A day in Cambridge with my Dad.

I spent the day in Cambridge with my Dad yesterday. It was his birthday last weekend and as we couldn’t get together on the day we’d agreed to meet up for a belated birthday lunch. Cambridge has long since been one of my favourite places so any chance to jump on a train and spend the day there is always welcome.

On dad’s recommendation we ate at the The Cambridge Chop House. Situated on Kings Parade and just opposite Kings College, there can’t be many restaurants with a better view than this one. It was a long leisurely meal that provided ample opportunity for family updates and reminiscing. There was also the inevitable protracted Brexit discussion. Probably the only good thing to come out of Brexit is putting paid to the cliche that the British only talk about the weather.

My Mother died a couple of years ago now and thinking about her as I travelled home at the end of the day reminded me about a piece I wrote a little while ago. It also felt appropriate to share it after yesterday. 

Mum & Dad in the garden

Mum was meticulous, but in a casual sort of way, if that makes sense. She always knew what she wanted, knew how she thought things should be, but somehow you were never really aware of her doing it. It wasn’t at all unusual to come home and find that things had changed in the house. Sometimes it might be a minor alteration, pictures moved or book shelves rearranged, other days it could be a completely redecorated room, walls and ceiling painted and all of the furniture in different places. 

It wasn’t that dad didn’t get involved involved in the house, simply the case that mum was better at it.

The garden was different though. Here there were definitely his and her zones. Areas where they both felt they had their own expertise. Dads was the lawn. Always immaculately mowed and trimmed, never a weed or daisy in site. He’d spend hours in his old gardening trousers and shoes producing a bowling green that was never bowled on.

The rest of the garden was set to flowers and this was mums world, a riot of colour , always something in bloom. That same casual yet meticulous streak. She would match dads hours in the garden, in her case dressed in shorts and flip flops, bent over or kneeling as she worked on her pride and joy. 

The only thing that ever disturbed this picture of domestic tranquility was if dad had the temerity to stray into mums zone. If dad should take it upon himself to dead head something that didn’t need it. I’m not sure that I ever really saw my parent argue but i think that these must have been some of the closets moments.

It would start with “ Geoffrey, what are you doing “ Geoffrey was reserved for when he was in trouble. Other than that it as always Geoff.

“Only trying to help”

“Well I’m fine thank you, if I need help I’ll ask for it”

At that point a slightly crest fallen dad would leave her to it

Mums gone now but the garden still looks good. Dad has turned his hand to looking after flowers as well as the lawn and even gets to dead head things when he wants to. Although I’m sure he still hears mums voice when he does.