Post by Stinky on Feb 1, 2022 16:21:12 GMT 1
A while ago I found some history on my house.
Confirmed by Annie who has lived in the village all her life as did her parents.
So I wrote this.
.
Today I met a Granny.
.
Sunshine and warmth.
Such a lovely day, clear skies marked only by criss cross vapour trails taking souls to their families, or their holidays, or their work.
Sitting in the courtyard, grading walnuts, I watch the silver bird and wish them God speed.
Bijou, my rescue cat sleeps by my feet.
A gentle face is watching me through the gates.
Smiling and patient.
A babe, asleep, is wrapped and held comfortably in her left arm.
She is old and I have not seen her before.
Click the latch and greet her.
A kiss for me and she is in front of the house.
Standing, staring.
I was here,she says.
I was here.
I take her in and her grip on my arm is fearsome.
A coffee?
No, just water.
Just water, that is all we were allowed.
The garden, I must see the garden.
A stone step is her seat and I sit next to her.
She takes my hand and her chest heaves, uncontrollable sobs.
And she talks.
Fifteen and she is pregnant.
An angry father and she is sent away.
To my house.
My house was a school, but now I know what type of school it was.
For young girls.
She has worked in my garden and scrubbed my floors.
Gone to bed hungry and ashamed.
And had her baby taken away.
And pushed back into everyday life.
With no thought for her.
We talk and she asks of my life.
Sylvie asks of my life.
And ashamed of my ease of life, I ask of hers.
An old lady, standing proud, takes my hand, babe in arm and walks me to my house.
Here I scrubbed pots.
Here I washed vegetables.
Here I was beaten.
Here I had my baby.
Here I slept.
Listening to other girls crying in their sleep.
Her hand strokes my face, watery eyes looking through me.
The baby snuffles, weeks old only.
I must go, but this school has changed.
Keep this happiness.
Keep it.
I close the gate and watch an old lady walk up the road.
A head turned and a smile to melt your heart.
Back to the walnuts, a job to be finished.
But I know Sylvie is back with her baby.
.
.
My gates squeal when opened.
I am happy with that,’tis like a doorbell.
The courtyard is gravelled, crunchy footsteps a second greeting.
Or a warning.
I have cleaned the glass on the log burning stove, it will not be needed today, but the evenings can be different, so I am to restock kindling and logs.
Basket in hand, I step into the courtyard.
Sylvie is there.
Quietly sitting in a garden chair, her little one asleep in the crook of her left arm.
I heard neither squeal nor crunch.
And a girl is with her.
Thin, tired and so young.
And a baby in her left arm.
Sylvie’s face lights up and I am kissed, a hand holding mine tightly.
The girl is trembling, unable to hold my gaze.
Sylvie kneels, a hand to the girl’s face and soft words.
A nod, a look of trust and she turns to me.
A smile tried and failed.
An old woman, a waif, two newborns and I, enter my kitchen.
Sylvie was here yesterday.
And introduces me to her friend, Genevieve.
Neither tell me their baby’s names.
Genevieve.
Show me the room.
Sylvie looks at her and silently nods.
Show me the room.
Up the stairs I follow.
Sylvie leading Genevieve.
But awkwardly, they are holding hands.
But right hand to right hand.
My bedroom.
Here, says Genevieve, here.
It is different, but the same.
Turning a circle, she looks and I know the question before she asks.
Genevieve, were you in the wardrobe?
Pain.
Fear.
No, not fear, terror.
How did you know?
Her hand in mine, face to face.
I tell her I demolished the wardrobe the first day we moved in.
I tell her of the fear of that tiny room that I felt.
And I tell her of the angry woman that I saw in the rocking chair, watching me dismantle it.
Her utter contempt and disgust and anger at my actions.
And that I have never seen her in my house since.
And a little girl smiles, right hand pulling my collar down to plant a kiss on a forehead that she cannot reach otherwise.
And now she talks.
We had to work to the day we gave birth.
We had to earn and our work payed for us.
Sylvie strokes her hair.
Love, unasked and undemanded is there.
Side by side, they talk, happy and gaining confidence.
And right hand holding right hand.
And so I ask.
They look at each other and laugh.
And look to me as though an idiot.
We have the babies for eight weeks to breast feed.
It costs them nothing while homes for our babies are found.
But we have to work.
Baby left hand.
Work, right hand.
Keep the school like this says Genevieve.
Please.
They are leaving.
You have not told me, Sylvie and Genevieve.
What did you name your children?
Two sad smiles.
We were not allowed to name them.
Genevieve.
I was alone for so long.
But now Sylvie is back.
We gave birth in the same bed at the same time.
Confirmed by Annie who has lived in the village all her life as did her parents.
So I wrote this.
.
Today I met a Granny.
.
Sunshine and warmth.
Such a lovely day, clear skies marked only by criss cross vapour trails taking souls to their families, or their holidays, or their work.
Sitting in the courtyard, grading walnuts, I watch the silver bird and wish them God speed.
Bijou, my rescue cat sleeps by my feet.
A gentle face is watching me through the gates.
Smiling and patient.
A babe, asleep, is wrapped and held comfortably in her left arm.
She is old and I have not seen her before.
Click the latch and greet her.
A kiss for me and she is in front of the house.
Standing, staring.
I was here,she says.
I was here.
I take her in and her grip on my arm is fearsome.
A coffee?
No, just water.
Just water, that is all we were allowed.
The garden, I must see the garden.
A stone step is her seat and I sit next to her.
She takes my hand and her chest heaves, uncontrollable sobs.
And she talks.
Fifteen and she is pregnant.
An angry father and she is sent away.
To my house.
My house was a school, but now I know what type of school it was.
For young girls.
She has worked in my garden and scrubbed my floors.
Gone to bed hungry and ashamed.
And had her baby taken away.
And pushed back into everyday life.
With no thought for her.
We talk and she asks of my life.
Sylvie asks of my life.
And ashamed of my ease of life, I ask of hers.
An old lady, standing proud, takes my hand, babe in arm and walks me to my house.
Here I scrubbed pots.
Here I washed vegetables.
Here I was beaten.
Here I had my baby.
Here I slept.
Listening to other girls crying in their sleep.
Her hand strokes my face, watery eyes looking through me.
The baby snuffles, weeks old only.
I must go, but this school has changed.
Keep this happiness.
Keep it.
I close the gate and watch an old lady walk up the road.
A head turned and a smile to melt your heart.
Back to the walnuts, a job to be finished.
But I know Sylvie is back with her baby.
.
.
My gates squeal when opened.
I am happy with that,’tis like a doorbell.
The courtyard is gravelled, crunchy footsteps a second greeting.
Or a warning.
I have cleaned the glass on the log burning stove, it will not be needed today, but the evenings can be different, so I am to restock kindling and logs.
Basket in hand, I step into the courtyard.
Sylvie is there.
Quietly sitting in a garden chair, her little one asleep in the crook of her left arm.
I heard neither squeal nor crunch.
And a girl is with her.
Thin, tired and so young.
And a baby in her left arm.
Sylvie’s face lights up and I am kissed, a hand holding mine tightly.
The girl is trembling, unable to hold my gaze.
Sylvie kneels, a hand to the girl’s face and soft words.
A nod, a look of trust and she turns to me.
A smile tried and failed.
An old woman, a waif, two newborns and I, enter my kitchen.
Sylvie was here yesterday.
And introduces me to her friend, Genevieve.
Neither tell me their baby’s names.
Genevieve.
Show me the room.
Sylvie looks at her and silently nods.
Show me the room.
Up the stairs I follow.
Sylvie leading Genevieve.
But awkwardly, they are holding hands.
But right hand to right hand.
My bedroom.
Here, says Genevieve, here.
It is different, but the same.
Turning a circle, she looks and I know the question before she asks.
Genevieve, were you in the wardrobe?
Pain.
Fear.
No, not fear, terror.
How did you know?
Her hand in mine, face to face.
I tell her I demolished the wardrobe the first day we moved in.
I tell her of the fear of that tiny room that I felt.
And I tell her of the angry woman that I saw in the rocking chair, watching me dismantle it.
Her utter contempt and disgust and anger at my actions.
And that I have never seen her in my house since.
And a little girl smiles, right hand pulling my collar down to plant a kiss on a forehead that she cannot reach otherwise.
And now she talks.
We had to work to the day we gave birth.
We had to earn and our work payed for us.
Sylvie strokes her hair.
Love, unasked and undemanded is there.
Side by side, they talk, happy and gaining confidence.
And right hand holding right hand.
And so I ask.
They look at each other and laugh.
And look to me as though an idiot.
We have the babies for eight weeks to breast feed.
It costs them nothing while homes for our babies are found.
But we have to work.
Baby left hand.
Work, right hand.
Keep the school like this says Genevieve.
Please.
They are leaving.
You have not told me, Sylvie and Genevieve.
What did you name your children?
Two sad smiles.
We were not allowed to name them.
Genevieve.
I was alone for so long.
But now Sylvie is back.
We gave birth in the same bed at the same time.