Peggy
Summer was gone. The vineyards were gold and russet, the terrace wet, the sky West of Scotland grey and the air chill. Peggy died that morning. Dear Peggy. A couple of years previously I had looked after her in her daughter's house in nearby Montfort sur Argens after she had fallen fracturing her arm and cutting her legs badly. An ex-colonial born in Africa where she lived until her husband’s retirement, we bonded over Doris Lessing, Muriel Spark and Karen Blixen. She was 92.
