Remembering
Did our village remembrance thing last Sunday. I like it because it’s secular but respectful. Bradbury was home to the RAF and the USAF during the last war, and at one end of the village is a rather plain memorial to the many who died. In the Spring every year, the remaining veterans who were stationed here return to visit the village. We used to take it in turns to be hosts, although only people with biggish houses and a downstairs toilet were eligible, since the veterans’ ancient legs can’t manage stairs… Now we have a village marquee – paid for in part by the veterans – and so we erect that in someone’s garden, fill it with bunting, tables and chairs, and serve tea and cakes. So the Spring is when we have the big moment at the memorial, with veterans and their families present. In November, it’s a smaller affair – just the village, some people from the RAF museum near the airport, and this time, one old veteran wearing his medals.
I should say at least thirty people gathered round the memorial at 1050am, on a sharp, bright morning with blue skies. Charlie, a teenager from the Old Rectory, played the last Post and Reveille on his trumpet, my son Joe read something about the origin of the poppy, and I read a poem. Keith Lomax from Bluestone Cottage, who organises the ceremonies every year, made a tactful and touching speech, as always. He has a real empathy with the veterans, even though he wasn’t born until long after the war, and it always moves me to see how his efforts bring us all out of our houses with our children to remember the people who died. I’m a pacifist, and in my rash and angry teenage years would never have gone near a memorial ceremony, let alone wore a red poppy – but I go now because I understand that you can still be opposed to war but have respect for the people who died.
Afterwards, Joe and I went back to the Lomax’s for tea and cake with the veteran, his wife, and the wonderful identical twins from the museum. Middle aged women, they speak in slightly squeaky identical voices (with a Norfolk accent), and finish each other’s sentences. To me, they belong in an Angela Carter novel – slightly surreal, bigger than life and a little bit magical (I only encounter them twice a year!)… But they are my little aesthetic treat. One day I’ll put them in a novel…
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