
It's early February now and Celia and Harvey's pots are in Whitstable, in their own garden. And I hear they are growing strongly. The bulbs in my own pot are also sprouting well and will soon be in flower. So are the irises I planted in the lawn underneath our plum tree, just in front of the "Wendy house" (what she called the summer house, naturally). In fact the irises are in flower already, along with the snowdrops in the borders. I bought the irises hoping we could plant them together one day, and of course that she would live to see them flower. But as things turned out, she was too ill to help by the time I came to do the planting. And it was a truly forlorn hope that she would ever see the flowers. Like so many other things I wish she could have seen...
Wendy would have loved to see all her spring flowers coming up and the buds beginning to burst on some trees. From our first spring in this house (2005) she thought there were not enough spring flowers, and had been planting more every year. This year might be the first that would have satisfied her. Now I must content myself with the memories they will bring. But one of the strong memories, and one that gives me strength, is that Wendy herself genuinely was cheerful to the end. Exactly one month before she died, she wrote in her diary "the papers are full of Portuguese police accusing Kate McCann of killing Maddy. How my heart goes out to that poor woman who has appeared with dignity for all the months she has lost her child. And I'm only dying of cancer. It puts that in perspective."
Just a few days earlier, she wrote another diary entry: "Life is just going to go on being beautiful for me until I get sick again. I've had another wonderful day." There just wasn't a scrap of self-pity in her character.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.