We got up early this morning in order that I could rush off to collect Oliver from school.
He finished at ten, and somehow I managed to be not only punctual, but early. We flung all of his things into the back of the car and were away almost before the headmaster had finished wishing him luck with his scholarship exam.
Of course he was delirious with the beginning-of-holiday exhilaration that we all remember from school. Weeks and weeks stretch before you involving nothing more taxing than a parent occasionally demanding that you bring your washing downstairs.
He had won a prize for something, he thought maths, probably, but was a bit vague, but had not been made a prefect, which on consideration we thought was probably for the best. Being a prefect is a lot of bossing other people about and supervising the juniors on the computers, which neither of us thought that Oliver would like much. Also, Almost Head Boy has now become Actual Head Boy.
School has sent lots of work back for him to do in preparation for the scholarship exam, and there were sacks and sacks of cricket kit and games kit and books and towels and slippers and all sorts of post-school detritus.
I chucked it in a huge pile in the corner of the living room and left it there. I am becoming horribly slovenly with age. I think that I might even leave it there for the whole holiday, which at least is handy for washing and packing.
I am going to worry about that some other time.
He came home and stripped his uniform into a celebratory pile, which Mrs. Number Two Daughter has since helpfully washed. He exchanged it for shorts and a T shirt and a sun hat, and collapsed into the Indian hammock. He is pictured above.
He did not stay there for very long.
We had a rather sad thing to be done with the afternoon.
Mark’s father has died recently. This, whilst sad, has been manageable grief, because he had been ill for some time, and they had not been close. He had separated from the family when Mark was a boy, and Mark had a stepfather, who died a couple of years ago.
There is not going to be a funeral, because he had not wanted any fuss, and so this afternoon we took Oliver and went to say a last goodbye at the undertaker’s.
He was old, and frail, and tiny on the trolley.
We were struck, as one always is, by the emptiness of a dead body, of the striking absence of the person that one knew. What is there is both like them, and yet nothing like them at all.
We looked sadly and gravely at him, and said the farewells that needed to be said, and walked out, subdued, into the bright sunshine. Oliver promised kindly that he would help us on our way should we ever be old and sick and helpless, and we agreed that this was exactly what we would like, after which we started to think about our holidays again.
Oliver said that he would like to go to Disneyland, so I suggested that we use his and Lucy’s investment account savings. He explained that he did not want to go that much, because that his savings were for a down payment on the first of a portfolio of rental houses which would eventually make his fortune. He offered to take us to Disneyland then, if we liked. I am quite sure that I shall like, and am looking forward to that day with some enthusiasm.
It looks as though it might be Blackpool until Oliver makes his fortune.
I don’t care where it is. We are going to go on Sunday and not come back until Thursday, and I am longing to go so badly that I might easily pop.
We will be in the camper van, and on our holidays.
There is nothing nicer.
