Wednesday, 3 June 2015
A blast from the past
But it wasn’t. So I took it inside, fought with layers of heavy tape and ripped off sheet after sheet of brown paper. It was like being a child at Christmas. Finally, I unearthed a big, blue box. I opened it hurriedly, ripping the lid off.
Inside, encased in bubble wrap, was one of Pip’s half models of a 28’ working boat made of Cornish holly in 1990. (He used to make models for the Maritime Museum in Greenwich.) And inside that was a card from one of Pip's cousins - he'd given the model to her mother as a present in 1990 and she was returning it to me, as both her parents had now died.
It was, as Paul said, an “Oooh er,” moment. Pride at the exquisite workmanship of the boat, made by big, outdoor hands that looked far too chunky to make anything as delicate as that. And a swoosh of emotions concerned with loss and disbelief that that part of my life was over; had ever happened.
The ending came so quickly it was hard to make sense of, and yet I looked at those pictures of him, and am reminded of the reality of the joy on his face the day we got engaged. A quiet moment of contentment taken when out sailing on his beloved White Heather. Us together, me laughing up at him, with those strong arms around me.
Of course I miss him, particularly his enveloping cuddles. His all encompassing, unswerving love. His irritability at the news in the morning, ("shoot the bastards!") and his devotion to Moll ("she's very bright you know.")
It seems another world. Another life. And yet it’s part of who I am now.