Chapter 10 Chapter 2 Mother's Last Days

The next day, I returned to Clayton. Because this place has left me with too many painful memories... bleak childhood, hard-working youth, resentful adolescence.For the first time in my life, it seemed, I saw the morning there.No chimneys, no smoke, no factory fires.People are busy with other jobs.The bright sun shone in the fresh air, and filled the narrow streets with a very cheerful atmosphere. I walked through the laughing crowd.They had just walked home from the free communal breakfast at City Hall when I bumped into Parod in the midst of them. "You're right about the comet," I yelled as soon as I saw him> So he came to me and I hugged him.

"What are people doing here?" I said. "They're giving us food," he said, "and we're dividing it evenly between the slums and then passing it on to the tent families in the wilderness." Then he told me a lot of things he was planning.The land committees in the central region have started to work quickly, and the work of redistribution according to population has been written into the outline.He was teaching at a makeshift engineering college.Once the work plan is drawn up, everyone will be given technical training to be able to participate in the massive rebuilding work that is beginning.

He walked with me to my door.There I met old Pattygrew coming down the steps.He looked dark and aged.However, his eyes were brighter than ever.He was holding a workman's tool basket, which looked very awkward and awkward. "How is your rheumatism, Mr. Pattigrew?" I asked. Old Pattygrew said, "The daily ration works miracles..." He looked me in the eye and added, "I think these houses will come down. And, logically, our ideas of property will also Big change. Now though, I'm still patching up the leaking roof on my house. Come to think of it, I should have run away."

He raised his hand reproachfully, his slack mouth drooped, and he shook his head. "The past is the past. Mr. Pattigrew." "Look at your poor mother! What a kind and strong woman! So simple, so kind, so generous! Just think about it, young man!" He said boldly, "I am ashamed." "The whole world changed that morning. Mr. Pattigrew," I said. "How wonderful the world has become! Now, it's over. God knows, no one will be ashamed of what happened before last Tuesday." I held out a conciliatory hand, naively forgetting that it was here that I had been a thief.

He shook my hand and walked on, shaking his head and repeating that he was ashamed.However, I feel at ease. The door opened.My poor old mother's face was very clean and infectious. "Ah! Willie. Boy! Is that you, is that you?" I ran up the steps to help her up.I am worried that she will fall. In the aisle, my mother hugged me tightly.my dear mother! However, she closed the front door first.Her old incomprehensible habit of paying attention to me remained the same. "Oh my baby. Oh my baby," she said, "you've tasted the pain." And she put her face on my shoulder lest I see the tears welling up in her eyes not happy.

She choked up a bit, then calmed down for a moment, pressing her big overworked hands against her chest... She thanked me for my timely telegram.So I put my arm around her and led her into the living room. "I'm all right, mother, dear," I said. "The dark hour is over and it will never happen again. Mother." Hearing this, she broke down and burst into tears.No one blames her. She didn't let me know that she might suffer another five years. Oh, my dear mother!For her there was still a difficult short time in this world, and I cannot tell how short it was.But at least I could do something to make up for the suffering my rage and rebellion caused my mother.Perhaps it was not a trivial matter for her to do so.I really did.I try to be with her a lot because I feel like she needs me so much right now.In this way, we not only exchange ideas and share happiness, but she also likes to see me sitting at the table, watching me work, watching me walk back and forth.For a tired, weary old lady like her, there would be no more toil, only some light and pleasant service work to do.I think she is happy even at the last moment.

She also had a collection of eccentric religious books from the eighteenth century, which she never discarded.She has carried this special talisman for a long time.It has become part of her life.Still, the consequences of the sea change are clear. One day I said to her, "Mom, do you still believe in hellfire? You and your soft heart!" She swore she believed it.There was something sacred about theology that she could never doubt.But, there's... She carefully held the row of primroses in front of her for a moment, and then carefully placed her trembling hand on my arm. "You know, Willie, darling," she said to me, as if trying to clear my misunderstanding, "I don't think anyone should be suspicious like that, it never occurred to me..."

That conversation left a deep impression on me.This is because the mother believed in theology.But, that was just one conversation out of many. After the day, after work, but before the evening studies, the afternoon is usually pleasant.In the past, a young man who studied engineering and did his homework in sociology sounded so unbelievable!Now it is taken for granted.Go into Rochester's garden in the afternoon, smoke a cigarette, and let her talk about whatever interests her... The upheaval did not bring about any appreciable improvement in her health, for she had lived too long in the dark basement kitchen in Clayton to be rejuvenated.Her cheering was like a breath of wind through a dying flame in the ashes, and made a spark suddenly flicker that no doubt hastened the end of her life.But our days of being close to each other are very peaceful and especially fulfilling.For her, life is like a stormy day. When the sky is clear, you can see the sunset, but the daylight has disappeared.After the arrival of a comfortable new life, she developed no new habits and gained nothing.

She lived with many old ladies in the upper rooms of the great Rochester house.These houses belong to our commune.The apartments are simple and bright, all carefully designed and built in the Georgian style.The homes are designed with maximum comfort and convenience in mind.We have already occupied all kinds of "big houses" to make public canteens and kitchens large and convenient, as well as entertainment places for the elderly over 60 years old when they rest.Not only did we use Sir Ridcar's house, but we also used the house in Zexchel.There, old Mrs. Ferrer became a respectable shrewd and able mistress.In fact, we occupy most of the fine houses in the vast and beautiful countryside between the Falls area and the Welsh mountains.These "big houses" usually have garages, barns, laundry rooms, living quarters for married servants, stables, dairy farms, etc.The perimeter of the building is surrounded by trees.We turned these buildings into a common home.We first added a batch of tents and wooden huts, and then added square-roof dwellings.I have two cottages in the new complex in order to be closer to my mother.This caused the building to be the first real estate owned by the commune.From here, it is very convenient to take the high-speed electric train.I could ride to my daily meetings, to my secretarial and statistical office in Clayton.

Our commune was one of the first well-ordered communes.We are sponsored by Sir Ridka.He had a beautiful affection for the picturesque surroundings of his ancestral family business.From our side we made a detour to preserve the garden through beeches, ferns and bluebells.Preserving the good vistas was one of his pieces of advice.We have many reasons to be proud of our environment.Communes sprung up like mushrooms around the industrial estates in the narrow valley of the town of Fore.Almost every other commune sent people to study with us.All our buildings are better adapted to our social needs.These gardens were designed more than fifty years ago according to Sir Ridka III's plan.The rhododendrons in the garden are very vigorous, and they are decorated in the garden one by one.Under the bright sunshine, the big magnolias are full of flowers and colorful.Those thin reeds are not seen in other gardens at all.Behind the tree shadows is a vast space composed of swamps and green grass.Everywhere there were rows of roses, bulbs, primroses, primroses, daffodils, and more.My mother loved the back few rows.There are countless flowers in the garden, and the yellow, red, brown, and purple corollas are like round eyes of concentration.

In the spring of this year, my mother and I came to this ocean of flowers day after day together.Of many pleasant impressions, I think, this probably made her the best and strongest.In the past, she didn't know that there was anything so refreshing in this world. We sit and meditate or chat.Whether talking or enjoying meditation, we fully understand each other. "Heaven," she said to me one day, "heaven is a garden." Her words made me want to play a joke on her.So I said, "You know, there's all kinds of jewels, jeweled walls and porches, singing everywhere." "Those things," said my mother confidently, thinking for a moment, "of course, those things are for us all. For me, that's not what I'm thinking of Paradise. Unless Paradise is a garden, my dear." . . . a beautiful sunny garden. . . . I feel that these things we love are not far away, near us." Sometimes, in moments of deep thought, my mother wondered if the last phase of her life had been a dream. "A dream," I often say, "is indeed a dream. But this dream is better than the bad dreams of the past, because it is closer to awakening." She felt very proud and confident about changing my clothes.She said she liked the new style of clothes.I've actually grown two inches taller and a few inches wider around my bust.I was wearing a hazel dress, and she fondled my sleeves, complimenting me lavishly.She has a very delicate feeling unique to women. Sometimes, she would be lost in reminiscence, rubbing her poor rough hands... hands that would never be the same again. She told me a lot about my father and about her own early years.I've never heard of these things before.I learned that my mother, too, had been besieged by the passions of love, and it made me feel as though I had found some squashed, dried-up flowers in an old book, still smelling faintly sweet.Sometimes she even spoke tentatively about Nettie in a biased way.But she will swallow the resentment in her stomach. "She doesn't deserve your love, darling," she'd say out of the blue, and leave me to guess who she was alluding to. "There is no man worthy of a woman's love," I replied, "and no woman worthy of a man's love. I love her, mother. You can't convince me of that." "Is there no one else?" Still asking. "Anyone else wasn't for me," I said. "No, I didn't fire the gun. I ignited my magazine. I can't start over, Mom, I can't start over." So she sighed and remained silent. Another time, she said... I remember when she said, "Honey, you're going to be alone when I'm dead." I said, "You shouldn't be thinking about death." "Hey, honey! But men and women should come together." I didn't say anything about it. "Honey, you're wasting too much time with Nettie. If only I could see you marry a lovely girl with a kind heart and a good heart..." "Mother, I don't want to get married Maybe one day... who knows? I can wait." "However, you rarely interact with women!" "I have my friends, don't you worry, mother. Although the fire of love does not burn in me, there are many jobs in the world for a man. Nettie is the embodiment of my life, destiny and beauty. The present and the future. Don't think I've lost too much, Mom." (Because, in the back of my mind, I told myself that things would work out.) Once, she surprised me by asking a question out of the blue. "Where are they now?" she asked. "Who?" "Nettie and him." She has gradually touched the depths of my thoughts. "I don't know." I said briefly. Her shrunken hand happened to touch me tremblingly. "It's better this way!" she said, as if insisting on something. "Indeed...it's better this way." Her trembling voice brought me back to those unforgettable days, and brought me back to the days full of struggle. ... her voice was There was a strong rebellion in my heart. "That's what I suspect," I said.Suddenly, I decided I shouldn't be talking to her about Nettie anymore.So, I walked away. After a while, I walked back and She talks about other things.I held a bouquet of daffodils for her.However, I don't always spend afternoons with her.When my deepest thoughts about Nettie came back, I would go for a walk or ride a bike by myself.Later, learning to ride a horse gave me a new interest and eased my longing.When I find myself in a state of great depression, vigorous exercise is good for me, and when I get tired of riding a horse, I learn to fly an airplane.I can fly a plane over Haus Maiden. …But, at least every other day I spend with my mother.I think I gave my mother two-thirds of the afternoon. When the new period began, when many, many elderly people died peacefully from sickness and infirmity, Anna was my mother's daughter, according to our new fashion. She offered to take care of my mother.We had known her a little from casual encounters and from her care of my mother in the garden.She is a very nice girl.Haven't forgotten to have such a nice girl in the world when the world sucks. In that dark hour, she was an antiseptic in a society of intrigue, hatred and mistrust.With silent persistence, she firmly engages in ordinary work that does not need to be reported, and helps others like a daughter, a nurse, and a loyal servant. She is three years older than me.When I first met her, I thought she looked ordinary.She was a short, red-faced, well-built woman with reddish hair and thick golden eyebrows, and brown eyes.But I found her voice moving with joy.Her speckled hands are always ready to help others. At first, she was a kind-hearted person wrapped in a blue dress and a white apron.She wandered in the shadows behind the bed where my mother lay and died.She will take the initiative to estimate some of the mother's small requirements to make others feel comfortable, and the mother always smiles for this.From time to time, I would find a beauty in her manner.I discovered in her the virtues of tireless kindness, tender compassion, a voice of great richness, and thoughtful brevity. I vividly remember once, as she walked past after making the bedspread, my mother patted her strong, yellow-spotted hands with her extremely thin hands. "She's a good girl to me," said the mother one day, "a good girl, like a daughter. . . . I never had a daughter . Then said: "Your little sister is dead." I never heard that I ever had a sister. "November 10th," said the mother, "twenty-nine months and three days. . . . I cried, cried! This was before you were born. So much time has passed, and that scene seems to be in front of me. Then I was young when I was young, and your father was very kind. But I could see her hands, her poor little hands. . . . darling, they said, now . . . The child died." "No. Mom," I said, "we'll handle it better now." "The doctor at the club didn't come. Your father was there twice. There was a man there, but he had to pay. So your father went into the house in Swissing. He didn't come unless he could get the money. You My father changed his clothes so he could be respected but he had no money, not even a ride home, and it was cruel to me waiting in pain with my baby.  … I'm now thinking maybe we could have let her live . . . In the old days, that miserable time, the poor always seemed to be like this...always. When the doctor finally came, he was angry. He said, 'Why didn't you call me sooner?' But he didn't feel guilty. He was angry Because no one answered him. I pleaded with him but it was too late." She said these things with lowered eyelids, like someone describing a nightmare. "We'll handle things like this better now," I said. I sensed a vague resentment in the fading tone of her voice. "She said," my mother went on, "that she spoke wonderfully of her age. ...is a horse. " "what?" "Horse, darling, one day I'll always remember, it was when her father pulled out her picture. And the prayers for her, singing 'I lay down...to sleep.' ... I made her little socks, all knitted.The heel is very difficult to knit. " She closed her eyes and stopped talking to me, just talking to herself.She said something else in fits and starts... deathly silence... Finally, her voice died away.At that time, she fell asleep. I got up and walked out of the house.But my mind was strangely clouded with thoughts of that little life.She should have been happy and hopeful, but she died unacceptably and returned to the world of nothingness.She's the sister I've never heard of before... I can't help but be emotionally charged by the overwhelming grief of the past.I went into the garden, but the garden was too small for me, so I wandered into the moors.I shouted, "The past is the past." Spanning a period of 25 years, I kept hearing my poor mother weeping in agony for her tortured and dying daughter. In fact, the rebellious spirit of my past has not disappeared because of the changing times. ... I finally sat down quietly and thought: Although we haven't figured out the whole truth of the matter, we can prove that we have strength, courage, and love now. No matter what happened in the past, there is nothing The incident repeats itself.We can foresee and prevent such things from happening. "The past is the past," I said, sighing and making up my mind.