Years ago I worked on the Phonads section of the Portsmouth daily paper. Part of my job was booking family announcements; births, marriages, deaths and all of that. It was not the easiest of jobs at times because people can be so difficult. It was a personal affront if their advertisement was got no response. Customers would never admit to making a mistake; they would waste time by telephoning to complain that their advert was not in the paper. Very often their mothers would also have scoured the paper and not found the relevant ad.
There was often real distress to deal with; a stillbirth or the untimely and unexpected death of a young and apparently healthy adult. A year later there would be an In Memoriam notice. I used to talk to the customers and tell them that they needed a year to adjust; they must live through all the landmarks of the year before they would fully accept their loved one's death. I believed what I was saying. My daughter died one year and five days ago. I still miss her just as much and I still carry the same guilt that I did not go to her the night before she died. I shall always regret that I did not phone her earlier on the day she died. I have to live with the thought that I might have got to her earlier, phoned an ambulance and she might still be alive. I think of her every day. She has left an enormous gap in my life. There is so much that I regret; I was not the best of mothers. I love my children but did not know how to mother them. I could not give them what I did not get from my own parents. I wanted to explain things to my son but he would have none of it. I doubt that I shall ever see him again. It will be his birthday soon. I wonder if it will hurt that there is no message or present from his parents; I know that it hurts me not to give, but I do not know where he is.
It is a slight benefit that the charity shop where I help out does not sell Mothers' Day cards. There are Easter Eggs and sweets for sale but I can bear that. It was not too busy this morning and I was relieved to find that the man I expected to work with was not there. I do not think that I shall get on too well with him; he is full of his own importance and I am a mickey-taker. My Monday morning co-worker phoned to say she is ill and I shall probably do her Friday morning shift as a man is coming to our flat about window repairs and we shall not be walking. If I find myself working with the ultracrepidarian bletherskite, so be it. I can cope and Fridays are very busy. Why, oh why must people observe a meaningless pecking order in voluntary work? It can be so enjoyable if one's co-workers are congenial. There is no pay or promotion to be gained so there is no point in jockeying for favour.
The tree outside our living room window is white with blossom. On Sunday morning the clocks go forward an hour; we shall lose an hour's sleep but it will not get dark so early. The shops are full of summer clothes. In Vence, where our flat is, the temperature is 15° and there is heavy rain, thunder and lightning. We shall go there soon; the plan is to leave here on Friday April 21st and take the ferry from Dover to Calais or Dunkirk; probably Calais. We shall overnight at Besancon and arrive in Vence on Saturday afternoon. Last year we left on our son's 40th birthday, which was two days after Katy's funeral. It's a good thing, perhaps, that Easter is a moveable feast.
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