When I was eight or nine, one bed time stands out for ever – remembered along with the time my sister cut my calf-flick fringe.
In that one night, I lost blankets and sheets and much more.
What I lost was something held dear, close to the heart of a son.
The quilt took away being tucked in by my Mum.
‘Drape the sides over the edge of your bed’, Mum said..
‘The air will be trapped, and warm as you sleep, so as to make you snug.’
Dad thought she was barmy, saying one on the bottom was worth two on the top when he was in the army.
Mum smiled saying ‘Terry this is a continental quilt can’t you understand?’
Dad walked down the stairs catching my eye as he smiled, knowing he’d left me alone with Mum in continental quilt wonderland.
Years later, when quilts were a part of my life and tog ratings were second nature,
I remembered fondly my mum bringing home the quilts and the fight for the corners of the multi coloured covers.
One day over a cup of tea at Chatsworth, I told my mum she’d done the right thing.
But I couldn’t tell her that right up to the end of the juniors,
I missed being tucked in.