Gretta was born in 1933 to these two folk in County Donegal in Ireland – William Quigley and Mary Anne Colhoun. Here they are on their wedding day. Mum was the second of five children – the first two were daughters and it’s probably fair to assume that farmers needed sons as a priority. Life for the eldest two must have been hard.
The family lived in a small farmhouse called Shandrum until Mum was about 12–14 years old. I’ve only got 4 photos of Mum as a very young girl but this one was taken there. Thirty years ago, Andrew & I visited Donegal and the building was still there; inside it was tiny – how on earth a family of 7 lived there I don’t know.
The Quigleys were a family of committed Methodists – they went to church at White Castle which also doubled as their school during the week. This was a single roomed chapel and the single school class was a mixture of all the ages 5-14.
Mum told us when they walked the mile or two to church each Sunday they were given a penny for the contribution and often spent some of it on a treat. Not sweets though but, believe it or not, on cloves. Throughout our childhood we remember apple pie always had lots cloves in it and we loved the flavour it gave but the cloves themselves were far too strong. But Mum would collect up all the cloves afterwards and eat them!
Mum left school in 1947 aged 14 and went to Wallaces secretarial college in Londonderry where she learnt shorthand, typing and bookkeeping. She met her best friend Isobel Miller there and stayed many weekends with her in Londonderry. After Wallaces she got a job as an invisible mender at one of the many shirt factories there – the backdrop to the well-known Derry Girls series on TV.
Isobel wrote to me recently and told me that during those post school years they travelled on holiday many times – to Portrush, Isle of Man and Morecambe.
We don’t know for sure why and exactly how it came about that Mum moved to England, but the world was changing rapidly and I suspect she’d seen and heard much of what might be on offer in London.
So, in 1957 as Mum was turning 24, she and her younger sister Maureen – who was 17 – packed their bags and moved to Peckham in London.
When I found this photo last week I remembered Mum told me they went to cookery school.
She got a job at an underwriter’s office. Life in London during the late 1950’s was great fun – they went to many dances, theatre shows and concerts at the Albert Hall.
On Halloween evening in 1959 Mum and Dad met at a dance hall in Kensington. During their short courtship they entered competitions and won medals with their dancing prowess.
I say short because they married within 18 months, and they moved to Mitcham where Mum continued as a bookkeeper.
It wasn’t long before Dad’s job in the War Office took them on a posting to Oslo in Norway in 1963. Andrew and I were both born there.
Mum must have been one of those natural linguists because she became fluent in Norwegian despite only living there for 3 years. She could also rattle out some Gaelic when asked. More than a decade later when we were on holiday in France one summer, she went with me to buy some milk – the shopkeeper spoke in French of course and Mum didn’t understand him but instinctively replied in Norwegian. “Oh sorry, wrong language” she added with a smirk.
Her other party trick, by the way, was reciting the alphabet backwards. As quick as you or I could say it in the right order. Even after moving into the care home when the dementia was very advanced, she surprised the carers.
I suspect Mum’s earlier drive to do better for herself soon became focussed on Dad who – we could say he was `encouraged’ by Mum – studied for professional qualifications at night school. When they moved back home to Mitcham Dad left the army and started his career as a result.
They moved to Beckenham in 1969 and they joined this church 54 years ago – Andrew & I went to Cub Scouts in the hall behind me. They bought a new house in Mayfair Close (just off the Avenue) and in the mid 1970’s moved again to Holmdene Close.
Mum returned to bookkeeping and then secretarial work – job sharing with her friend Shirley Bloomer as she balanced bringing up her sons with making her own financial contribution to the family. They made a huge sacrifice when they decided we needed to go to private school and holidays were definitely on the modest side – many long weekends and summer breaks were spent in our fixed mobile caravan in Heathfield in the early 1970’s.
I say “we” needed to go to private school but it was actually me. It was clear to Mum and Dad that it would be a disaster if I went to Kelsey Park – in those days it was not known as a good school. Those of us with children know you put them first – but there is something about being on the receiving end of this and then decades later realising just how profound a sacrifice it was.
Mum also set her sights on improving Dad. Specifically, Dad’s waistline. She wanted “David 2.0”. To be fair – although he had been a borderline athlete in his youth having been a county champion table tennis player; 20 years of fish and chips, a penchant for Mars bars along with treating bridge as a sport was taking its toll. Mum decided the family would go running each week and off we would go under cover of darkness running up the Avenue and completing about a mile or so together. Every week they would do their exercises in the lounge. Every Saturday in retirement they did their lengths at West Wickham swimming pool. When Mum wanted something she tended not to let go.
Mum’s career definitely took off though. By the time she retired she was executive assistant to the senior partner at a one of the big four accounting firms in London.
Mum’s retirement came first but Dad wasn’t having any of that and they both retired in 1995. Mum helped more and more at the church and they played more and more bridge.
You’d wonder how it would be possible to play ‘more’ bridge – they were obsessed with it. I think it’s fair to say Dad was the stronger player but bridge was central to both of their lives after they moved to Beckenham. Most of their friends came from the bridge community and we’ve had lot of lovely messages about Mum and their memories of her there.
One day having been shopping in Beckenham High Street she spotted their blue Audi at traffic lights and rushed over to get in. When she looked over at Dad, the guy driving looked at her and wondered who on earth she was.
Mum continued to be a truly devoted mother never hesitating to help us with our young families. I never really knew or even remembered my grandmother (Mum’s mum) but you can be sure our kids will remember theirs.
During the first 15 years or so of retirement Mum had a fantastic time. Lots of cruises and long-haul trips around the world. Bridge often featured and they used to win local bridge events as a way of saving on shopping and not having to buy wine.
As she got older though she became frailer falling over on the way to the train station and breaking both wrists.
And now we move to the sadder phase of Mum’s life.
Sometime early in the 2010’s I started to notice that Mum was repeating the same questions. You put off these thoughts in the beginning, but Andrew was noticing it too. Then our wives. And the grandchildren. So, I spoke to the Dementia Helpline and they advised how to approach the situation. Late in 2012 Mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She seemed to accept this, but it wasn’t long before she was denying it completely, clearly very embarrassed (and ashamed) and it became a taboo subject.
This continued for a few years – the symptoms were mildly irritating for us but essentially manageable. From our perspective it was more repeated questions and her not knowing much of what was going on in our lives (what our jobs were, what were the kids doing etc). Later though, things became harder as her personality changed and Dad bore the brunt of this.
She was still playing bridge though – but just much worse at it. Eventually she was terrible at it. But some of the members at the bridge club still put their hands up and said they’d play with her. Can you imagine that – basically giving up an evening, pretending you were playing bridge with someone who thought they could play.
Amazingly (foolishly you could say) they continued going on cruises during this progression. On one trip Dad broke his arm falling over in stormy weather and we got a message from the company saying Dad was going to the hospital in the Azores but not to worry as they would find Mum a hotel! This was a lady who had climbed out of the window at Kenwood Drive.
When Dad collapsed in the 2020 Mum had to move into a care home. Unfortunately, this coincided with Covid so during our visits we had to wear masks and so did the carers – for well over a year.
Some of you have commented that since Dad passed away it must have been awful for Mum being all alone, but I want to reassure you all that it wasn’t. For most of the time we’re pretty sure she recognised us and appeared keenly interested in our family updates. This picture was taken just after her 90th birthday. The care home did a terrific job and we always thought she was very peaceful and content. There was a marked improvement for example after the care home manager suggested she move off the dementia floor to the residential one. This was only possible because she was no longer mobile, and so couldn’t wander off and cause trouble – the net benefit was hanging out with residents who were far more active and vocal – and we know that mental stimulation is key for slow down the progression of dementia.
So, in summary, Mum was born and raised on a farm for the first 15 years where graft was the way of life. Before her illness took hold, I can’t remember her ever sitting down when there was work to be done.
She spent 10 years finding out there was a probably a better world out there; took a gamble and moved to London.
After meeting Dad, she spent the next 30 years making everything better for her family.
And after Mum retired, she really focussed on enjoying herself but was always thinking about Andrew & I and our families; and how she could help us in any way.
The strange/worst thing about today is I feel I’m talking about someone I lost 5 years ago. And that’s the harsh truth of it.
But the best thing about the last month is that I’m already forgetting about my memories of her with dementia and remembering the good times. Hopefully everyone here can too.
Margaret Blacknell (née Quigley)
b. 25 February 1933, d. 14 December 2023, aged 90
