Widow’s Weeds


Remembrance Sunday.


That day is so important to this United Kingdom.


We stand still and silent for two minutes all wearing a little red flower, a poppy.


We wear it with pride and some sadness. We have so much to thank our fallen for: our liberties, our freedom; our right to be us.


The warriors that survived also paid a price, as did their ladies. We must remember them too.


Up to the turn of the century many house calls were made by widows whose men had fought in the war. Widows looking to sell their man’s clothes. But not only that, they needed to talk about their husbands. They wanted someone to listen. (I learned from the great Peter O’Toole the art of acting is listening. I’m a good listener.)


Most of them said the same thing in different ways.


“When he came home he’d changed.”


“I didn’t know him.”


“He was never the same after the war.”


“He was a different man.”


And more variations on the same theme.


Many of those girls were in bed with a stranger who had done and seen terrible things that he would not, could not talk about. They had to get to know him again and deal with his silent pain.


As the Aussies would say “Good on you girls”. And as this Englishman will say, I thank you ladies, you played your part too, I thank you.










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