The Chairlift Operator’s Failure to Check, Meant Her Life Was Forever Changed

Yet she never apportioned blame, typical of the kind human she was

When my mother mooted the idea that she and Dad should migrate to Australia, I was less-than-positive.

I felt she was too old to leave a country she had grown up in, leave her family and friends, even to leave behind the hellish weather that put her on edge each and every winter.

Yes, at 52, she was too old.

She was fifty-two, a qualified dressmaker, soft-furnisher, a knitter, embroiderer, tatter, crochet (er) a, turn-her-hand-to-all-things-when-the-situation-demanded (er), a maker of kitchen cupboards when she couldn’t afford a new kitchen, but in all things, she was deemed too old…by me!

But she and Dad came anyway.

My protestations fell on deaf ears, and they arrived in Adelaide, found jobs in no time at all, and bought and paid for their very first home, in only five years!

The thing is, apart from having done a pilgrimage to Rome, my mother had not left her home turf.

The word Antipodes meant nothing to her until she had made the move and was knee-deep in it.

And she reasoned.

She reasoned that if it was that easy to get to Australia, with a drop off in California to see her sister that she had planned and then forgot to tell us about, she could do anything, go anywhere, drink everything in, and be a part of anything anyone else could do.

The world was her veritable oyster.

And she was invincible.

She worked for a number of years in the haberdashery department of a large store. There she made curtains, bedspreads, cushions to match (long before any of these became fast-fashion, cheap-as-chips commodities).

Every two years she and Dad returned to Scotland to visit family, stopping off in different parts of Europe en route.

Mum did the research, and Dad simply fitted in, loving it of course, but allowing her custody over where they went and how they’d do it.

Can you imagine?

The more she travelled, the more she was inclined to. Somehow, between the two of them, they lived well, had a wonderful social life, but saved enough to holiday overseas…and still pay that mortgage off in five years.

Theirs was just a modest little home, but Dad, a great gardener, made it look so much prettier. People used to take photos of it.

Still, it was an amazing feat by anyone’s standards!

The hiatus in her best-laid plans

Somebody left an object in the wrong place in the workshop where she was employed. She tripped over it and broke her leg…yes a leg affected by polio.

She had a cast put on, and another, and another, by which time she had sunk into despair, believing her leg would never heal again.

But the third time it did in fact get better, and life went purposefully on. She returned to work, having got no compensation for either her injury or loss of pay, because…wait for it…hers was a pre-existing injury!

Of course it was. There is no disputing that.

NOBODY factored in the the cause, which was another person’s pure and utter carelessness.

Of course had we, her children, been a little older and better-informed, bet your bottom dollar we would have at the very least, consulted another lawyer.

We were less-than-savvy in those days.

So back to work she went for this motley group, because she had plans.

Soon she and Dad had booked yet another holiday in New Zealand.

They were so excited. And so they went. She finished work on the Friday, and they flew out on the Saturday morning.

One week later my sister called to say Mum had lost a finger. It was called a de-gloving accident where the finger is so badly damaged that repair is not possible.

Here’s what happened

They had taken a funicular up one of New Zealand’s mountains. My mother was last to step off the lift, something she routinely did so she didn’t hold people up, but the operator failed to check that everyone had safely exited, and took off down the mountain, my poor mother attached by her wedding ring.

The people standing around stood aghast at the drama unfolding.

It’s hard to say who was most traumatized. Every spectator was, naturally, but Dad never quite got over it.

Though he had always been there for her, she was fiercely independent and had her own way of doing things. Had he paused, just a second to grab her, that outcome may have played out very differently.

But here’s the rub

In New Zealand at the time, I can’t speak for now, if you were a tourist and had an accident, you were covered by the country’s insurance.

All well and good, except each body part was given a value. One finger is not worth so much, something that the experts had not truly thought through, because in her case, her finger was of value. That finger was crucial to her staying in her job, sewing, lifting heavy bales of material, and keeping up.

Normally she would have turned for help to her personal insurer, but for the first time ever, she had not got around to insurance their travel.

And that meant her working days were well and truly over!

Still I never once heard her complain, or lay blame at the feet of the operator. As far as she was concerned, it was an accident.

Life went on, with plans altered, and she rarely made mention of her loss.

That was my mum. Stalwart to the end.

She had done so much more than most of her friends back home.

She had visited so many countries, something she was proud of, so complaining was not on the agenda.

Now, ready or not, it was time to retire.

Did I mention she played bowls? Had she not ventured to the Antipodes she would never ever have considered playing a sport, but that was one she could do, so lost finger and all, she continued to play.

What a champion!

She was much admired in our little village in Scotland, and when a Mass was said on her behalf, some twenty years after her leaving, the whole village turned up for the hero that she was.

Yes, she was my mother, and I happily admit to being biased. But biased too were the many friends she made, both here and in her country of birth.

Below is yet another story that highlights the amazing woman my mother was.

What comes first, the chicken or the egg…the person, or the individual touched by polio? Can we ever know?

I never fail to be impressed by the oft-allegorical writings of James Bellerjeau, this one in particular. I hope readers love it as much as I did.