I was waiting outside our front door waiting for him to lock up and slam the back door shut when I heard singing. It began with someone humming a tune. It was clearly directed at someone else so as to remind them of a melody. Then the same voice began singing what sounded like a hymn. It was again a singing that was aimed at encouraging another to join in, when she did. I stood and listened. The female voice was frail, wavering, the younger one, a man was strong though perhaps not delivered at full strength. It was our neighbour, of course. I was standing outside her bedroom window which was slightly ajar, and the voices, carried through from the open plan living room/kitchen of her flat, were coming from her and her youngest son. He is her latest visitor. They come thick and fast these days. Do they anticipate her death soon? Can they know? Or is it that they want to be with her as much as they can before she does go? I hope so. He seems fond of her, her jokes with her, much of which she misses no doubt. Nor does he seem to shout. She hears him. Is that significant? Anyway, it was lovely to hear them sing together. He would take her to church later and play the organ for them. Nice.
The falling tomatoes have been righted. The new owners of Elephant’s House are back. All is well.
