11th February 2013

At the end of January, I made my usual pilgrimage north to Thurcroft to check on the house. Since Nan no longer wishes to join me on these jaunts, I took along Peter, a Kiwi pal from the Rugby Club. Thankfully, the weather was more forgiving than in recent months, and the mercury stayed above freezing. Small mercies.

After confirming the house was still standing, I called in on Noel, having spotted his car outside his mother’s house. He’d driven from Mold to sort out extra care for her after a recent fall. We then treated ourselves to a very decent lunch at the Cartwheel in Brookhouse, which we felt obliged to walk off with a damp but determined stroll around Roche Abbey. The heavens opened as we arrived, and we sat staring miserably through the windscreen for 15 minutes before mustering the courage to venture out. The rain promptly stopped, clearly satisfied it had tested our resolve.

Our walk was not without incident. We stumbled upon a shooting party in the woods, which didn’t exactly beam with delight at our appearance. No sooner had we passed than the air filled with gunfire and panicked pheasants. One poor bird was only winged, its pitiful cries echoing through the trees. Peter, ever the outdoorsman, wanted to hunt it down. I pointed out that he might just as easily find himself bagged as the day’s catch.

We eventually looped back through the woods, circled the lake, admired the Abbey ruins, and returned to the car. Right on cue, the rain resumed, timing worthy of a stage manager. From there, we pressed on to Rotherham to see Genya, who was in her element, briskly managing people, problems, and paperwork. After an hour of updates on Banjo, David, and Bulgaria, we departed for a nearby pub for supper and a couple of games of pool.

At Nan’s, I had heroically packed the Freeview box and all the necessary cables to enable an evening of telly, only to discover I had left behind the one item that actually mattered: the remote control. Defeated, we trudged down to the Traveller’s Rest, consoled ourselves with beer and pool until midnight, and then trudged back up the lane to bed.

The next morning, I turned over the vegetable patch while Peter attacked the flower bed by the shed. We later picked up Sarah in Sheffield for lunch. She was due to come with me to see Aunt Edna, but was buried under exam preparation, although not so buried that she couldn’t find time for eating. Peter loitered in the car while I visited Edna.

The visit was heartbreaking. She looked frail, thin, and barely present, her eyes glassy, her words unintelligible. Normally, she would proudly announce that I was her nephew and a teacher, but this time she barely registered me. It took half an hour before I thought she recognised me, and her whispered plea for “help” felt more like a wish to be released. The nurses told me her medication had been reduced, leaving only something to calm her. It did not bode well. I sat with her until she was taken upstairs for her nap, unsure whether she knew I had even been there.

Three days later came the call; Edna had passed away. My feelings were mixed. I would rather not remember her as I last saw her, so diminished. She was ready to leave, and if there is mercy in such things, it was that she no longer had to linger. Whatever one believes of life after death, this life had nothing left for her.

(Photo: Aunt Edna holding me as a baby.)

Back in Harborough, life continued. Sue and I went to see The Anastasia Files at the theatre, an unexpectedly excellent evening, even after the lead actress inconveniently broke her leg the day before opening night. The stand-in carried the show, and for a time, I found myself willing to believe that Anastasia had escaped the massacre. Sue, of course, gleefully spoiled the fantasy by reminding me that her remains had recently been found in a forest with the rest of the family.

Curry Night was shaken up with a Chinese twist: chicken chilli noodles, sweet chilli stir-fry, and Charlotte’s homemade prawn crackers. Nan declared it “immensely enjoyable,” which, from her usual culinary critique of “it’s okay,” counts as a Michelin star.

The snow has returned, and with it the cold. Unsurprisingly, Sue and I have decided that enough is enough. At the end of February, we’ll be off to Rio de Janeiro, staying in Copacabana before sailing up the Brazilian coast and back across the Atlantic, via Tenerife, Madeira, Casablanca, Barcelona, Marseille, and Savona, before flying home from Nice at the end of March.

Looking forward to swapping snowdrifts for sunshine, and Freeview remotes for a deckchair and a caipirinha.