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and rewarding work – individually tutoring children with special needs and challenging behaviour, many of whom had been excluded from school. I felt bereft. I desperately missed the children and the buzz of watching them blossom and grow in confidence, thanks to the magic of one-toone support. In June, there had been a welcome distraction. A daughter had been born to my son Matthew and his wife, Zenia. They lived abroad, so I had the excitement of flying out to cuddle my newest grandchild. My daughter, Sarah, son-in-law, Chris, and my small grandson Robert had come to stay soon afterwards. Their second child was due in October, and their visit was filled with plans and happy anticipation. But once they had gone back to London, there was an eerie, disconcerting silence in the garden. The house, without non-stop snacks and conversations and the clutter of toys, felt lonely and sterile. It was empty-nest syndrome all over again. Although I had become involved in other projects, they didn’t keep me busy enough. I was missing my work. I would have to fall back on that time-honoured reason for hanging up my teaching aids – gardening. But this gentle pastime was, once again, turning out to be more of a frustration than a pleasure. During the ten years leading up to my retirement, I had been so time-limited that any gardening happened in a blunderbuss fashion. My sporadic sorties into the garden were about flailing around for quick fixes: mowing the grass, hacking down the brambles and shoving a few annuals into the earth, most of which got eaten. As I found out when I retired, my marauding molluscs had once again taken
9781408826584 A Slow Passion (507h) 2.indd 106
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