Easter Monday

Can there be any better way to spend a day?

Beginning of spring.

Bathed in sunshine.

Most important day in the Christian year.

With everyone you love the most.

Everyone.

Well, nearly everyone. I started the day at my mother’s grave, putting flowers from our garden upright in the deep moss.

(I thought to photograph them for you but the moment was too precious. Too holy. And now the Garden of Rest will be locked against the tramps. People like Bink. Ill and homeless.)

My father and I, hand in hand, tear on tear, remembering what we remember every day.

How much we miss her.

I was a bit naughty. A bit devious.

My father has been so miserable, for the last few days. My mother managed him: I’ve never known how.

In my Easter card to him, I thanked him for living with us. And thanked him for helping enable Bink to come home.

I wrote, in my card, that I had told Bink her coming home was the only thing I could imagine which might cheer him enough to spend the day downstairs with us.

And she did.

So he did.

He couldn’t not, really, after that, could he?

First time Bink home since Christmas. Her hair whacky now, a few inches long and the tips mad-blonde.

I said I loved it.

She said she hates it.

I reminded her that any time she wants to go to my favourite hairdresser, I will pay. (My dear friend Garry has gained at least one client, via this blog…)

But I won’t get done to it what you want, she said.

Bink, I want you to love your hair and feel good about yourself. Get done what you want.

You would never, never, ever have guessed that this fun and funky person wasn’t well.

All day playing with her nephew, cuddling him and laughing with him, naked water baby on Bink’s lap all afternoon.

By evening, Baby could say, Bin!

What can we do to help you, Bink? Have a life. Make friends. Be happy.

Do exactly what you are doing. Don’t make demands. Just be there for me.

But I want to help...

Well, I could invent some silly jobs which won’t do any harm, to make you think you’re helping.

No, I don’t want to help in that way. I just want you well: I don’t care who helps you get there.

As I say, you’d never have known.

Until about seven o’clock. Ben had picked her up from Cambridge in the morning, and I, in my delight, had forgotten to work out how we would get her back. We’d been drinking Pimm’s in the afternoon.

Would the X5 bus be too difficult for you, Bink?

That’s when you would have known.

Tears. Panic.

Wash it again, Serena, again, round the rim of the plate, please can you wash it again? Again!

Bink, what’s the matter? Is it because I asked about the bus?

I don’t know. I don’t know. How pathetic do you have to be, not to be able to take a bus? I just don’t know. I’m sorry.

It’s all right. Shaun will drive you: he hasn’t been drinking. It’s my fault for not planning it properly.

Is it?

Yes. It is. It’s normal to panic when something hasn’t be planned properly.

Yes, it is, Serena agreed.

Later.

Wanting to be well is all, Bink.

How can you say that? It makes me feel terrible. As if I haven’t wanted it enough, over the years.

Sorry: I didn’t mean that. I meant wanting it is the first and most important step by far. The rest follows.

Does it?

Will it?

We thank God for one good day. And pray on.