Chez Renata

Renata is my second mother.  She took the role on one evening three years ago, when Bobby was dying and Lizzie was slipping deeper into Alzeimher's. 

She was born in Germany in the late 1930's, speaks reasonable French, excellent English, still comes to yoga classes with me and is a guest around our table every weekend.  

She's a photographer by trade, has never ridden a bicycle in her life but cruised around West London throughout the 60's in black leather on her Harley.  I don't know how many times she's been married, but one hand is just about enough to count them on. 

Her two storey ground floor apartment is accessed directly from the town square, but you forget it's proximity to the noise and the bustle as soon as she closes the door she never bothers locking.   Inside it is crammed with everything that carries a memory and her tiny courtyard (her second living room) is crowded with flowers, driftwood and candles.  

Today she drove us to Pamiers, to buy more plants, in her massive right hand drive VW at 20km/h below the speed limit.  Drivers behind us honked and flashed and I cringed in the back while she gave them the finger as they angrily overtook and Lizzie sat bemused in the front and wondered where we were.