These days I seem to have a senior moment every year, somewhere around mid-April to mid-May, when I suddenly have to ask myself, ‘Have we had Easter yet?’ I will, however, have no trouble in remembering this year’s Easter Sunday.
By rights we should have been at a family gathering at my younger daughter’s house in Walton-on-Thames. I had bought Easter eggs (Cadbury Chocolate Buttons, ‘buy one get one free’ at Carrefour) for my grandchildren Tom and Phoebe, but I had an additional treat in store for them. A couple of months ago I’d seen some youngsters playing with toy drones down by the river and they looked great fun. Checking on Amazon, I was surprised at how relatively cheap they were and, knowing Tom and Phoebe’s love of gadgets, I thought I would get them one. It arrived last week, and a few experimental flights in our back garden convinced me that I’d made an inspired choice. It was easy to use and fascinating to watch; I knew they would love it.
The coronavirus has of course put paid to our travelling plans, and we were resigned to celebrating quietly at home. Yesterday afternoon, while looking sadly at the Easter eggs and drone sitting on a shelf in the living room, I started reflecting on Easters from my own childhood. Being brought up as Roman Catholics, we were taught at school about the importance of self-sacrifice at Lent, and for children the most obvious form that this should take would be the giving up of sweets. I remember the growing excitement and sense of anticipation as Easter Sunday drew nearer and we could break our abstinence with a gargantuan chocolate binge. The Easter eggs our parents would provide were nearly always augmented by gifts brought by numerous doting aunts and uncles who had come to visit over Easter. To a child’s delighted eyes the house would seem briefly to have turned into a chocolate warehouse. Everywhere one looked there were chocolate eggs, along with any number of Rowntree’s Selection Packs, boxes of Black Magic, Milk Tray and the like. What innocent joy it all conjured up.
It was then I had my grand idea. Across the street, a couple of doors up from us, live the Boissier family, Jean-Claude, Bernadette, and their daughter Matilde, who is 9. They’re rather quiet and reserved, but they are nice people who have always been very friendly to us. I knew, because Bernadette had told me, that they were devout Catholics and that Matilde went to the Sacré-Coeur Convent in rue de la Cathédrale. There was, I thought, a strong chance that the child would have given up sweets for Lent and, even if not, she would no doubt be delighted to have an additional Easter egg. The coronavirus restrictions meant that they would not be having visitors, and I thought it possible that her parent’s own offering might be relatively modest, as they were very careful about their health and monitored her diet carefully. However, they could surely not object to her having one additional little treat on this special day – particularly given the unusual times we are going through.
I knew that they would not welcome my calling at their door, but why not a special delivery by drone? It took a matter of minutes to confirm that by using a couple of large safety pins I was able to attach the egg, which was actually quite light, to the device, which was powerful enough to lift it. I launched it in the back garden and easily managed to raise it above our roof and move it somewhere over the middle of our house. At the appointed time it would be relatively straightforward to move through the house and then, from the upstairs front window, guide it down to land on the Boissiers’ doorstep, or perhaps even into the delighted child’s hands.
Jean-Claude and I exchange regular bilingual emails as a way of improving my French and his English, so I sent him one telling him to be sure to stand at his front door with Bernadette and Matilde at exactly three o’clock the next day to see something truly magnifique and incroyable. Perhaps I was getting a little carried away but, what the hell, it should at least cheer us all up a little. He was clearly intrigued and said they would be there.
Today at ten to three I went out in the back garden to prepare for lift-off. Once the egg was securely attached to the drone, I decided to try a little practice manoeuvre. I flicked the switch on the remote. Nothing happened. I flicked it several more times. Nothing. The horrible truth dawned on me; the battery was dead. I could have wept. By now it was two minutes to three. Too late to recharge it. There was nothing for it but to go out and explain ruefully to the Boissiers my good intentions. Drone and egg in hand I went to open our front door.
For the next few minutes, everything seems to happen in slow motion. The Boissiers are at their doorway as instructed. Madame and Monsieur Boissier are standing stock-still with their mouths open, Matilde is in front of them with Bernadette’s left hand covering her eyes. In the middle of the street, directly outside their house are two dogs engaged in something that an animal-lover would probably defend as perfectly natural. I stress that I am not trying to excuse myself in any way (after all it was hardly my fault), but it is quite likely that the sudden spell of unseasonably hot weather and the fact that our streets are currently strangely deserted may well have had something to do with it.
I stand transfixed for a second and then I am suddenly pushed aside. Madame S, who has no doubt observed the scene from the window, emerges into the street with a red plastic bucket of water which she aims in the direction of the distracted canines. This is partly successful, because they immediately cease what they are doing and scurry off. Unfortunately, she has underestimated her own strength and has also managed to drench Matilde. With a loud shriek Madame Boissier yanks the child indoors. Jean-Claude stares at me as if hypnotised for nearly a minute before following them and quietly closing the door.
It is now 7 p.m. Madame S has not spoken to me since and has retired to bed. She has also confiscated the drone. Jean-Claude has sent me a long, rather uncivil email which, amongst other things, refers to ‘the bizarre sense of English humour’. I thought about replying, pointing out his syntactical error but decided to leave that for another day. Instead I am watching The World at War (Battle of Stalingrad), eating chocolate buttons and reflecting on the wisdom of Oscar Wilde’s: ‘No good deed goes unpunished’.