She's never seen, only referred to: Mary Macleod - The Scottish Widow, and Lewis's mother.
As I never describe her, the classic image from the insurance company of the same name might as well do. But it's not her looks I deal with in the book - it's the relationship with her son that is a major theme.
We get a big hint in the prologue as to the strain that exists - the best day of the holiday for Lewis is the one where she's not around and he's left in the care of his father. And the second paragraph of the book makes it very clear what the 8 year old boy thinks of his mum...
'Noise! Noise! Lewis hated the noise: his mother berating; his father placating and only raising his voice if she targeted their son. Lewis loathed the high pitched yelling that made his head spin, and the hysterical ranting that made his stomach squirm. But most of all he detested the bigoted raving that all too frequently flavoured the mania - opinions that sometimes cut him to the bone, for mysterious reasons he was too young to understand. Alone in his bed, with her screams in his head, he wondered why parents had to come in arguing pairs. One was enough as far as Lewis was concerned. It was a view that would backfire and return to haunt him – haunt him into adulthood like a malevolent curse.'
Note the word 'Mania'! I never state it, but in my mind Mary suffers from Bipolar Disorder, which must have been horrendous to a child if not properly controlled by mediation. And that must have made it an even worse nightmare when Lewis's beloved father dies and he is left alone with this manic woman who becomes self absorbed in her own grief. Is it any wonder that he left Scotland shortly after the trauma and never returned during the subsequent ten years. He physically escaped, but she's still there in the background, and even in Australia, only a telephone call away...
The telephone call came an hour later, when Lewis was lounging on the couch watching television.
“I’ll get it!” said Fiona, walking towards the phone. “Oh hello, Mary,” she announced having picked up the receiver, talking loudly enough so Lewis would hear. “Aye, we’ve just finished dinner. You’ll not be long up yourself… How are things? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that... It’ll all calm down in time... Yes, Mary, I know… yes, Mary… Erm, hold on a minute and I’ll see if he’s around.”
Lewis hadn’t moved from the couch, although he had been severely tempted. But he knew he had to face the music at some point and now would be as good as any. He gave a nod of his head and Fiona brought the portable handset over to him.
“Your mum,” she said.
With a grimace the phone was accepted. “Hello, Mum, how are things with you?”
That was all he needed to say, the rest of the conversation was a one-sided affair from there on in – a practiced sermon based on the Catholic Faith Mrs. Macleod fervently embraced and had at one point forced on her son. Lewis had no desire to say anything anyway. He half listened, more to ensure that the occasional “ah ha” or “sure” came at the right moment, rather than through any real interest in what was being said. He had heard it all before - the main thrust of it anyway, the details were irrelevant. After five minutes of her ranting about fire and damnation he had endured enough and interrupted her diatribe.
“Well, thanks for calling, Mum. It’s been a real treat. Are there any more supportive messages you’ve got for me before I hand you back to Fiona? ...No, I didn’t think so. Goodbye then.”
As I never describe her, the classic image from the insurance company of the same name might as well do. But it's not her looks I deal with in the book - it's the relationship with her son that is a major theme.
We get a big hint in the prologue as to the strain that exists - the best day of the holiday for Lewis is the one where she's not around and he's left in the care of his father. And the second paragraph of the book makes it very clear what the 8 year old boy thinks of his mum...
'Noise! Noise! Lewis hated the noise: his mother berating; his father placating and only raising his voice if she targeted their son. Lewis loathed the high pitched yelling that made his head spin, and the hysterical ranting that made his stomach squirm. But most of all he detested the bigoted raving that all too frequently flavoured the mania - opinions that sometimes cut him to the bone, for mysterious reasons he was too young to understand. Alone in his bed, with her screams in his head, he wondered why parents had to come in arguing pairs. One was enough as far as Lewis was concerned. It was a view that would backfire and return to haunt him – haunt him into adulthood like a malevolent curse.'
Note the word 'Mania'! I never state it, but in my mind Mary suffers from Bipolar Disorder, which must have been horrendous to a child if not properly controlled by mediation. And that must have made it an even worse nightmare when Lewis's beloved father dies and he is left alone with this manic woman who becomes self absorbed in her own grief. Is it any wonder that he left Scotland shortly after the trauma and never returned during the subsequent ten years. He physically escaped, but she's still there in the background, and even in Australia, only a telephone call away...
The telephone call came an hour later, when Lewis was lounging on the couch watching television.
“I’ll get it!” said Fiona, walking towards the phone. “Oh hello, Mary,” she announced having picked up the receiver, talking loudly enough so Lewis would hear. “Aye, we’ve just finished dinner. You’ll not be long up yourself… How are things? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that... It’ll all calm down in time... Yes, Mary, I know… yes, Mary… Erm, hold on a minute and I’ll see if he’s around.”
Lewis hadn’t moved from the couch, although he had been severely tempted. But he knew he had to face the music at some point and now would be as good as any. He gave a nod of his head and Fiona brought the portable handset over to him.
“Your mum,” she said.
With a grimace the phone was accepted. “Hello, Mum, how are things with you?”
That was all he needed to say, the rest of the conversation was a one-sided affair from there on in – a practiced sermon based on the Catholic Faith Mrs. Macleod fervently embraced and had at one point forced on her son. Lewis had no desire to say anything anyway. He half listened, more to ensure that the occasional “ah ha” or “sure” came at the right moment, rather than through any real interest in what was being said. He had heard it all before - the main thrust of it anyway, the details were irrelevant. After five minutes of her ranting about fire and damnation he had endured enough and interrupted her diatribe.
“Well, thanks for calling, Mum. It’s been a real treat. Are there any more supportive messages you’ve got for me before I hand you back to Fiona? ...No, I didn’t think so. Goodbye then.”