The sky has cleared. I think Ilse did it, early last week, with some sort of magic only six year olds can muster. Well, perhaps not. But whatever the reason, the blanketing cloud has lifted and we have been given sunlight, starlight, and frosty mornings.
I finished Ilse’s new summer dress and gave it to her, fresh from the machine, to twirl around the house in. She had her little missions: to show it to Daddy, then Fliss, then Ben and Seb, before remembering to glance in the mirror and see how it looks for herself. Everyone satisfied her – and my – need for admiration for this simple little creation, and she was delighted. She’s an easy girl to please, really. She loves everything I make for her. So I wasn’t really surprised when she asked if she might wear her new dress for the rest of the day.
Some mothers might not let their little girls wear sleeveless cotton frocks on chilly February days. Away from the fire, the days have been grey and damp. I couldn’t brave it, myself. But really, how could I say no to so delightful a request? I shuddered, smiled and said a deliberate yes.
It turns out that Ilse couldn’t brave it, either. She lasted all of ten minutes before reappearing in corduroy and wool, with (hopefully) some thermal underwear beneath. She handed me the dress, to fold gently and lay away in the drawer of waiting summer clothes. Then she marched to the window, pointed to the sky and commanded: Hurry up, sun!
And hurry up it did. It was there to greet us the next day, presiding over a glittering street. It stayed all through the long morning, luring me out of doors. By the afternoon it had swung round to the front of the house where it lounged on the armchairs, cat-like, warming the seats. It has stopped with us all week, transforming the end of February into something March-like, something joyful.
I took advantage of its presence to finally dig my new bed, turning the lawn over and under itself. At last there is new ground for plants to grow in. I let the hens out of their run while I worked, and we were outside for so long that even the giddy one gave up her running and flapping and turned to pecking at the earth around my feet, before finally settling down to fluff her feathers and bathe in all that yellow goodness.
Because really, after this winter, a little sunshine is pure goodness. Everything it touches turns to gold. This spring sunlight has magic in its fingertips: King Midas with a happy ending. And at night, when it goes to bed, the moon follows suit and coats everything in silver. Without the clouds, the night sky is full of diamonds once again. I feel another night walk coming on, with telescopes and star charts and overexcited children.
But that’s had to wait, because I’ve been having fun elsewhere. On Friday Mr White had arranged for members of our soup club to see Cosi Fan Tutte in Leeds. We caught the train home, humming cosily through the night in our own little compartment, remembering this aria or that. I said my goodbyes at York station and cycled home on my own. As I pedalled, I could swear the spheres were singing to me, keeping time. My dynamo swept along the midnight lanes, but it wasn’t really needed. Thanks to Ilse, the world was awash with starlight.— February 28, 1931