Josephine

Any moment now, the photographer will be here. I’ve spent all morning waiting for the right moment to get the children and myself ready. All the ‘Sunday best’ was ready last night, freshly washed, starched, pressed, brushed and polished. Fred likes us to have a photo each year. An extravagance, but he says it will be nice to look back on – to see how our little family grows. Dear Fred.

But, Dear Fred also knows this is Bramble Jelly day. I’ve been watching the hedgerows all week, waiting for those berries to soak up the last of the summer sunshine, to be perfection itself with ripe sweetness, bursting open at the gentlest of bites with an explosion of flavours. Then, what joyous flavours they will make in my famous Bramble Jelly! Of course, it would be today that I discover that perfection has arrived, when all starched and white we must be ready for the photographer – not a berry stain in sight.

I’m pacing. I’ve been pacing all morning! From the window in the hall to check the path, back to the grandfather clock in the hall to check the time. The minutes have crawled past. And 10 minutes ago, I finally took the plunge to dress the children – trying at all costs to avoid the opportunity for them to brush past the dirty fireplace, or skip and crawl through the grass in the garden and get knees and socks dirty. Katherine was a lamb – allowing me to dress her today, which I don’t normally do, but in the interests of haste and cleanliness… Isabel crawled around our feet babbling away, and – for one frightful moment – got her hands upon the looking glass, which thankfully did not smash. She laughed at my tickles as I dressed her and she keeps rubbing her hair back out of its neatness into a birds nest. The brush will be called for right before the photographer takes his shot! How I will keep her still I do not know.

I’m wearing my blackbird-black skirt, with neat pleats; a few more surreptitiously added when the tears from my daily walks by the brambled hedgerow had done too much mischief and shredded the thing. Fred still doesn’t know that I paid far more than I really ought to for the fabric – but it is divine, and I intend to make it last. And best of all, not a blackberry stain will show! My blouse was economy itself, the best poplin at a bargain price – because off-white was not quite the thing for this season. But I on my hedgerow walks and homely duties don’t care one bit. The lace scarf I’ve arranged around my neck was a gift, from Mother. That too was an extravagance I think, but it is treasured, not because of price but the giver.

Ah! I hear his footsteps at last. Away we must go to the garden. I’m praying the shot will be perfect first time, and the girls will sit perfectly still. The berries will not keep, and we must at once tear off the Sunday best and dash out to go a’ berry picking before the blackbirds have their mischief with my treasure.

“Come, my loves. It’s time!”