Jacob's Ladder

Thursday 18th November

Day 211

‘Let’s go faster,’ says my father.

My brother is steering him in a borrowed wheelchair. We are trundling along Sidmouth seafront. Sometimes my sister and I have to dart ahead and sweep the pebbles out of the way. The waves flung them up and scattered them across the path in Tuesday night’s storm. My brother runs carefully - as if he was in an egg and spoon race on sports day.

When we arrive at the end of the promenade the sun goes in and and the wind blows cold. Should we turn back or venture on to Jacob’s Ladder - round the red cliffs with the sea splashing over the rails and then up that steep winding hill? I look at my father, sitting in the chair with his orange scarf wrapped round his ears and under his cap - the cap he doesn’t like, the cap he wanted to leave behind in the bluebell wood in the spring - his big hands in my gloves, and I think it’s time to find a cafe for lunch.

‘I want to go on,’ he says.

‘It may be your last chance to see Jacob’s Ladder,’ says my sister, seizing the day. So we’ll remember this ninety first birthday.

‘ Yes, before I kick the bucket,’ he says.

And we wonder where that phrase comes from as we all three push him slowly up the hill.

Today I’m grateful for my brother and his glorious sense of humour. And that my father has a son as well as three daughters who can do most things for him - except accompany him to the gents in a time of urgent need.