Veronica 3: A miscellany

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Veronica’s Dad, Vic, was a chef. I indirectly profited from this.

Although Veronica was far better behaved at social events than I ever am or was, she rarely initiated them. A sort of shyness seemed to overtake her. However, there were exceptions. Long before I abruptly decided to learn singing she took up painting. Private lessons at first then, uncharacteristically, she joined a weekly art group and, even less uncharacteristically, made several long-lasting friendships.

In rootling through her drawers (ie, furniture not underclothes) I came upon her earlier paintings and was astonished at their quality. I’m not into tombstones, etc, but I can’t think of a better way of enhancing her memory than getting them framed.

Since moving from Kingston-upon-Thames to Hereford 26 years ago we’ve attended more funerals than we ever did during the previous years of our marriage. Although one or two of these lugubrious events might be described as successful most were abject failures. Brits simply aren’t prepared for public mourning and are compelled to fall back on banality and/or shrinking silence. And Veronica agreed. There’ll be no funeral service for her. nor for me, although in my case I won’t have the final word.

Veronica had tiny feet. Size 2.5 in actuality but these are rare and she made do with Size 3. Given her comparatively straitened upbringing, she spent quite large sums on her clothes once we were comfortably off. To my secret horror, given my sartorial tendencies match those of the homeless. Even so, there’s one scarlet coat of hers I doubt I’ll ever dispose of.

Although Veronica had a well-developed sense of humour she rarely laughed aloud. This used to worry me as we watched such rib-ticklers as Groundhog Day and Some Like It Hot. Eventually I accepted it as an offshoot of her built-in restraint.

I’ve often said that human encounters have greater potential for delight than the prettiest of sceneries, I look back on my married life and realise this belief requires some qualification. In all my most memorable geographical experiences (San Francisco, Port Underwood in New Zealand, the west coast of Scotland, the Verdon Gorge in France) Veronica has always been with me. I now know her presence was an essential element in these emotional explosions.

There’s lots more but this is becoming an indulgence. Except to point out there’s an intentional omission in all this. A four-letter word that is both over-used and used  inappropriately, especially, I fear, in the USA. Sorry about that. Brits can take it as read.