For someone who has dementia, Mum has a surprisingly good memory.
She and I are coasting along the high street of an inner Melbourne suburb, where decades ago we scouted for boxes of cheap fruit and vegetables, slabs of feta in brine and whole lamb. Then, the suburb was full of new migrants with fruit trees in their front yards and vegetable patches out the back. As I recall it, the only places to eat out were the local fish and chip shop and a dusty Chinese restaurant.
Nowadays there are so many options for food and drink that one wonders why you would ever eat at home at all. From kimchi to kombucha, from pad thai to pierogi, you can travel the globe by walking the length of the street. But we never eat here because Mum doesn’t believe in spending money on food you can cook yourself for a fraction of the cost. And why pay for a ready-made coffee when you can buy a whole pack for the same price?
We’re here to visit Mum’s hairdresser, tucked in an alley off the main drag, but first she wants to change the battery in her watch.
“I don’t think there’s anywhere to do that here, Mama,” I say, as we slowly drive down the street, trying to avoid jay-walking pedestrians and cars pulling out of the angle parking. The old-school watchmakers and shoe repairers have long been nudged out by the purveyors of organic single origin beans and the ever-expanding list of milks with which to mix them.
The author and her mother. Source: Supplied
She directs me to turn left, and then left again into a residential street. Just when we’ve nearly run out of road, she points to a brown brick veneer house with a concrete yard.
“I think this is it,” She mutters something about the man who lives here and his connection to the horio, the Cypriot village from which a neighbour of hers harks.
“Mum, this is someone’s house. I don’t think they fix watches here.”
But she insists. Despite my embarrassment at walking up to a stranger’s house, I humour her. While her brain often short-circuits these days, I trust her instincts. Up to the porch I go.
There’s an electric buzzer and a name which sounds to me more German than Cypriot. There’s someone moving about inside, but they don’t come to the door. After some minutes, I turn and shrug at Mum in the car. At least we tried.
Mother knows best! Source: Supplied
As I step off the porch, a figure emerges from the side gate, leaning heavily on a walking stick, his belly straining against a stained shirt. I slowly approach him.
“Um, hello. My mum tells me you fix watches,” I say tentatively in Greek. I start to tell him about the connection to our neighbour, but he waves the introductions away, puts out his hand.
“We fix lots of things here.”
I pass over the watch.
“Do you want us to come back later?”
“No, just stay here.”
Gruff. Practical. His coffee is probably cooling on the kitchen table.
He disappears behind an old security door. I watch it slam shut. A few straggly tomato plants in olive oil drums sway in protest.
Mum looks at me from the car, vindicated and pleased. It’s becoming harder and harder for her to remember the smallest things, and yet, here we are. Even at this distance, I can see her eyes twinkling and her chins jiggling. She is laughing. Before long we are both carrying on as if we’ve just seen the funniest comedic act. Mum may be losing her memory, but she managed to find the watchmaker. It was a pleasure for her – for both of us – to experience a sense of control over some things in life.
Several minutes later, the man returns and passes over the watch.
Source: Supplied
“It’s not the battery. It will cost $25 to fix,” he says. “Even then I can’t guarantee it will work. Better to throw it away and get a new one for that price.”
He delivers all this advice curtly. There is no need for niceties. He has helped us by telling the truth. And his coffee is now no doubt cold.
“Do we owe you anything?”
He waves me away and closes the gate behind him.
Back in the car, Mum is disappointed that the watch can’t be fixed – but she found the watchmaker, and no one can take that away from her.
