad to the clutches of the care centre.  ‘Of course he will die there,’ she said.  ‘No way am I ever going to go there.’

She didn’t. 

Dad had always been the one who made things happen.  So I was surprised when she started cleaning out her drawers.  A whole plastic bag full of correspondence went out to the tip. ‘No-one would be interested in these,’ she said.  ‘You won’t even know who these people are.  Besides, its all in hollands,’ she said. 

When do we start thinking about what we will leave behind? 

After Dad died, Mum had a few years left.  She once called them her years of peace.

At first, she would go for daily walks around Ons Dorp.  When I asked her what she’d been doing that week, she’d say: ‘Just living.’ She’d always been happy in her own company.  I think she was just hanging around waiting for something to happen. 

She shrugged at the meals that arrived daily at her door.  Even if she didn’t eat them, we knew that someone was at least regularly calling in. 

Her children were her legacy.  We would know what do with it all when she was done with it. And we did. 

The point, of course, is that death comes to us all eventually.  When do we start thinking about what we will leave behind?

From Mum (and Dad) I ended up with suitcases and boxes of papers and photograph albums.  Today I launched my book. 

It’s what I’m going to be leaving behind.