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I am wiped out. They do not speak my name. She has it all now—children, goods, the lot. No contest; I am dead and have no claim.
She walks in—the surroundings are the same - pours tea, snaps roses’ heads. And I shall rot. I am wiped out and they don’t speak my name.
Routines go on; she drives my children home from school and tucks the baby in his cot. I won’t protest; I’m dead and have no claim.
She entertains his friends—the ones who came before my time, smiles, savours all she’s got. I am wiped out. They do not speak my name.
You hear faint whispers, hints she has no shame, but it no longer matters who did what, considering I am dead, and have no claim.
The man we loved gets very little blame; she did, but now she’s here, and I am not. I am wiped out and they don’t speak my name, seeing that I am dead, and have no claim.
ISBN-13 978 1 904886 46 4. ISBN-10 1 904886 46 9 Slowly, he came round. He knew this was the Intensive Care Unit, but he’d been dreaming of sixty years back, walking Yarmouth sands with his father,
who’d told him about Newton, the discovery of light, how the seven colours blend into white at last, and of how he had said:
I seem to myself to have been like a boy playing next to the sea, picking up some bright shell or pebble while before me the mighty ocean lay unexplored.
Three doctors sat round his bed. They introduced themselves as specialists, so he knew this was crunch time. One said:
‘Good afternoon, Mr Smith. A scientist, aren’t you? Yes, a distinguished scientist. Four days we’ve been reducing your medication
so you can understand what’s going on. It isn’t good news, unfortunately. If we end the treatment now, you will die. If we continue, you will
still die, some weeks or months from now. It would mean kidney machines, exhaustion, a long struggle and no good outcome. What do you wish us to do?’
Next to the German Ocean, his father had told him the shells he liked to pick up were the hard casing of creatures that lived in the sand or rocks, whose bodies
were washed out by the sea when they died. There is no God— he thought—but I can cope with that. How the old man— a parson, had grieved when he had made the decision
to follow truth step after logical step. He said: ‘I prefer to die now, when I’m in control. Please take that oxygen mask; it will not be needed’. The February light dribbled away.
The grandchildren came in, in tears, prepared to argue. The girl, in particular, looked like him. He thought, ‘I’ll walk into the darkness
open-eyed, the colours will not be lost, the atoms regroup themselves. ‘I am leaving’, he said, and turned to the ocean.
ISBN-13 978 1 904886 46 4. ISBN-10 1 904886 46 9 I don’t trust him. I don’t believe he will look after my children. He’s crying, of course—tears were always easy for him. How I fear that Barnardo’s is waiting. How I dread them being shipped to Australia.
A cluster of little heads round the big double bed; I count them. William, Catherine, Eliza, Benjamin, Alice. Ten, eight, six, three, one. Who is going to look after them? And there’s shouting down there in the street; we have no friends. Do I want some better-off woman to take my baby, give her a new name, tell her nothing about me? Do I want my son taken into the army— they’re on the lookout for boys. And the migrant ships are waiting; the white race is poised to conquer the world.
And it’s a grey morning in 1892. The recording angel is writing my name; I see him. And in this dream I see bits of the future; my daughter going for a servant, no man will ever marry her, and she’ll die young. Three-year-old Ben with his baby cheeks; that cough frightens me, but I can’t raise my head; I am drowning slowly and they’re clinging hard to their father. I don’t trust him.
Note: About three years ago I did a lot of research on my husband’s ancestors among the working classes of Norfolk and Great Yarmouth. He is the direct descendant of a man who somehow kept his family together after being left a widower, but there was a brother who, I’m pretty sure, abandoned his children when his wife died. Her name was Eliza Hemp, her age about thirty-five
ISBN-13 978 1 904886 46 4. ISBN-10 1 904886 46 9
With great reluctance, with a profound sense of responsibility, I ordered air strikes. My thoughts are with the gallant men and women who, as I speak, are carrying them out.
I had no choice. This act was forced upon me by the appalling, and wholly unacceptable behaviour of our enemies.
I deeply regret any civilian casualties which may unhappily (but, I hope, in small numbers) occur as a result. My hands are clean. As I have explained repeatedly, the fault is not ours, but that of other people.
Those films the other side insist on showing of children’s coffins (probably empty) being carried through streets of mourners are a disgraceful propaganda stunt (which won’t succeed) to play on the emotions of those who cannot see the wider picture.
Finally, may I take this opportunity to thank you for the many greetings cards I and my family have received this week And wish you all a very happy Christmas.
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