Lew busied himself making tea while Mum sorted out two jars of her better-than-Harrods jam. Marvelous. Mum did not think she would be able to make it anymore. Picking the berries had become a very hard chore for them both.
“All that bending. Too old for it now, son. Not worth it,” Lew explained.
“Still, never mind, eh?” Mum was happy to move on and leave jam-making behind, somewhat resilient to the limitations age placed upon her.
“How’s the blackcurrant bush doing?” I inquired, smiling, trying to make conversation, trying to ignore what Lew was saying.
“Bigger than ever. Running wild it is, right, Jessie?”
“But who can pick ‘em?” she said, again with a slight nervous laugh.
I admired the two jars Mum had given to us. The tops were covered in parchment paper and tied with string. I held them up and studied them like bottles of fine wine, the last of the vintage.
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