Wednesday 28th April

Day 9

My father leans on his 2 blue metal walking sticks and directs me to pour the mineral oil into cracks that have appeared in the oak cross marking my mother’s grave. I bend and rub it in with a j-cloth. It makes the wood sticky and a rich nutty brown but doesn’t cover the blackish stains on the ends of the posts. I like to think I’m feeding this wood with golden life blood - keeping it supple. I spill some on the concrete plinth of the grave behind hers - like my brother did a few weeks ago - although I thought I was being extra careful.

I must remember to bring some Brasso next time. Set into the cross, at the junction of the posts is a little plaque, the size of a calling card. It’s tarnished - I imagine wind, sleet and hail slashing up here on the hill. In black print it says Audrey Mary Temple 31.7 1920 to 10.7.2008.The unmarked brass plaque inset below it will have my father’s dates engraved on it. One of them we already know.

As I anoint the oak he wanders off into the rough grass beyond the rows of graves. He points out a clump of white flowers on delicate stems fanned by feathery leaves.

“What are they?” I call.

“Meadowsweet,” he says.

I arrange a handful of them, each head a spray of snowy stars, in the pincushion flower holder sunk in the concrete square in front of her cross.

“I think she’d love these,” I say.

When we look back, the meadowsweet are swiveling in their little water holes, an open armed circle waving to us in the afternoon breeze before we drive away.