Oh to be here.
Easter under a palm tree and every cousin in the world. Whitehall having given uncle’s regiment more time but who knows for how long. Could be in Hong Kong next or up the Yukon. Better to go now.
A house bigger than anyone has in Wales and servants just to open and close the doors. Paper chains in pretty colors wrapped around the banisters all the way up to the nursery on the top floor. A week sitting in the back garden making them in shifts, but it just wouldn’t be Easter otherwise.
Good Friday and nothing to do after church. Everyone else at work. Mostly Muslim and their own holidays. Not like January, the governess said. The opposite with days slept away and noise every night once darkness fell.
But an outing to see the Pyramids. Hot and everything too tall to climb. But a picnic with Grandmama in the shade below the Sphinx’s right ear and a nap before the little train comes back.
Off to the Anglican cathedral in the morning and then a gymkhana at the royal governor’s mansion. Home and then sleep.
So many cousins there is an Easter basket behind every curtain. All morning to hunt for eggs in the sand. . . .enough memories of warmth to last an entire British misted in life long . . .
