Sunday, December 28th

IT HAS NOT BEEN the best of Christmases … I missed the real moment … that one always waits for. But this year it never really came … I think because it is very hard now being with Judy alone, Judy who is not there and has become terribly restless. The small frustrations are hard to bear in the middle of trying to lift the whole huge package that is Christmas. For instance, we always have breakfast in my big bed, and that is a lovely way of starting our day, looking out on the ocean and waves breaking in the distance to the left, and when there is sun, the sunlight touching the small brilliant objects on the bureau, with Tamas sitting beside us hoping for a small piece of toast, and Bramble purring on the end of the bed. That is lovely, but getting to it is often quite a struggle … one day Judy took off her nightgown five times and each time I explained, “Don’t get dressed; we are having breakfast in bed!” I run up and down the stairs five or six times to be sure she is ready, and there she is with her nightgown off again, thrown into the wastebasket once! But finally we make it, and then there is good hot coffee and peace for a half hour or so.

I would like to remember the good moments … the first that comes to mind was dawn yesterday. I had promised Mary-Leigh to go out before seven and decide whether we should call the snowplough or not. It was still dark, a waning moon, very bright in the south and a single brilliant star beside it shone on the frozen crust of the snow. The sea was quiet after the storm and in the perfect silence my boots made loud crackles on the icy ruts; Tamas ran joyfully ahead, surprised into barks by this unexpected dawn walk. That was a perfect moment, the fresh new day.

Another was Christmas Eve, getting everything ready for Anne and Barbara, who came to join us for dinner after an exhausting day at the airport in Boston getting the children off. It was good to watch them relax by the fire, and for the only time this Christmas I read “The Tree” and “Nativity.” It is really an exquisite tree this year, reflected in the big windows at both ends of the library, so there are three trees alight at the same time. “This is my real family,” looking at B. and A., I thought. All through this Christmas I have been haunted by Ruth Pitter’s poem “The Lost Tribe”: The last stanza is

I know not why I am alone,

Nor where my wandering tribe is gone,

But be they few, or be they far,

Would I were where my people are!