It started with a photo my mum sent me. A memory of a day at Walmer Castle, two, or was it three years ago? Me, gazing out of the shot, clutching the two boys, just the two boys. I remember the day well. It was early Spring and we’d all walked there; it isn’t far from her house, along the path next to the pebbly beach. I love those first warm days, when you don’t mind what you do as long as it’s outside. I love the colours down there on the Kent coast, the soft blues as you gaze over to France when the sea and the sky seem to merge, the greens bursting from the shingle, and best of all, the pink plumes of valerian that are everywhere at this time of year.
I remember everyone’s outfits: I was slightly too cold, over optimistic without a jacket in an old grey cardigan and habitual stripy top; Louis, 4, insistent he was fine in his new T-shirt, a gift from my aunt in Australia; and Raf still young enough to be told to zip up in a Patagonia jacket I’d bought cheaply before we left DC. I remember especially the plastic orange toy Raf is gripping: the Gup B from the cartoon Octonauts. It was their combined Easter gift, bought with money sent by my Grandpa, their Great. (‘Thank you for my elevation from merely Grand to Great,’ he wrote in a card welcoming Louis to the world.)
We wandered the gardens, the boys poking the frogspawn in the pond and Raf trampling the flowers in his one-year-old enthusiasm for life. Trees were climbed, cream teas consumed. I’m sure there was angst, too. I was doubtless over caffeinated with exhaustion, my habitual state. And I doubt everyone walked there and back without a fuss. But none of that shows in the photo. It’s no surprise everyone preserves their lives through the screens of their smartphone cameras; they’re hungry for future memories.
Thinking back now about how long ago that day was, I feel anxious about how much time has passed. And why it feels like nothing much has changed. Sure, a lot has happened in three years, not least their sister. But the feeling just stokes my restlessness, a perpetual itch I try and scratch with the odd trip, but it’s always there. I almost felt reassured earlier, reading an interview with Maggie O’Farrell, who confessed to also feeling restless, stuck home with three small children. But she’d dealt with her angst by churning out another brilliant novel, while I’ve merely dipped into a new Netflix show and scrolled through a zillion tweets. People complain about never having enough time, but it’s just as challenging to have time and not know what to do with it.
(Snap in question on Insta.)
suzeletter 