The days are long. Everything is done happily, properly, with talking for hours and hours about the past and its people. This is interlaced with breakfast, washing up, then a cup of tea – Earl Grey or PG.
Take a walk, take in the warm air, the clouds seem whiter, the sky feels bluer. Listen. Maybe catching a woodpecker, a Skylark, if we’re lucky, as we smell the pure fields of Easter. We return for a simple lunch, brought to the table, covered in a white cloth, on a trolley with gold edges and legs.
She sits in her favourite chair, flowery, and soft, in the afternoon, in the conservatory, a cigarette burning to the end, as she talks, just talks. We listen, just listen.
Out of all the Favourites, she is our Favourite. She speaks elegantly only pausing at times to cough into a cotton handkerchief. Her mind for detail is exquisite, every word like a drip of silver. She picks up the telephone and requests, “a table for three, please. Yes, that’s correct. For Mrs Jenkins”.
We let the afternoon slide into the evening.
The evening is long, and everything is done properly.