Low life | 16 April 2015

To say that Oscar was warmly welcomed as he stepped through the massive oak door into a chilly House of God for the first time in his life on Easter day would be an understatement. Delighted crones came bounding up, mewing and moaning at the rare and unexpected appearance in their midst of an innocent child. One of them thrust her face in his and excitedly interviewed him. ‘What’s your name then, my dear?’ she said, thrilled to meet someone under 70. Oscar diffidently but courageously answered that he was called Oscar. ‘What? What?’ she said, deaf as a post. ‘Do you know what the little chap’s name is?’ she asked my mother, who was standing nearby.

Oscar and my mother live in the same house. They had walked hand in hand up the lane to the church together in the Easter Sunday sunshine. But in spite of this, and try as she might, my mother could not remember her great-grandson’s name right at that moment.