The whole thing started with a call at about 11am. I was loading bike frames on to the conveyor belt. Bend, grab, stretch, hang. Over and over. After a few days, you get into the rhythm. I could have been sitting in a deckchair, daydreaming on the beach.

“There’s a phone call for you.” The foreman was annoyed. You work in a factory, the world goes away until the siren signals end of shift. The foreman would be doing the bend, grab, stretch and hang routine, while I spoke on the phone, like some boss, or office worker.

The call was from my mother. She wanted me to meet her in Birmingham, for lunch. I tried to explain that there was no time. I had to get a bus there, and a bus back. She didn’t seem to understand. “Don’t worry,” she told me, “just meet me at Snow Hill station, I’ll take you to the Wine Lodge. “It’s on me.”

“Oh, yes, I didn’t pay for that.” It was quintessential Olive. Not in the least bothered that we had ordered an expensive meal in a high-class restaurant, and walked out without paying. Not to mention the fact that she had dragged me there wearing my greasy factory overalls.


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When I arrived at Snow Hill station, she was waiting, dressed up in a woolen skirt and a couple of grungy old sweaters. I didn’t look any better in my factory overalls. “Let’s look at some cars,” she said.

No one in our family possessed a driver’s license. No one we knew drove a car. She’d never expressed an interest in cars before this, and I had no idea why, at this particular time, she wanted to look at them. It turned out that she had a notion to look around the brand-new Jaguar dealership, with its gleaming, expensive vehicles. We waltzed into the showroom, or rather; she waltzed in, dragging me in her wake. She interrupted a salesman who was talking to a prosperous-looking businessman, and she sat in some powerful vehicles. I was afraid she was going to start one up, drive it through the plate-glass window, and keep going. She insisted that I sit in one of the sparkling vehicles, in my grimy overalls.

The salesman was mesmerized. He had no idea whether he was dealing with a madwoman or an eccentric millionaire. In the event, he was a perfect product of the British class system. My mother’s rock-hard confidence and casual rudeness convinced him that she was at least minor royalty. He practically groveled when we sailed out of the salesroom.

She looked around vaguely at the new buildings, and the ongoing construction outside. “I like Birmingham,” she said to me. “Let’s go and eat now.” I tried to dissuade her. I wasn’t hungry, I told her, but of course, she wasn’t listening. I remembered the last time she took me out. We ended up in a pub with some neighbors. She had started talking, chatting happily, sipping her drink. When it was finished, she picked up one of the neighbors drinks and finished it off. Then she drank whatever else came into her orbit, except for my beer. She didn’t like beer.

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