Lest We Forget ...

from Jacqueline

Well, as you can imagine, the newspapers here have been having a field day this week, drawing lines of similarity between the Fall of Blair and the Burning Bush. Today's Independent newspaper charted the fate of those international leaders who had supported the invasion of Iraq, and the way in which they've gone down, one by one. Interesting, eh? And with the headline on the day after the US midterms elections declaring, "It's the war, stupid," along with a photo of GW, there was particular poignancy coming at a time when virtually the whole population of Britain is wearing a red poppy in honor of Remembrance Day (the British Veteran's day) on November 11th. Lest We Forget.

In Britain November 11th is not a say of sales, a day that heralds Thanksgiving, or some other big national holiday. Instead, it is a day to remember the dead of all wars, to reflect upon their sacrifice, whether willing or not. At 11 o'clock, the exact time that the Armistice was signed to mark the end of hostilities on that cold November day in 1918, buses will come to a standstill, supermarket and boutique tills alike will cease to ring, and people will stand in silence, just for two minutes, to reflect upon those who have died in a time of war. Today, at Paddington Station, I watched as a group of teens allowed an elderly man pin poppies to their sweatshirts - the manner in which the younger generation respects the day touches me as much as the rituals of their grandparents who remember, perhaps, the Second World War, Korea, or even the Falklands - my, how time flies.

A funny thing happened to me this week - thanks to the internet, I met up with the girl I sat next on my very first day of school, when I was five years old (now, that's going back). We both had blonde braids, big brown eyes and - of course - identical school uniforms. People used to ask if we were twins. We lost touch in our teens, moving in different directions. I remember the day my mother called to tell me that Wendy's brother, who had joined the navy, had been killed when an Exocet missile hit his ship in the Falkland's war. I remembered him so clearly, remembered that on Wendy's first sleepover, her brother had cycled all the way out to our house the next morning, because he missed her so much. My mother bought us popsicles, which we savored while looking out at the warm summer thunderstorm he'd just missed.

We talked about him this week, my old friend and I. She told me that, twenty-four years on, she still can't believe that he's gone. Her eldest brother, who was partially sighted, was struck completely blind with the shock of his brother's death.

Since I began writing my novels about Maisie Dobbs, a former wartime nurse turned private investigator - a woman as shell-shocked as any man who has gone to war - I have received many emails from the veterans of war, so "Lest We Forget" is something of a constant. Just before I left for the UK last week, I received a letter from a lady of 94 whose father took his own life when she was a child - he could no longer live with his memories of the Great War. She told me that my books had helped her to answer some questions, to give her some level of peace, in being able to understandwhat he might have suffered. It's very humbling to receive such a letter, and - I hope - explains why, sometimes, I just can't let the pity of war go.

On Saturday afternoon, though, I will be at a wedding. My best friend's son is getting married to the love of his life. Perhaps it's a good day for them to be wed, for Ian, a soldier, has already seen action in Bosnia and Afghanistan. The sun is set to shine tomorrow as friends and family come together to encircle them with love and blessing for their future together.

I'll be flying home on Tuesday, back to a US of A that will have changed not one bit, but, on the other hand, more than a little since my departure. After some three months on the road with my book tour, I can't wait for my days to take on the rhythm of ordinariness, to begin writing my next book, and to see my husband every day.

So, seeing as I'm in the land of my birth, on this weekend of remembrance, reflection - and hope - I will leave you with the words of Rupert Brooke, who died of wounds in The Great War, 1914-1918. This fragment is from the poem: The Old Vicarage, Grantchester and was written in 1912.

"oh! yet Stands the Church clock at ten to three?And is there honey still for tea?"