There is an abundance of primroses at Kilmashogue. The profligacy of nature points up the parsimonious attitude of Dublin developers who regard anything of beauty as an unnecessary extravagance, building thousands of identical houses, as many as possible to the acre, with no space left just to be there.
Primroses were the flower of Easter at home. In the mild climate of the English West Country, the daffodils were past and no one had yet thought of selling mass-produced lilies at entrances to supermarkets.
Primroses grew under the hedgerows along the roads around our village. They were the flowers used to decorate little Easter gardens made from moss and stones, with crosses fashioned from ice-lolly sticks. In my whole life, I have only attended church in England once at Easter, so the primroses are what recall the Easter story that was told in our primary school year by year.
The sight of the primroses this morning, flourishes of yellow along the green banks of the lane, brought back poignant memories of Miss Rabbage, our schoolteacher who lived alone and drove a little Austin A35 car. Miss Rabbage would have loved the primroses.
I went through the phone book recently to try to find Miss Rabbage, I had this vain hope of finding her to say ‘thank you’. She retired at the age of sixty in 1972; that would make her ninety-four, if she were alive. I could find no number.
There are the primroses though; the colour of Easter and resurrection and the hope of seeing people again, the hope of saying ‘thank you’ to Miss Rabbage.