I am aware of being quiet on the plot and blog lately. Have been in deep retreat, like frozen winter soil or an injured animal and agonising about whether or even how to talk about it. But here goes...
First, to explain the pictures: meet Christopher and Allan Jenkins at age 5 and 4 (that's me on the right). It is the first day of our new lives: with new clothes, new home and new mum and dad. We have been reunited from different foster and care homes, rescued if you will, by Dudley and Lillian Drabble who have taken on us, and a rundown riverside cottage, both to be rebuilt into something sturdier, stronger, safer.
With Lillian and Tonka, Christopher clutching his ginger kitten and me looking wary The cottage comes with a few acres of field that are gradually crafted into productive orchard, woodland and croft, as we, too, are lovingly remodelled. We are each given seed of our own and space in which to grow. Christopher chosing cheery bright orange marigolds, while I opt for sprawling nasturtiums.
I grow both still, almost as a talisman, though Christopher doesn't – blaming them for blackfly and preferring geraniums, new potatoes and peas. We stayed with the Drabbles for another ten years. Me spending long summers on the river while Christopher worked all his waking hours on the dairy farm next door.
Oddly, we both ended up in London and grew gradually apart (Chris joined the Army), though we both returned often to Devon. Perhaps as we got older, more drawn to melancholy Dartmoor that the sunny, sandy South Hams. It was while he was there at Christmas that Christopher was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Last week, I returned to see him, hug him and hold his hand for the last time. I told him how much I loved him. He held me and said I was his brother. He died (can't bring myself to say passed away) a week ago today.
I will always grow marigolds and nasturtiums and I will always miss him.
Christopher David Jenkins, born December 30, 1952. RIP
First, to explain the pictures: meet Christopher and Allan Jenkins at age 5 and 4 (that's me on the right). It is the first day of our new lives: with new clothes, new home and new mum and dad. We have been reunited from different foster and care homes, rescued if you will, by Dudley and Lillian Drabble who have taken on us, and a rundown riverside cottage, both to be rebuilt into something sturdier, stronger, safer.
With Lillian and Tonka, Christopher clutching his ginger kitten and me looking wary The cottage comes with a few acres of field that are gradually crafted into productive orchard, woodland and croft, as we, too, are lovingly remodelled. We are each given seed of our own and space in which to grow. Christopher chosing cheery bright orange marigolds, while I opt for sprawling nasturtiums.
I grow both still, almost as a talisman, though Christopher doesn't – blaming them for blackfly and preferring geraniums, new potatoes and peas. We stayed with the Drabbles for another ten years. Me spending long summers on the river while Christopher worked all his waking hours on the dairy farm next door.
Oddly, we both ended up in London and grew gradually apart (Chris joined the Army), though we both returned often to Devon. Perhaps as we got older, more drawn to melancholy Dartmoor that the sunny, sandy South Hams. It was while he was there at Christmas that Christopher was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Last week, I returned to see him, hug him and hold his hand for the last time. I told him how much I loved him. He held me and said I was his brother. He died (can't bring myself to say passed away) a week ago today.
I will always grow marigolds and nasturtiums and I will always miss him.
Christopher David Jenkins, born December 30, 1952. RIP
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