Her eighty-fifth birthday, the last birthday she was able to celebrate, was here in my Tottenham flat. Her birthday’s in July and we were fortunate that year; it was a bright, sunny day. Her good friend, Ena drove her over. While we waited for my sister to pick up our Auntie Marie from Eltham, we sat on my little verandah looking across at the park. She advised me about my hostas, pink geraniums, and the elegant Japanese Acer she’d brought me three years previously for my birthday. When everyone had arrived, we sat out on the balcony. Ma pointed out all the new plants in the neighbours’ gardens and in the park ahead and finally when we’d finished off the birthday champagne, we came in for dinner. The grandchildren helped their Grandmother blow out her candles on the cake I had ordered from Belle Epoque, that she loved for the colourful garden design, I’d specially requested, and the others loved for the delicious melee of rich dark chocolate, cointreau and berries.
Ma loved growth. She didn’t aim for a particular design just a feast of colour, as lavish as the precious stones of her noratin jewellery set, that I remember Pa buying for her in Bombay when I was six. Ma’s garden had bright yellow marigold, pale Lords and Ladies, red poppies and blue lilies, tissue paper white peony blooms. The flowering of her fuchsia rhododendrum bush always brought an outpouring of delight. When we came to visit we would sit in the living room, admiring the vibrancy and radiance of Ma’s garden and watch the robins, thrushes, sparrows or the occasional red cap woodpecker helping themselves to the nuts Ma provided for them in their very own bird house.