More rain today. I drove, first thing this morning, from Hampshire, straight to the Hurlingham Club for tennis. The forecast was for rain at lunchtime, but unfortunately it poured, mid-morning, right in the middle of the game.  We all got soaked to the skin. I then dropped Anna’s high heels, which she’d forgotten, to High Street Kensington where she is working, as she is off to the St John’s Summer Ball, in Cambridge. It is meant to be one of the world’s top ten annual parties. She won’t get any sleep and will come back like a zombie.

 I then drove straight back to walk Domino at the Hurlingham Club, as there was a promising break in the rain. Mothers were everywhere, pushing babies and toddlers in prams, making the most of the precarious sunshine.

 The sight of small children out and about reminded me of the blissful summer of 1994, the first summer with Anna on maternity leave and the last at Stone House, the Wilmot family home. Tony and Eve, Geoff’s parents, decided that the house was too big for them and put it on the market in spring. By then Tony was in his late seventies. The rest of us were heartbroken.

 The entire clan made the most of the “last drops” of the Kentish home that summer. I walked with Anna through the fruit orchards and swung her in the hammock. If I stayed overnight, when Geoff was away on business, Eve would come in at 6am and scoop Anna up to play, and I would go back to sleep. We sat on the lawn and ate scones at teatime and played hours of tennis. We dreaded the day when we would have to say goodbye.

 Of course, buyers quickly came along. It was a fantastic house. It did, however, need a lot of work. The Aga still ran on coal and there was no heating. Just before exchange, the buyers changed their mind. They said that the renovations were too ambitious for them.

 Tony and Eve were knocked sideways. In their world of honour, your word was your bond. They had already found a small house near the High Street in Sevenoaks and exchanged contracts. They were under pressure. In July, Tony was up at the crack of dawn to collect an African friend, Sabor, from Gatwick. That sort of early start was not unusual. They never had lie-ins. 

 Tony, Pops, often did physical things reserved for younger people. In the seven years I knew him, he acted like someone half his age, even if his body was slowing down. He mowed the lawn on a sit down mower, all four acres. He carted coal up from the cellar every night for the Aga. He played tennis, but we had to hit the ball to him, as he couldn’t run very far or fast. He was tireless when it came to working with the church. When he retired from business in Africa, he founded a theological college for Africans, in Karen, near Nairobi, Kenya. He was principal until 1989, then aged 74.

 Going back to his early morning trip to Gatwick, somewhere on the way he had a serious heart attack. I was left to look after Sabor, who somehow reached Stone House. I sat on the lawn, with Anna, chatting to him for hours, while everyone else was at the hospital. He told me his sad story. He was a Liberian, and as a child he watched his entire family shot by rebels. It was a familiar story, repeated by many of the Africans I met at Stone House in my early years in Britain.

 That last summer at Stone House was magical as I was a new mother, but wistful as well, as it was the last. My children would never know it or remember it.

I am going to see some Aussie friends for dinner tonight with Geoff.