The Reunion

 

It wasn't what I thought it would be. I would never have gone on an outing with my two daughters, my son, and my two grandchildren, have asked my niece, my cousin-in-law, her husband, her son, her daughter, her two grandchildren, and a very sick relative for whom this would be one of the last outings ever, if I had thought about it less idealistically. This was to be the opportunity for bridges and fences to be mended, and for it to be done on a shared boat trip on the Thames, with the relative safety, barring nautical disasters, of an enclosed space for the grandchildren to run about while the two families got to know each other in a civilized manner, distracted where appropriate and when conversation grew awkward, by the witty onboard loudspeaker commentary and, for visitors from abroad, interesting details about the landmarks we would pass on each bank. The other family were to be in the city for one day only and would be unlikely to want to spend it sitting in a cramped living-room in North London rather than seeing the sights. A meal out for a dozen people was beyond my means. How carefully chosen the meeting-place, how carefully explained by email the rendezvous. How excellent if we all met up and passed the time pleasantly, with all thoughts of familial rifts dismissed out of hand and memory. How unnecessary to take such precautions as an exchange of mobile phone numbers. How unprecedented the downpour. How difficult to recognise people with upturned collars and struggling with recalcitrant umbrellas, lashing rain and sudden squalls of wind. How sad to surrender and realise that we were not meeting. How subdued the boat trip. How well behaved after all, the grandchildren, Well, mine. How blazing the sunshine on our disembarkation at Greenwich. How full of reproaches at the day's end the messages we left on each other's landlines. "We were there. Where were you?" "We were there. Where were you?"