Muriel’s generosity was apparent even in the smallest of gestures. I was a rather shy undergraduate, one of the dozens of students who threw themselves into the worshipping life of Mary Mags, and I was touched the first time I received a Christmas card from her; I didn’t think she knew who I was. The card was of an angel, cut out of a Christmas card she had received the year before, and stuck on a new white card with ‘sold in aid of St Mary Magdalen, Oxford’ stamped on the back.
Every Advent after that she would often hand the card over personally, rather than put it on the press. “You will know why I chose this one,” she would tell me, “it’s the one with the most Pre-Raphaelite hair.” There are six of them, in a box in my office, each with a wish of Christmas joy in her fine calligraphy, so unlike the scrawl in the cards I sent to her in return. Alongside them is a handkerchief with scalloped edges which she sent, care of Fr Peter, to Norfolk on my wedding day. Something old to take with me, with her best wishes and love. I hope it was not supposed to be something borrowed, because I am glad to keep it as a fond token of her kindness.