Smile, please

Recently my dear friend Minnie, on a visit back to her homeland from her adoptive city of Montreal, gave me a scrapbook that she wanted me to fill with thoughts, stories and photos of Mum. It's a helpful and constructive idea, particularly now as the numbness that swamped me immediately after Mum's death starts to subside and I find missing her utterly unbearable.

So thoughts there are aplenty, and many stories to record, but photos? When we were trying to find a picture of Mum to put on the order of service for her funeral, we realised how few truly nice shots of her we actually possess. In the end, we went for a passport photograph from ten years ago. It was a good choice technically as it was a clear image easily scanned. It also hailed from a time which, when it was taken, we thought would be only the middle of Mum's life, before she was plagued with any of the serious health problems that later struck: the sciatica that left her bed-ridden for weeks, and the menopausal imbalances that resulted in a hysterectomy and, more tragically, the years on hormone replacement therapy that would cause the breast carcinoma that killed her.

But why do we have so few normal, decent pictures, pictures that show her wonderful smile, or the essence of her personality, her wisdom? To be fair, Mum didn't especially like her photo being taken, but that's no wonder when you see some of the results of Dad's photographic "expertise" over the years. We have albums full of pictures of Christmas meals, with Mum bright red in the face from sitting near too many hot candles and downing an even greater quantity of sherries; of mountain landscapes with Mum just a dot at the foot of them, her face hidden under one of her collection of uncomplimentary sunhats; or of Mum's backside as she lumbers inelegantly out of a hotel swimming pool. And then of course that famous shot which prompted Mum to utter, on first viewing of the film fresh from the developers, "What the hell did you take a photo of that fat old bat for?"

We do have some lovely photos of her from our wedding, but by then she already had cancer and had been seriously ill for some weeks prior to the event. She'd lost weight and could no longer wear her trademark glasses, as she was partially blind in one eye from the tumour therein. Nonetheless, she looked so happy and radiant, so delighted that against all the odds she'd managed to get to the Lake District and see us married. And really, as it was prior to chemotherapy starting, it's the last time she looked at least something like herself - soon all her natural hair would be gone, and there was never a chance for it to grow back before she died. The photos from that day are to be treasured as they are the last we have of her. She was seldom outside thereafter, and camera flashes indoors made her left eye flicker, and, in any case, she simply didn't want to remember feeling quite so awful.

The actress Lynne Redgrave recently published a book of photos of her battling her way through breast cancer; to show that there can be beauty, strength and courage in images of great suffering. When Mum died, she weighed five stones less than she had a year ago. She was completely bald, bright yellow with jaundice from top to toe and covered in purple bruises, as her blood could no longer clot properly. But to me, she was still the loveliest, most beautiful woman in the world. She was the woman who had borne me, and the bond of love and gratitude that results from that is utterly unconditional.

Having no photos of her in the true thoes of her illness mean did mean at least that we quickly remembered Mum as she was when she was well. But if we could have her back, I would make the effort to record her presence on our earth with the grace and attention she deserved. I'd take a moment to sit her comfortably in a flattering pose, take off her sunhat and let her cool down, and then I would tell her the funniest story I could think of to light up her face with that wonderful, glorious smile that somehow I still feel shining down on us all.

REBECCA