![]() Mother is nearly forty, and Father older than that.īut I have digressed. ![]() Last week I caught them kissing in the garden. He seems to me a most unlikely match for my mother, who is vivacious and outgoing and never at a loss for words but when they are together, it is obvious that they love each other very much. He is a botanist and could happily toddle about in his greenhouse all day. Unless, of course, you happen to be a plant, then he notices everything. My father, for example, is remarkably unobservant. He won’t be, of course he wouldn’t even notice her misery. One can only hope that when he marries (which surely will not come soon enough for the sisters Brougham) that he will choose a bride with a similar lack of thoughtfulness and sensibility. Or perhaps more accurately, he does not think deeply about anything. I suppose I probably do he does not often think deeply about such things. I once asked Oliver if he had the same memories, and he just shrugged and said he didn’t really think about her. ![]() Instead, I have vague feelings, and not even happy ones at that. Shouldn’t a memory be specific? I would not mind a memory of a moment, or of a face, or a sound. ![]() ![]() I remember always feeling rather nervous, as if I knew something bad were about to happen. And I remember tiptoeing a great deal, because we knew we mustn’t make noise. Instead, I remember standing outside her door, feeling very small and frightened. ![]()
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