Farewell.

I laughed. I cried. I absolutely refused to wear black. I wore a mad dress covered in butterflies, and my mother’s pearls.

There was a lot of loveliness, a lot of sweetness, a lot of love and a lot of sadness.

My stepfather gave a speech so heartfelt it left the room silent. My brother gave a speech so funny and dazzling and brilliant that it left the room rocking with laughter and remembrance. My sister ran through the speech with him after breakfast, and gave him the tune to sing it with.

I made about eighty-seven cheese puffs, and they ate them all.

All the people who had looked after her in her later years were there. They gave her so much.

One very kind woman said: ‘I wish I had known your mother before she was ill.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘she was so beautiful. She looked like Grace Kelly. She was tiny, but she was tough. She used to ride out my father’s great big steeplechasers, the huge horses who came over from Ireland. She could not hold one side of them, but she rode them. Seventeen hands and feet like soup plates, she used to say.’

A thoughtful gentleman said: ‘I have had a lot of bereavements. I don’t think they are gone. I think they are in the next room.’

Then he laughed. Because we are British, and we must laugh at wakes. ‘I’m not sure that is strictly true,’ he said.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’

There was a pause. I wondered whether I should say what I wanted to say. It might be too solemn. I said it anyway. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘they are in the wind, in the hills, in the woods.’

He nodded.

That was the end of that conversation. He looked around. I think perhaps he wondered whether there was another cheese puff.

The children ran around. The youngest of the great-nieces was wearing a coat which my mother bought for my sister from The White House in 1960. It was put away in tissue paper until I was old enough to wear it. Somehow, it has survived, elegant and pristine, and now it has gone through the great-nieces until it found the littlest one, who wears it with an air.

I played hide and seek with the great-nephew, who was alarmingly good at the game and wished it could have gone on all day.

The children were asked this morning where they thought Granny M had gone. ‘Heaven,’ they chorused, dutifully. Then with a look of mischief, and also in chorus: ‘Where she gets to do exactly what she wants.’

We sent her off well. We remembered her well. We raised a glass and laughed a laugh. I am very sad, and very happy. And very tired.

 

Today’s pictures:

This shot is of the older brother, the sister and me, after the wake. The younger brother is not in the photograph because he lives in Bali, where, apparently, he has been making special whale sounds in honour of Mum. (Don’t ask. Really. We don’t. But the old lady would be laughing her head off at the thought of it.)

Oh, and I can’t resist this picture too. It is of me and my mother, very soon after I was born. All our photographs were burnt in a fire when I was fifteen. (Everything went: books, furniture, pictures, all the memories and mementoes of childhood.) Somehow, this photograph survived, and a few years ago I had it framed and gave it to Mum. She hung it by her bed, and this is where I photographed it this morning, before the people came.

Showing up.

The Sister says: ‘Did you ever write that book about what to do when your dad and your dog die?’

My beautiful black dog died four years ago, on the night of my father’s funeral. I really, really wanted to read that book but it did not exist, so I said I would have to write it myself.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘yes, I did. It’s not called that any more. But I did write that book. It’s with the agent now.’

‘And what do you do?’ says the Sister. ‘And when your mum dies?’

‘I learnt what to do from the red mare,’ I say, not even bothering to explain this slightly odd conclusion. ‘She taught me about the ordinary virtues. For the ordinary griefs you need the ordinary virtues. Not brilliance or charm or charisma or talent, but reliability, consistency, kindness, firmness, fairness, steadiness. That’s how you train a horse, that’s why you can get on the red mare and canter about on a loose rein.’

She had just done that, in the open field. She had only ever sat on the mare once before. Red was so happy and relaxed that I had no qualms. I cantered her round the wide spaces of the set-aside first, to check that everything was all right. It was so all right that I threw my arms in the air and whooped into the low cloud and, under me, that mighty horse just kept on rolling, as collected and contained as the ambassadress to Paris. Then The Sister did it.

‘Look at you,’ I shouted. ‘Just look at the two of you.’

The Sister used to be a top show rider and side-saddle diva and some of that never quite goes away. Now she was riding the red mare cowgirl style. For half an hour, in that green field, everything was all right. There was no grief, only this horse, these humans, this landscape, this joy.

‘She learnt to do that,’ I say. ‘She did not just eat magic beans. I taught her to be relaxed and mentally balanced and to carry herself. And I did that by showing up, every day. That’s what you have to do. You have to show up. And maybe that’s what you have to do after there is death. Every day, you show up. And then it gets easier.’

This is my theory and I’m sticking to it. It’s not very clever, or sophisticated, or philosophical. Nobody will put it on a bumper sticker. It has no poetry in it. But it’s mine and I like it and it works, most of the time.

The Younger Brother says, sounding very sane and peaceful, which is not what he is famous for: ‘She is out of pain now. That’s what matters. Nothing can hurt her any more.’

‘And we,’ I say, knowing he will finish the sentence for me.

‘Keep buggering on,’ he cries.

On, on, on we bugger.

I think of the things in which I believe: the human heart, the kindness of strangers, love and trees, the small things. I think of my own private slogans: say the thing; KBO; stare at your demons in the whites of their eyes; be kind. I think of the things I adore: a funny dog, my sweet thoroughbred mares, the brave racing horses I watch every day, my family, this Scotland, these hills, my dear, dear friends. I think of the tender words which have been flying in from around the wilds of the internet and feel grateful for every one. Oh, yes – be grateful – that’s another of my rules to live by.

But perhaps most important of all: you have to show up. Not just sometimes, but every day, in the wind and the weather, through the fair and the foul, the thin and the very, very thick.

I think Mum would approve of that. As long as I said please and thank you.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are of the family, the last time we were all gathered together, this summer. We knew it would be the last time, and so it was:

And this clever, clever person, who can pull joy from sorrow with her bare hooves. I owe her so much, but never more than today:

In search of the middle ground.

The dancing mare could not quite make history. Treve did not win the Arc. Golden Horn did, with a glorious, imperious burst of power, under a ride so audacious that I need new words for audacious. (At one point, Frankie Dettori appeared to be taking his colt for a nice little wander in the Bois de Boulogne.)

Even though I love and admire Golden Horn, and screamed my head off when he won the Derby, I felt desperate for the mare. There is something about great thoroughbred mares which removes all my sense and wrings my heart.

She doesn’t care that she could only finish fourth. She’s gone home to the people she loves, had a good night’s sleep (this was reported by the racing press, in exactly those words), will be let down and then go to stud and have lots of babies. She’ll stay with the Heads, who brought her into the world, and when she is too old to breed she will have the happiest of retirements in the beautiful French countryside. Not too shabby.

It made me think about proportion, and wanting things. I think one should want things. Lassitude and indifference are not very taking traits. Passion is good, surely? But if one wants things too much, and they don’t happen, there is the terrible psychological crash. This is ridiculous, and exhausting. My instinctive liberal mind searches, as always, for the bloody, buggery middle ground. Yes, yes, you can want things, you can have passion, but not too much. Save your strong feelings until you see the whites of their eyes. Don’t fritter away pointless emotion on impossible objects. Can I teach myself this, as I teach myself to be a better human for my horse, so that she feels settled and happy and safe? (Too much jangly human emotion can make an intelligent thoroughbred nervy and uncertain.)

My passions are faintly ridiculous. I don’t really mind that. I’m used to being faintly ridiculous. I think though that I would like a little proportion, before I run out of iron tonic. I used to think all or nothing was rather marvellous. Run at life, as fast as you can. Now I wonder. My poor old mental legs sometimes feel the ache. Perhaps I could learn to be sensible. Perhaps not.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are from yesterday. A lot of family sweetness and happiness, in the dazzling Scottish sun:

The dear departed.

Another of the great old gentlemen has gone.

My father had three sisters, all very glorious and splendid in their different ways. One of them was married to this kind, funny, generous man who has just left us.

He was old and he was ill. He was, I suspect, like my father, ready to go. He had run his race. There should be something fitting and right about these splendid old men going gently into the good night. And yet there is a tearing sense of loss and rupture. The world is not quite the world without them in it. The consolation that they are at peace is a thin gruel. He was one of those ones that filled a room, lit up people’s faces, made everything seem lighter and brighter. I had not seen him for some years but his memory burns bright, filled with fondness and warmth.

Now, when one of the old gentlemen goes, it is as if they are all going, all over again. The loss of the father, the godfather, the relation by marriage, the titan of my childhood – all is felt again, as fresh and urgent as if it has just happened. The heart aches and the throat closes up and the mind races furiously around, trying to find a good sense, a hymn of acceptance, a place to rest. No, no, no, says the racing mind, not that grand generation, which we shall never see again.

They were different from us, mightier in many ways, their virtues written in bold type. My lot, my boys, have talents that the old school perhaps did not – they are more attuned to domestic life, more fluent in expressing emotion, less afraid of plunging into what were not once considered the manly arts. They know how to rock a baby to sleep and cook a lunch and do the school run. (Although I still have at least one dear friend who, for all his modernity, looks at me sternly and says: ‘I don’t do feelings.’ And I tease him by talking about deep emotions and watch, laughing, as he desperately tries not to panic.)

But my father’s generation, the ones born in the war, had a dash, an élan, a scatter of magic about them. They were paradoxes: they had a certain reckless swagger, and yet they were masters of stoicism. I do like someone who can stare a serious feeling in the eye and get its measure, but I adore the flinty Blitz spirit of Getting On With It. Those old gentlemen Got On With It.

He was a lovely man. I think of his children, his wife, his many friends, confounded by loss. He will leave a space that cannot be filled. He will be remembered well.

As I rode this morning, in the bright Scottish sunshine, not long after hearing the brave voice of my aunt on the telephone, I thought of the old gentleman and committed him to the hills and the trees and the sky, as I always do. I give them back to the earth, these Dear Departed. I said, out loud, looking up at the wooded slope to the north: ‘I hope you have mountains and rivers, where you are.’

Then, as if sensing that I needed something marvellous, something fine and true, the mare gave me her most flying, floating canter. It was as light as air, as soft as love. It had all her grand thoroughbred spirit in it, all her athleticism and strength and power. But it was done with one hand on the reins, hardly the touch of a finger, so there was that impossible combination of the wildness of her ancestral voices and the control of her calm mind. It was so exhilarating that I whooped into the clear air, overcome with joy.

The joy released the sorrow, and I walked her back blinded by tears. I could not see where I was going, so I let go of the reins and let her guide me home to the gate. She knew where she was going.

I got off and rubbed her sweet forehead in gratitude. ‘Thank you,’ I said, aloud. She nodded, peaceful and unafraid. Sudden human cloudbursts do not alarm her. She, too, has the wonderful ability to Get On With It. The glorious old gentleman would have liked her, I think. They had something in common.

 

Today’s pictures:

An awful lot of love.

I woke to blinding sunshine and ridiculously loud birdsong, as if the local avians were having some kind of arcane competition. I arrived at the field this morning to find two horses and a human fast asleep. It was one of the all-time great sights.

My little great-niece came for a ride. The red mare was, as she always is, utterly enchanting when faced with a small child. It is as if she knows, deep in her bones, that absolute gentleness is required.

We played around with the mare on the ground, and she showed off her paces in delightful fashion. Then the little jockey got up. She was suddenly a tiny bit doubtful, as it was the first time she had been on the mare, but her mother and I delicately encouraged, and she lifted her chin and screwed her courage to the sticking place and got into the plate.

‘Just sit there for a bit and feel the mare under you,’ I said, smiling up at the little face, which had a mixture of joy and uncertainty in it. ‘Feel the peace coming off her. That’s it. Now breathe, big deep breaths in and out.’

She thought this game was very funny, so we did silly breathing for a while. The red mare went to sleep. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Big smile. And wave your arms in the air.’

The arms went up, into the blue Scottish sky. The mare stood like a statue, still dozing. ‘Now give her a good old rub on the neck to say well done,’ I said.

By this time, as the small hand ran up and down the great chestnut neck, there was no need to instruct the smile. It was beaming out into the day, as bright as the sun.

We walked, very very slowly. The good mare, understanding that she had precious cargo, perhaps sensing that her young passenger was not brimful of cavalier spirit but feeling her way, put each foot on the ground with as much fine delicacy as if she were treading on bone china.

‘Feel her moving under you,’ I said. ‘And just go with her. Don’t forget to breathe.’

And so we did a little walk, and then we did some more standing, and the smile stayed steadily in place, without wavering.

‘And say thank you,’ I said, laughing.

So the little person thanked the big thoroughbred, and everyone was smiling, and the swifts flew low over our heads, and Stanley the Dog larked about by the treeline, looking for pheasants, and everything was merry as a marriage bell.

I was very impressed, and said so. Some children leap up onto that mare as if she were a Shetland pony, with no fear. Some of them want to go off on their own, and I take my hand from the reins, and, even though staying close and keeping a strict weather eye, let them ride by themselves. Some of them are so excited that they would probably kick off into the horizon if I would let them.

This small person had adored the idea, but was daunted by the reality. She loves the mare, and knows her quite well, but when it came to it, that big athletic body did suddenly seem quite a climb. She had to grit her teeth a little, and face her doubts, and she did, in fine style. Her mother and I were quite prepared to say: never mind, another day. But I’m so glad she did get on, because facing your fears is the greatest triumph of all, and that tiny girl could teach a lot of burly grown-ups a good life lesson.

I loved the mare very much for being so tender with her, and felt profoundly touched to know that I can trust this horse with one of the best of the Best Beloveds.

Then I drove the long way round to buy some delicious meadow chaff for my good girl, because it’s the least she deserves, and looked at the blue hills basking in the sunshine, and wrote half a book in my head, mapping out each scene as if I were watching a film, and felt lucky. The Beloved Cousin rang up, and I pulled over and had a long and fond conversation, and then went home and did my work and reflected that it was hard to think of a day filled with more love.

I think sometimes about the people I know who have had great worldly success, and earned money, and got their existential passports rubber-stamped. I admire them vastly and don’t know how they do it. I could no more build a business up from scratch or transform an ailing company or star in a film than fly over the moon. My successes and rewards are tiny, private, and make no headlines. They bring in no great salary or tremendous bonus. But they are worth more than diamonds to me.

A girl on a horse, the smiles of my family, the voice of my dear friend on the telephone, the rolling Scottish hills – these are my glittering prizes. It’s more cheesy than cheese on toast with extra cheese, but there it is: the truest fact I know.

‘Love the small things,’ the Cousin and I shouted at each other, laughter in our voices, mostly at ourselves, at our own follies and idiosyncrasies. But the older I get, the more I think it is the secret of life, if there is a secret. Take joy in the very, very small and the big things will take care of themselves. That’s my damn theory, and I’m sticking to it.

 

Today’s pictures:

Two drowsing horses, one drowsing human:

We were concentrating so hard on the riding that there was no time for pictures, but here is the small great-niece and her mother before the Great Ride. You can see the Paint in the background, contemplating where she should actually get up or not. (The answer was: not.)

The long way round to buy the meadow chaff. Not a bad drive to the shops:

I’m not sure why everything was quite so blue today. The light was doing something fascinating, as if it were throwing a fine azure veil over the sleeping land:

After everyone woke up, the Paint and her human went out for a ride, closely overseen by the red mare. She does not like her charge to go anywhere without a permission slip:

Every day I think I could not love this mare more, and every day I do. It’s as if she breaks all the laws of physics and human emotion and neurobiology and I don’t know what all. She is a sort of miracle:

The Power of Admission.

I was going to give this post the title: The Answer to Everything. Obviously, that would be crazed hyperbole, so I restrained myself. However, it’s not that far off.

Here, instead, is the Answer to Really Quite a Lot:

1. Do something foolish.

2. Hurl yourself into a defensive cringe, covered in angst.

3. Raise your head, and admit the folly.

4. Share the experience with a group of kind people.

5. Smile and smile as they all say: oh yes, I did the exact same thing.

6. Realise that everything is perfectly all right.

Everybody knows that everybody does perfectly idiotic things from time to time. Everybody forgets that everybody does those things, and so when they themselves do them, their irrational mind believes they are the only one. And that is the point when one goes into the garden to eat worms.

The power of admission is one of the great overlooked powers in life. It’s as strong as love. It’s incredibly tempting, when something horrid and stupid happens, to run away into a cross little lair, to turn in on oneself, to sit alone in a world shrunk to just you and your angst. The critical voices in your head, who are on their third Negroni and are punchy by now, are yelling that you are pointless and useless and feckless and there is no health in you. They find this hysterically funny. It’s impossible to argue with them because they are so convinced of their own rightness and they do that annoying drunk thing of moving the goalpoasts.

To use the simple declarative sentence, to say plainly this is what I did, becomes almost impossible, because everyone is surely going to laugh and point. Your folly is then compounded and shame comes storming down the outside with an unstoppable run and wins the race.

Admission is the only thing which can beat these brutal battalions. Because people really don’t laugh and point. What they do is say, kindly, ruefully, empathetically: oh yes, I did that too. At which point the sun rises, the orchestra strikes up, the bluebirds begin singing, and the world, which was dark and angry, is suddenly filled with light.

The thing is still the thing. It was folly, or silliness, or wrongness, or carelessness. But usually, it can be fixed right up, amends made, lessons learnt. The power of the thing, however, has been completely taken away by the kindness. The kindness is quite often, in this rushing age of social media, that of strangers. It can also come from one human you love. Either way, it works in spectacular fashion.

Words are important too. Yesterday, I chose my words wrongly, because I was so in the grip of the critical voices that I could not see straight. I wrote: I am an idiot. I was wrong. I’m not an idiot. I sometimes do idiotish things. (More often, perhaps, than I would like.) This is quite different. That nice shift of perspective was also what was brought about by the admission and the generous reaction.

I sometimes think the sweetest words in the English language are: me too.

Thank you. Thank you all.

 

Today’s pictures:

The hill:

The oystercatchers on the roof, singing their dear heads off:

The Younger Brother, who is off to Ireland, looking at the view of the hill from his bedroom:

The Sister, who is moving south, standing in front of her hill for the last time. I’m very sad, but I’m not making a big thing about it. Or, not too much of a big thing:

There was a lovely photograph of the Brother-In-Law too, who has generously completely forgiven me for the car fiasco, but he says he does not want to be on the internet. ‘You won’t put me on that blog?’ he says. I think guiltily of the times I have snuck in the odd close-up and shake my head. Here are the ears of the red mare instead, on our ride this morning:

And here she is, graciously standing for her photograph after the ride. She can do this for many, many minutes, untethered, only sighing a very little at the absurd antics of her human:

I am an idiot.

You would think by now that I would have got used to being an idiot. I have a fairly high level of folly. Some of it I am aware of; some of it I am not. There are things which I think quite normal, which make other humans look frankly terrified. (‘What have I said?’ I ask myself.) Some of the idiocies I try to fix up, to make better, to smooth out. Some I think do no harm, and may be left. Some make me want to cry.

Today was my mother’s 81^st birthday. All her children are here, which is a very rare thing, since we are geographically scattered. It all started very well. There was the sweet birthday breakfast, with flowers and laughter. I brought roses. Then I went off and did the horse and did my HorseBack work and walked with the Younger Brother and ran back to my mother’s house to make smoked mackerel paté and tomato and red pepper salsa and guacamole. The extended family arrived, right down to the smallest great-niece, and the sun shone, and everyone was in harmony.

I left early to go back to my desk, since it is a school day. Smiling, I leapt in the motor and reversed very slowly into the brother-in-law’s shining new car.

I AM AN IDIOT.

It’s a turn I make every day. Each morning, I go down and cook my mother breakfast, and each morning I leap in the motor and reverse into that space to make the turn for home, and, this lunchtime, because I’m used to there being a big space there, not a gleaming blue car, I did not look. I just drove, heedlessly, thoughtlessly, without care or attention.

I had to go in and confess. I walked slowly, with the steps of a condemned woman. The brother-in-law, who was having a lovely time, looked up. ‘I’ve done something terrible,’ I started to say. But he knew. He knew before the words were out of my mouth. ‘You’ve hit my car,’ he said, sadly. He loves that car. He was having a perfectly delightful time and then some idiot female smashes up his motor.

He is a gentleman and he was incredibly polite and kind about it. But I could tell how sad he was. There was a dying fall in his voice and a mournful look in his eye. I could hardly speak, I was so mortified. I did that awful incoherent apologising which does not make anything better. He was manful.

It’s all very well being a bit of a flake. I’m used to it and most of the time I don’t think it so very bad. But could I not at least look where I am going?

I reflected, as I came home, entirely down in the dumpiest of dumps, about the little things. The regular readers know that I am slightly obsessed with the little things. This is usually in a good way. I cherish the moss, the trees, the stone walls, the low whicker of the mare when she gets her breakfast, the look on Stanley the Dog’s face when he emerges, triumphant, from the vast tunnel he has dug under the feed shed. If I am feeling a little sorrowful, I cast my eyes up to these hills, and everything is all right. But the little things work the other way round too. Everything was enchanting today. Even the dear old Scottish weather was on our side. My mum was having a grand birthday, all the family was there, everyone was in fine form. It will not be all the delight I shall remember, because the stupid unnecessary shunt has wrecked all that.

It won’t wreck it forever. I’ll ring up the perspective police and they will do a raid. I’ve written a note to the poor brother-in-law and enclosed vast lumps of cash so he won’t be out of pocket, although of course that is not really the point. But for the rest of the day I’ll have that awful sick feeling of angst as I recall his stricken face, caused by my folly.

There is a very dear horse forum I belong to. The people there are very kind and encouraging, and everyone writes about their small steps of progress with their horses and everyone else says well done, you’re doing a great job. This morning, a young girl in Australia posted a video of the work she is doing with her beloved mare. I’ve seen the young girl’s posts before, and she is a polite, enthusiastic, rather sensitive person. She tries vastly hard with her horse and is learning all the time. Even though she is thousands of miles away, I feel very fond of her, oddly protective, and quite often leave comments saying how well she is doing and how lovely her horse is. Today, someone chose to write a blighting comment. The burden of the song was that people should know what they are doing. (I wish I knew what I was doing, and quite often don’t, so it rather struck my heart.) The young girl, who is only sixteen, was devastated. The whole group rallied round her, and by the end of the morning there were a hundred kind, supportive comments to the one mean-spirited one. But I suspect that young girl will remember the ungenerous rather than the generous. Her rational mind will be soothed by the good stuff, but her irrational, undefended mind will be laid waste by the bad stuff.

I sometimes think this phenomenon is like smell. How is it that one bad smell will always linger, no matter how many good smells there are to combat it? Drains will always conquer roses; old rubbish wins out over lavender. To a tender mind, the single poison-tipped arrow will always cut through the finest armour.

Ah, well. I suppose it is just another lesson in life. I really must learn to butch up a bit. Make the mistake, make as many amends as one can, learn the lesson, put right what can be put right, and move on. Nobody’s perfect. But oh, oh, oh, I do wish that I were not quite such an idiot, and that I had not made the brother-in-law sad.

 

Today’s pictures:

The birthday girl:

The family:

The guacamole:

The red mare:

The Paint filly, very dozy and relaxed after being comprehensively anointed with special neem oil to keep off the flies, with her human:

I love this. It’s very slightly out of focus so I think it looks like a painting. The mare was coming up from the set-aside for her breakfast: