Afternoon.
Anyway, you know what it’s like. As soon as the family gets home, I’ve got not time even for the natural bodily processes, or almost! Des always arrives first (he comes on the overnight coach), clutching a potted plant - sometimes I think he must be shy, hiding behind the biggest bloom he can buy. I soon packed him up to his old room to get ready for dinner while, with nose duly pegged, I drop a whole term of his dirty washing into the twin tub. I don’t resent doing it really - I know how hard students have to study.
Evening.
Harry and Peter are late. Christina’s come, of course, bringing me a bumper box of Black magic. I can’t tell her, can I, that I’ve been off chocolates these last two years, because I suspected a link-up between them and migraines. You can understand, can’t you, Maude, you of all people, embodying such allergies, vulnerabilities, sensitivities and weak constitutions with which God saw fit to curse us all in the autumn of our days. Sorry, I’m getting so wordy, but these letters of mine to you are almost like serial confessions! Must break off now, as I can hear the sound of Harry’s jalopy coming up the drive. I expect Peter’s with him.
Morning.
Des’s potted plant looks so pretty in the middle of the dining-table, I’ve cooked a hearty breakfast - I know how Harry likes mounds of fried bread when he’s here at home. Des will be a bit annoyed when he discovers I’ve no mushrooms. Went clean out of my head yesterday. Christina still avoids cooked stuff for breakfast, but there’s plenty of fruit juice and cereal for her. It’s a pity, though, her feeling a bit off colour this morning. I’m a bit worried that Peter’s a day late because of some trouble he’s in. Harry says he wasn’t waiting outside Clapham South tube at the appointed time to be picked up in the jalopy. I must say Harry could have waited around a bit - something about the parking being bad round there. Des came down late for breakfast, of course. If you’d had a son of your own, Maude, you’d understand. Despite the lack of mushrooms, he managed a bit of something.
Afternoon.
Christina’s in the garden, sun-bathing. I told her she’ll only catch a chill. I must say, though, I simply love her wide-brimmed hat. Her Godfrey bought it for her in Florence. But Godfrey’s persona non grata these days. Pity, I liked him - ever a good card at whist. He was fond of me, too, always untwirling my apron strings when I’m in the middle of something dangerous in the kitchen. Laugh? I nearly died! Harry and Des (who, I may have told you, never got on together as little boys) have gone off in the jalopy. Peter’s still not arrived! He could have tried to give me a ring. All the boxes must have been vandalised by those lager louts, I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t like using phones.
Evening.
Raining pretty hard now. Christina stayed out in the garden till the very last moment. She hasn’t told me yet how her little florist business is going these days. I expect she’ll get round to it. The jalopy’s not back yet - they said they might be a bit late for dinner. Something about finishing up visiting you, Maude, of all people. They’re probably with you now. I hope they’re not too much of a nuisance. They always called you Auntie, I know, but they shouldn’t have visited you unannounced like that.
Bedtime.
I’m not tired at all. Though it is time I made the Horlicks. Nice of you to ring, Maude, with the news that Harry and Des are staying over with you. I know you said it’s no trouble, but I can’t help thinking that they’re imposing on you. Christina’s here, sat by the television watching something or other called Buzzcocks. They keep pulling faces on it. I hope Christina won’t be left on the shelf. Good Friday often seems the right time to take stock. I wish my Dick was still alive. My bed’s been more lonely the last two years. I know you had a soft spot for him too, being a real gentleman as he surely was. Peter’s not rung. It is strange that I worry more about him than the others, him being adopted.
Morning.
It’s taking me a long time to finish this letter. Peter’s absence is now really beginning to worry me. Christina’s gone off to meet the next train, she says. How she knows he’ll be on it, I don’t know. Perhaps she has some other errand in town while she’s there. *You* rung up again, told me the boys are OK. The potted plant looks a bit worse for wear. I think it was dying on its legs when Des first bought it. He’s got no common sense between his ears. A bit like his father. But there’s no good in trying to change people. It’s a nice blow day - I think I’ll hang out the washing. It’s hard to make plans for meals, when everybody’s out and about doing their own thing. Must go now, phone’s been ringing again. I’m a bit slow on the uptake these days. Oooh, I hope it’s Peter.
Two days later.
Sorry - I’ve been very busy cooking. But I promise I’ll get this letter off in the post today. Christina’s in the garden - it is certainly warm for Easter. But I do wish she wouldn’t go topless - I don’t know what the neighbours must think. Peter rang at last. Apparently not coming. Something cropped up. Youngsters these days have a lot of commitments. I’m glad you kept me informed about the jalopy. Broken down in your drive, you say. They’ll go back to college straight from yours. Well, it’s on the way, any rate. When I next see you, I’ll give you the Black Magic for looking after them. But what about Des’s washing? He’s probably forgotten. He’ll live in those jeansful of holes for the whole of next term. You say I shouldn’t carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wish Dick had never smoked. I think I’ve got a migraine coming on. In my back, this time. I shouldn’t have got so much food in. Christina eats like a bird. Well, Maude, I hope the boys weren’t pests and that your rash is under control again. I’ll write you a proper letter tomorrow when I’m no so racked with pain. All my love, Edna.
