Winter The Sequel

It isn’t often that the weather takes me by surprise, on the whole the climate here is a fairly wide range of damply temperate and unexceptional: but after the fresh sunny days the springtime has bestowed on us, I was completely astonished to find a thick white froth of two inches of snow heavily layered over the garden and still falling when I opened the curtains this morning.

I must have stood for almost a minute gaping like an astounded chicken, of all the things I had not expected to see, snow was up there in the top few, scoring about the same as an escaped giraffe. This might sound like an exaggeration, but actually the latter isn’t as completely unlikely as you might think, as the local zoo has had several unlucky absconders over the years, not the least exciting of which was the rhinoceros on the bypass, which was very surprising for people on their commute to work.

I got dressed quickly and went dashing out to check on the little seeds, in the shed, but everything seemed fine, and one of the marigolds had bravely poked up a first tiny shoot, much to my delight. I felt quite anxious and protective about it due to the inhospitable circumstances, and hovered uncertainly for ages, unsure whether to put some sort of blanket over it, but that would make it dark, or take it into the house, which would probably asphyxiate it with the warmth from the stove, and of course in the end I did nothing at all apart from worry a bit.

I have become increasingly like this since I became too old to have more babies. In the welcome absence of small squeaky creatures anything new and hopeful with life will find itself nurtured if it sits still for long enough, and the little seeds are perfect, mostly because they are undemanding in their feeding and toilet habits, but also because they don’t talk. I don’t think I would like them nearly so much if I were to go into the shed in the mornings and be greeted by wails and complaints about thirst and having chilled roots. I can nurture them or not and they don’t grumble at all, just expire quietly and guilt-inducingly if I get distracted or lose interest.

I don’t know why it didn’t seem like a good idea to dig out my winter boots again, but some sort of dogged belief in springtime despite all the evidence led me to put my lightweight shoes on the way I have done every other day, and by the time the dog and I got back from what turned into a snowy trudge round the Library Gardens my feet were soaked. It was all very odd and hushed and unlikely, white cherry blossom newly emerged and now buried under a white blossom of snow and the dog snuffling and sneezing in little ghostly mounds where the daffodils were yesterday.

I put my wet socks and shoes to steam on the hearth when I got home, and looked out at the still, chilled world, and felt a surge of affection for the blackened stove, squatting solidly in the middle of the stacks of logs and breathing homely warmth and friendliness into the house

I went off to work feeling relieved that we were still in the same place as the lovely stove, and haven’t gone on some reckless holiday to Blackpool or anything yet. Any thoughts of springtime levity had disappeared to be replaced by a mild concern about the much-diminished log pile. I took the photograph which you can see at the top of the page, which looks as though it has been taken in black and white but it wasn’t, it really looked like that, a world that had become monochrome and hushed.

Of course it had all disappeared by lunchtime, but the cold hadn’t, and it became so windy that I found myself sitting on the taxi rank and staring in surprise at white-crested waves rushing up the lake, which is also pretty unusual. Windermere is not exactly tidal in its behaviour, and judging by the seasick staggering of the swans as they abandoned it and came to importune the Japanese tourists on the pier, I wasn’t the only one not very used to it.

Mark was at home, but got up late because he worked the nightclub shift last night, and when I called him he said that he would go over to the farm and split some more logs for us, and not to worry, because the house was snug and warm, and the washing had dried nicely over the stove instead of out on the line, and everything was fine.

It is springtime, even though winter has had a last surprising snarl. It wasn’t savage enough even to upset the little seeds, which are getting stronger and greener by the hour. I have got a book out of the library about seed planting, which is ace.

And we have got a marigold.