After Olivia

The memorial was yesterday.

It is strangely difficult to talk about. I learned things I never knew about Olivia. I saw photos of her when she was a toddler; pretty determined little thing, all willpower and huge eyes. The eye defect she had was the result of a botched surgery to cure the squint she was born with. Photos of her growing up, her face becoming more angular, a kind of moody beauty to her; She was a prolific novelist, she was a volunteer nurse, she got involved in welfare work for the poor when no such thing existed in Ireland, she was an artist, relentless and remorseless in covering doors and panels, indeed anything, with her visions. I recall being in the kitchen at Huntingdon Castle, facing a small pink lampshade on which she had painted eyes and a pair of lips.

We had so much fun. She was an elderly lady by the time I knew her. Sitting up chatting in her room one day, I saw something odd: a colony of Red Admirals piled up on the casement windowsill. Some were dead, some were fluttering, there were easily around 15 to 20 live ones there.

'Oh!' I said, surprised.

'What? what?' She said, as ever straight to the point, 'Does the room smell?' She looked horrified.

I reassured her that the room was fine, that I was just surprised...' I explained about the butterflies. She had no better idea than I did as to how they got there. 'What should I do?' She asked. I hesitated because I was her guest, and she was an imperious though very kindly lady. 'Well...if it was me...' I faffed around a bit...'I would probably let them out...'

We chatted on about other things, then I bimbled away to get myself some breakfast. Meeting her later in the grounds she smiled at me and whispered, 'I let them all out!'

There is more but I can't write it now. I am not sad or anything, it's just a lot, too much, and there'll be time enough for all that.

I saw her baby grand-niece too, little Bonnie Olivia, very small and delicate with dark hair and lots of it. There will be another little girl running under the yews where Arthur's knights charged, playing around the dungeons that became temples and art galleries. Maybe she'll smile at the lampshades that smile back, and marvel at tales of the stars and the gods, and dance with dryads at the gates of Narnia.

Maybe there are no final goodbyes. Sweet journey, Olivia, and thank you X

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