Warchild

I was born in 1939. My father was in the Royal Navy, my mother in munitions. I was brought up by my maternal grandmother. I remember asking her if there was ever a time when there was "not war". When my stranger father returned at the end of the war, my parents went on to have three sons. I have often pondered on the difference between those born before and after the war.
My poem reflects that experience.

Warchild

It was always war but that is not how I remember it.
In our house it was always nothing doing,
except queuing and baking and cleaning and shooing.
Run away and play. Well, run away anyway.
I watched by the gate to accost passers-by.
I never thought what they thought. Granny told me.
I am always embarrassed but I don't know why.
I am very naughty, I am told.

The house is full of black chairs and brass.
I ask where it comes from. I do not understand the answer.
One night I watch the flames in the sky. It is Manchester.
I practise the name in the cupboard under the stairs where my place is.
Will it always be like this?
Wait till you go to school. You'll have to do as you are told.

Write to your father on this yellow square. What shall I say?
Is that him there in that picture? I am well, are you well?
When are you coming home?
Mam, when's that man going away?

A neighbour looks after me while the pram in the hall is filled
like my friend's with a baby brother.
And another and another.
When's that man going away? Where's Granny gone?

Now I do the queuing and the washing and the surrounds.
Must I? Do I have to? Yes. Take the pram.
For ever and ever.

3/9/99
Margaret Whyte

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