It’s possible that I’ve known Elizabeth longer than anyone. Her mother Margaret (Peggie to us) was my mother’s cousin; Andrew, her father, was a magistrate in India, and when the British had to leave, Peggie came ahead with Elizabeth and toddler Humphrey to live with us on the Isle of Wight while waiting for Andrew’s eventual return.
She – “Lizzie” then, and for me, always – was four, a pretty wee darling with blond curls and big blue eyes, very bright and chatty (no change there!) but rather serious. She already was, and remained all her life, pragmatic, and liked to know how things stood: carefully watching through the car window on picnic trips, she would regularly call out, “That would be a good place!” in preparation for any toilet emergency. It became a saying in our family for years. When I got married, in a very low-key ceremony, it was Lizzie, who happened to be in London at that time, who alone thought to bring a camera to the registry office; her black and white snaps are the only photos I have of our wedding, and are still hanging on my wall.
But that is not the only thing I’m grateful for. Though physically apart, for the rest of our lives we stayed in touch, especially during some acutely anxious times, as well as the joys, that our children brought to both of us. And she was a generous host in York, not just to me and the children but even for my adult son and his wife, as I suspect she was for very many people. Her kindness in including me in the weekly family Zoom for her “Crumblies” brought me unexpected pleasure, and I shall sorely miss that smile and chirpy wee Scottish voice. She was so cheerfully brave in those later years. I was always the older one and never thought it would be I who lost her. Bless you, dear Lizzie.