The griefs. Or, a little light and shade.

I think quite a lot about ordinary griefs. I know that really one should not put things on a scale and that not everything is relative, but I do think that some losses are worse than others. So I think of griefs as coming in two kinds: the ordinary griefs, and the rip-up-your-life griefs.

The ones that rip up your life are the ones I can’t imagine. I think of those as the violent, sudden, or too soon ones: the children, the young brother, the just-married wife. Or the too many ones: when a whole family is lost, in a car crash or hurricane. Or, right at the other end of the scale, the ones where two people have been together for fifty years, and one of them goes. The other often does not survive for long. People really do die of broken hearts.

The ordinary ones are all the ones I know: the old men, the old dogs, the old pony. They are the ones who have had their time. The loss hurts, but the natural order of things has been preserved. There is, in the end, consolation in that. In that strange season of death three years ago, when I went to three funerals in three weeks, two of the departed were untimely ripped. Two of them were too young, but I was saved by just enough distance. They were people I loved and knew, but they were not in the immediate circle. They were people I fell on with delight and affection when I saw them, but I did not see them very often. The distance was geographical and circumstantial, and it was enough. The heart was sore, the awfulness and stupidness of fine spirits snuffed out too early was keenly felt, but the life was not ripped.

In the news, there is a rip-up death. I never know what to say about people I admire but do not know. Philip Seymour Hoffman was in many of my favourite films, and was a blazing talent. He had that sense of familiarity that great actors carry, because you’ve seen them in the darkened cinema and your front room, and the vivid sense that the great ones carry makes them very real and present. His death was so abrupt and unexpected and pointless that the lives around him must feel as if they have been torn to pieces. Out on the internet, there is a great outpouring of regret. Some of the messages are touching and elegant, but I find myself resisting adding to them. I put up no Facebook picture and tweeted no tweet. He was not my friend. I do not know how to say anything which would not sound mawkish or bandwagon-jumping.

Yet, the internet is rather wonderful in times like this. The loss of a brilliant man may be marked. Strangers may record their admiration for him. Perhaps the ones who did know and love him will find their broken hearts soothed, just a little, to see that he was held in such esteem. All the same, I feel an odd shyness about posting anything about it on my own internet pages. He was not mine; he did not belong to me.

This morning, someone wrote something beautiful and touching about the old gentleman who was mine. This is another of the ordinary griefs. A man of venerable age went gently into that good night. The sorrow is real, and lies heavy, but it may be managed. I know that time will do its thing.

I circle back to the start of this post – the thinking about these ordinary griefs, and how they are folded into a life. They must be folded in, because every human has them, and one of the most important existential talents is to learn how to carry them, so that they do not sink the ship.

This morning, I had a little lesson in that. I came away from reading the lovely tribute very doleful and tearful. The weight of loss pressed on me. But then the dog made me laugh, and the Horse Talker was down at the field and we made jokes about the equines, who show such daily comedy skills, and then I got on my red mare and rode out. I had thought that would be the time when sadness might return, but she was in her most racehorsey mood, and I had to concentrate hard to settle and relax her.

Then, on the way home, I bumped into some of the extended family who are visiting, and we had a happy chat and they admired my glorious girl, which lifted my spirits. Then there was HorseBack work, and many things to think about. Then there was the writing of the secret project. Then, it was time to go back to the field and feed the horses and put out the hay and check the rugs and give the love. And then it was back to the desk. I even did errands and very ordinary domestic duties.

The sorrow got put away, because there was life instead, and I can’t mope about like a wet weekend. I suppose the lesson in this small parable is that life goes on, and that is exactly what it must do. I think what I was reminded of, particularly in the unexpected laughter with the living people I saw today, was that sorrow does not need to blot out everything else. Moments of joy can exist alongside, cantering in tandem. There is room for both.

At the same time, for all my belief in bashing on, I think that one can be too stoical. There must be a marking, and a grieving, and room for regret. The thing must be felt, and expressed, in its correct place and time. Perhaps it is finding that right place that is the secret of it all. I hunt for it as Mr Stanley hunts for the mice in the feed shed, although perhaps with slightly less snuffling.

As I finish this, I think: I did not quite get all the good words in the good order. I wanted to say something profound, and I ended up with a bit of a muddle. I often do this. But then the whole shooting match is a bit of a muddle, so I don’t mind so much. You clever Dear Readers shall find your way through the tangle, because you always do.

 

Much too tired now to frame proper pictures for you. I scrolled through the archive and stopped at a random place. It was this, all glory and what-the-hell, from a time before the floods and the sleet and the applying of the new rug technology. It’s just a horse, having a damn good roll:

A great old gentleman

Quite often, sadly often, I write here: one of the great old gentlemen has gone. Today, it is one of my great old gentlemen.

My very dear godfather has died. He was eighty-nine, and had been in rotten health for years, but he kept buggering on in the most doughty and astonishing fashion. I had come to think he would live forever, as each new diagnosis was somehow survived.

He was one of the tremendous generation that fought in the war. He served with the Welsh Guards, and would sometimes say to me startling things like: ‘Well, after the war I went back and blew up bridges and things. Great fun.’

I had no idea about the blowing up of bridges, and he did not elaborate. I thought it must have been some hush-hush sabotage job, and I wish now I had asked. I wish so many things. I had been meaning and meaning to ring, but kept putting it off. He was so tired and ill and I thought I did not want to bother the poor old gentleman. Now I think: you fool, you should just have picked up that damn telephone. Now it is too late. I remember that regret with my father too, although the last time I had tried to call him he could not speak because he was watching the 3.30 at Kempton. This still makes me laugh.

The dear old godfather was loyal and funny and true. We used to write each other long letters and whenever I was in London he would take me out to lunch and talk in a very loud voice about kings and dukes, to the slight astonishment of the other patrons. He adored kings and dukes, and queens too. He liked dead, historical ones, about whom he wrote, and alive, actual ones, with whom he sometimes dined. He was a glorious, calamitous snob, carrying a very unfashionable delight in lineage. If he asked me to a party he was giving, he would tell me who else was coming, giving them all their full titles. He loved achievement too: this one won that prize for fiction, he would tell me, or that one won the Military Cross. And yet his snobbishness was not a horrid thing. He liked poshness as people like football or art, but he loved those of us who were not duchesses too.

His friendship with my father always astonished me. He had known Dad since my fa was a schoolboy; the godfather taught at the school my father attended. He then met my mother quite separately and was delighted when they married. He came to the house often, and I have an enduring childhood memory of him sitting in the sun, in a deck chair, wearing his immaculate panama hat with its Welsh Guards band. His love for my mother was perfectly explicable – she was elegant and graceful and a perfect hostess and looked like Grace Kelly. But Dad was a roisterer and boisterer, a singer of songs, a crazy rider of chasers, a drinker, a gambler, a teller of bawdy tales. The respectable, academic godfather seemed a most unlikely person to take to such a man. Yet they adored each other. They were good companions for many years – the wild, larger-than-life horseman, and the small, precise historian. I think what it really was was that my father made the godfather laugh and laugh, in a way, perhaps, that the duchesses did not, quite.

He was a very splendid old gentleman, funny himself, in a wry, intellectual way. He was kind and generous and thoughtful. He encouraged me in my writing, even though my early, appalling novels must have made him wince a little. ‘I never knew people drank so much coffee,’ was all he said, of those terrible first books, in which my characters did spend an awful lot of time in espresso bars. He was quietly proud of his own work, but never grew puffed up when his historical biographies were awarded prizes. He loved his Welsh Guards with a passion, but apart from the thing about the bridges, did not speak of his war fighting. I wish I had asked more about that too. What courage he must have had then; I think of it now. I saw it in his later years, as he stoically faced one illness after another. ‘How are you?’ I would say. ‘Oh, you know,’ he would reply. ‘Still here.’

For all my regrets, I am glad that not many months ago, I did write him a letter telling him what a marvellous godfather he had always been, and how much I loved and appreciated him. He did not do shows of emotion; as it was with so many of that mighty generation, understatement was his hallmark. But I wrote anyway, even though he would have thought the words a little excessive, because I wanted him to know.

I wanted to mark the passing of this remarkable man, but as always, I feel that these paltry scratches on the page do not quite capture him, or do him justice. I miss the good old men and wish they were not going. I shall miss this one sorely. I hear his voice in my head as I write. He would laugh, and tell me not to grow melancholy, but to keep buggering on, just as he did. And so I shall, in his honour.

 

I usually do not put up other people’s pictures, being keenly aware of copyright. I hope that, on this occasion, Eric Roberts, who took this lovely and very characteristic photograph, will forgive me.

A good day.

The sun shines like a crazy thing. I go out for the first time this year without a coat. In truly inappropriate, not-giving-a-damn fashion, I pitch up at HorseBack in a bright scarlet silk shirt. I’ve no idea why. It seems to suit my mood.

As the weather gentles everything, I feel my shoulders come down. I can get my work done and organise my life without having to be gritted and hunched. This feels like a revelation. It makes me realise that there was an element of battle in getting through that long, bleak winter. Everyone in the village is smiling; everything seems lit with possibility.

I talk at length on the telephone to my very old godfather. I always slightly dread making the call because he is so long in years and so stricken in health and I hear myself making awful platitudinous remarks, which do not cheer or comfort. One must not do the pity voice, but on the other hand, one must be thoughtful and sympathetic. It’s a horrid line to walk and I’m not very good at it. But today, the doughty gentleman, despite being ninety and with three different kinds of hideous illness, is filled with stern stuff and tells me long and antic stories which make me laugh.

He will suddenly say the most extraordinary things. ‘After the war,’ he says, ‘I joined a secret army, Phantom, you know. I was blowing up railways and bridges and that sort of thing.’ Slight pause. ‘I very much enjoyed that.’

When he talks of being staunch in the face of the horrors of old age, he says: ‘Well, I was a Welsh Guardsman, you know.’ The implication being that the Brigade of Guards can face anything, which it probably can.

I am overwhelmed with affection and admiration. I can write this here because he is old school, and does not have a computer, and so will never see these sentences, but I am keenly aware that each conversation I have with him may be the last. I cherish every word.

The Horse Talker and the Remarkable Trainer and I take the filly and the mare out for a ride. (The Trainer walks on foot, dancing about in her athletic, balletic way, taking pictures.) The little filly is immaculate, and Red, in only her rope halter, defies every nasty stereotype about ex-racing thoroughbreds. Without a pause or a shiver, we go past billowing blue tarpaulins, farmyard equipment, a working building yard with all its manifold trucks and diggers, and I have one hand on the rope and a song in my heart. This is a mare who used to shy at shadows on the ground. AND NOW LOOK.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ I yell, in delirium. She wibbles her lower lip and blinks gently at me.

I watched Badminton at the weekend, for the first time in years. It’s an extraordinary level of horsemanship, and those huge cross-country fences are a mighty challenge. But at the same time, there is a lot of stress there, as there is in all competitions, and a lot of kit: martingales and double bridles and all sorts. I feel as proud that my lovely girl will walk out on a loose rope as I would if she were performing those feats of acrobatic daring that I saw on the television. It’s a different kind of achievement, but it is a blue riband nonetheless, even if it exists only in my secret heart.

The lambs are jumping, the sun is shining, Stanley the Dog is laughing. It was A Good Day.

 

Today’s pictures:

HorseBack morning:

The wonderful sheep:

We haven’t had the beech avenue for a while. It amazes me that we are into May, and there is not yet a single green leaf on any of these venerable trees:

Nor on the limes:

But my young apple tree has suddenly sprung to life:

And the honeysuckle has come into leaf, almost overnight:

The Horse Talker with Autumn the Filly:

MR STANLEY HAS A STICK:

I think this face says - don’t you dare try and take it away. Look at the reproachfulness:

My beautiful brilliant girl:

This is what she looks like when she sees me and Minne-the-Mooches over for love. She is amazingly love-orientated. Not that many horses are. Some can take it or leave it; some really prefer to be left alone, like cats. It’s a mere freak of chance that I ended up with a mare who wishes for nothing more than to stand in a field being adored. Since adoring her is all I really want to do:

Say the thing

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I have an old godfather – I may write this freely as he does not have a computer, let alone read a blog – who is of a tremendous age. ‘The doctors ask me how old I am, and I say either eighty-six or eight-seven,' he says. 'Doesn't make much difference.'

I have been worried about him for a while, because his health has not been good. I had been meaning to write or ring, but had kept postponing on account of deadline madness, and then post-deadline crash. Finally, this morning, I picked up the telephone.

No answer. Terror gripped me. It was too late. I had not written the bloody letter to say what a marvellous, splendid godfather he had been to me, and how lucky I was to have him. I had not made the call (how could I not spare five minutes from my busy schedule?) to make some jokes and ask him how he was and offer any practical help he might need. I was useless and feckless and pointless.

I was absolutely certain that he was either in the grip of fatal illness or had been carried off altogether. (Actually, if he were to read this, I suspect he would not think it indelicate. He is straightforward and robust about death. ‘You’re coming south in November? Well, if I’m still alive, I’ll give you lunch.’) I felt a sudden acute despair.

The plumber, one of my favourite men in the world, had arrived to deal with a leak, and I was almost unable to smile at him for fear of breaking into tears. I thought of my dad, whose great friend the godfather was. I thought: I can’t lose another of the great old men. I suddenly could not bear it.

I left a few panicked messages with mutual friends. Then I tried to concentrate, rather fruitlessly, on work. At noon, the telephone rang. ‘Hello,’ said the godfather, in his formal, Brigade of Guards voice. ‘Who is this?’

He had done 1471, not recognised my mobile number, and was ringing back the mystery caller.

I burst into laughter of relief. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m so glad to hear your voice.’

He is not well. The doctors are prodding and poking. The food in the hospital he had been in was indescribable. But he is still sharp as a needle. He told me stories of my grandmother from the 1950s; one hellish boat trip in particular stood out in his memory. I have heard this story before, but always make him tell it, because it is so funny.

‘They made me sleep in a cupboard,’ he cried, in indignation. ‘With the fishing nets.’ My uncle was arrested by the Corsican police, who demanded vast sums of money to let him out (some bogus visa violation); my father was mostly drunk; my grandmother waxed lachrymose, as she was escaping from a dreadful third husband; and there was a near shipwreck. ‘We were drifting, drifting, towards the rocks, and no one did anything.’

After half an hour of anecdotes and occasional naughty asides (‘she really was the most dreadful woman I ever met,’ he said, of one of my old relations), I said: ‘Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you? You know, logistically?’ He has some writing to do, and finds it difficult now; I offered to come south and be his stenographer. But the old man is made of doughty stuff. He fought in the war. He is used to doing for himself; I think he prefers it that way. He graciously declined my faltering offer.

I put the telephone down. I said, out loud: ‘The godfather is alive’. It felt like a present, as unexpected as a shooting star in a clear midnight sky.

I know that, as the old gentleman himself says, he may not be here for very much longer. He is eighty-six or eighty-seven. Although I think of him as a national monument, someone who has always been there, since my earliest memory, I know that he cannot go on forever. But he is here for a while more, and I made that call, the one I would so have regretted not making, had it proved too late.

He said, at the very end: ‘Oh, I do feel cheered up now.’ My dad used to say that, in very much the same kind of telephone calls. I thought now, as I thought then: there is not much I can do, for the old people, but I can ring them and cheer them up a bit. It is not much, but it is not nothing. I am more passionately glad that I can say that I got through, and heard his ironical old voice coming down the line.

I know this. You all know this. And yet, sometimes one needs to be reminded. Make the call; write the letter; say the thing. I write that sentence not as admonition, but as a pour-memoire, for myself.

Sometimes, with the old people, I think: oh, they won’t want to talk to me now, or they will be tired, or feeling ill, or just creaking and cross. I think, perhaps it will be the most tremendous bore, having to chat. It isn’t. It’s important to call and make a joke and pay a compliment (‘you are a watchword for elegance,’ I told the godfather), and express the love. I almost missed the boat. I felt the bashing regret.

Make the call, I tell myself; write the letter. Say the thing.

 

Now for your pictures. The sun came out today, after four days of unremitting dreich. That felt like a present, too.

My little Japanese cherry is the reddest I ever saw it:

Moss on the wall:

The honeysuckle is still going:

The rosehips:

Beech avenue, dazzling in the sunshine:

Light on the hills:

The philadelphus is still green as green:

Cotinus, with lime tree in the background:

The view over my garden gate, to the blue hill beyond:

Someone was looking quite perfectly ravishing today:

Oh, my lovely Pigeon. She is a present too; so that's three in one day:

And the hill, having been quite invisible in the cloud, burst back into view in all her pomp: