On the 11th of the 11th
at 11 o’clock in the morning there is a two minute silence. It is Armistice
day. The red paper poppies that you have been dropping a pound in the box for
over the last few weeks are pinned to your coat. You are meant to stop what you
and doing and “ remember them.”
It was hard on the 11th. Because
it was a Friday and the world was busy. I did manage it. I stood outside
Crystal Palace Sports Centre with my damp hair and stood, for all the world
like someone who had had her “switch” turned off, for two minutes.
Hard for lots of people really. So on the
nearest Sunday to the 11th, they call it Remembrance Sunday and
there is another opportunity at 11 o’clock to be silent. In Waterloo and King’s
Cross Stations, they have big signs inviting all travelers to hold that two
minutes silent. Trains that should leave at 11 leave at 11.05. The sound of
coffee perculators at Costa Coffee stop frothing. Just the hum of the engines
waiting.
I was on Whitehall. The Road that stretches
down from Trafalgar Square to Parliament Square. With Horseguards Parade on the
right and the old Scotland Yard and M.I.5 on the right. Close to where Downing
Street and Churchill’s old War Rooms emerge onto Whitehall, there is a white stone block in the
centre of the road. That is the Cenotaph. And every year on Remembrance Sunday,
the monarch and all members of the royal family who have served in the
military, along with current and former primeministers and significant
politicians , and leaders of all the major faiths and commonwealth
representatives; lay a wreath of red poppies.
There is a military band and columns of
marching men in uniform. There are choir boys and the household cavalry on
horseback. And at the centre there are hundreds of men and women with medals
pinned to their chests. In wheelchairs, with walking sticks; stooped over,
shoulders back; in scraps of uniform like a weathered cap; all with polished
shoes.
People line the streets, climbing up onto
ledges of buildings to get a better look. The Queen comes out to stand in front
of the cenotaph, followed by everyone else who has dressed in various colours
of dark. There is ruffling and shoes cracking down on concrete.
At 11 o’clock, Big Ben sounds, and a cannon
is fired in Horse Guards Parade. And everyone is silent. I couldn’t see the
Queen from where I was standing, but I could see the smoke from the cannon and
I could hear the odd child that had been bribed with too much sugar still
asking questions. But it was mostly, totally silent. As people obeyed the
invitation to remember.
And after two minutes, the cannon fired
again and in complete silence the queen walks up to the cenotaph lays her
wreath and walks backwards to her place. Followed by everyone else.
Next year I can watch it on television. But
this year, I was there. Under the lucky
bright blue London sky. In the middle of the silence.
My Auntie Connie is almost silent.
Went to South Wales yesterday. It was windy
and raining and grey as we got off the train. I know there are lovely things
about south wales, but not in these mining towns built in grey stone under grey
skies.
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| sister julie sheltering from the rain |
I remember driving down as a child to visit
‘relations.’ From our house with it’s blue front door, red carpet and orange
wallpaper ( my mother was determined to blast monochrome from her life) . We
would make our way to Leonard Street and my mother would sigh the sigh that we
all knew meant,” This is why I had to get out.”
Auntie Connie was my mother’s cousin. They
were the same age and they lived next door to each other.
Auntie Connie didn’t leave. She got stuck
behind looking after her widowed mother. Her beau, Gordon, courted her for over
twenty-five years waiting for her mother to release her. In the end, he gave up
and he and Connie got married and all three of them lived in that little house
in Leonard Street. When ‘Mum’ died, they moved up the hill to a bungalow. He
grew beans and did lawn bowling. She did amateur dramatics. They both spent
evenings at the RAF club.
She said once, quietly, that her one regret
was that she didn’t have children.
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| in the conservatory for tea in June |
Their tiny living room has a hospital bed
in it now. Two lovely carers come in four times a day and make sure Connie is
comfortable and Gordon has some hot food.
Connie is a little incoherent. But she saw
us. And held our hands, bringing them up to her mouth to give them a kiss.
She saw my brother on my little phone
calling in from New Zealand.
I’ve made it down to Neath three times over
the summer.
The first we had lunch in the kitchen and
tea in the conservatory.
The second, she was in hospital. In a pink
nightie with her blue eyeshadow and her powder in place. Where she had all the
nurses on the ward hanging around the end of her bed, telling stories and
sharing lipsticks, laughing with her. Saying, “ I wish my mum was like her.”
This third time, she is in a green nightie.
She doesn’t have her teeth in or her eyeshadow on. She is sleeping a lot.
when she knew she might have visitors, she had the lady come in to "do" her hair. What she did say very clearly to us was, “ I
shouldn’t be here.”
Very Connie.
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| her favorite photo of she and Gordon |
Lucky me to have an Auntie Connie.
Lucky me.
