Shades of grey.

I was in another supermarket, in line behind a woman dressed in turquoise shorts, yellow leather ballet flats and a T-shirt, so dazzlingly white that it had to be brand new. Her necklace was also turquoise; large round stones lying smooth against her dark and slightly peeling skin.

 She stood out from the crowd like an exotic bird in amongst a mass of crows. The steely grey sky had settled low this morning and was leaking heavy drops of rain. The rest of us were wearing coats and boots or shoes, not yet ready to shed our winter camouflage or show the world some skin.

"My body's in shock." She told the cashier. "I've just come back from Hawaii and I can't get over the all this rain. And the sky it's just so grey."

The cashier ran an item over the scanner.

"In Hawaii, where I just was, the sky was bright blue. This is so depressing."


The cashier made a sympathetic but disinterested noise.

"Where are you from?" asked the girl who was packing the groceries.

"Oh I'm from the Portland area." The woman said, rubbing her bare arms. "Lake Oswego originally."

"And you're surprised? That it's raining? In March?" The girl loaded bread and milk into a bag. She sounded innocent enough.

The cashier focused her attention on the contents of my cart. "In shock." she muttered as the chilly woman left. "She ought to have known better." Her line of customers agreed.

"I had a lady in the other day,"said the bag packing girl, joining in.  "She was lovely. She really made me think. Someone else was complaining about the weather and she just said. "I think grey can be quiet soothing."

We all thought about this for a while and I peered out through the window watching the puddles vibrating with each and every splash of rain. People dashed about, heads down, running for the safety of their cars or the awning stretched out above the store.

"She said it was a kind of back drop to everything else." The girl continued. "I guess that's one way of looking at it."

As I drove home, I thought about this. Anything that makes the grey seem less oppressive has to be worth a try.

The more I thought, the more I wondered. Is grey an overly maligned color, too often referred to in derogatory terms?  Grey so often equals drab, dreary, somber or. It describes battle ships, the barrel of a gun, flinty blades and unhealthy skin.

But grey is also the color of rocks that line a beautiful sea shore or the smoke that rises from a warm and welcoming fire. Doves are grey, and so is the graphite running through the center of a newly sharpened pencil. Grey it isn't all bad.

The trees looked different now I saw them against a restful backdrop instead of overshadowed by a glowering sky. The evergreen branches looked so rich I could almost smell them and the patterns in the dark bark of the trunks stood out so clearly, I could feel the roughness of the wood against my fingers tips and across the palms of my hands.

I wonder who the lady was, the one who had referred to grey as 'soothing' and has given me a new perspective. I would thank her if I met her and I will remember her words and use them as a panacea against another rainy day.

And now, do I long really need to see a blue sky that stays around for more than just a single day.............?



Are you kidding?    BRING IT ON.

Unimaginable Pain.

I thought I already knew what I would be writing about today but my original subject matter required a frivolous and flippant tone and I cannot bring myself to write like that in light of everything that has happened during the last thirty plus hours.

The earthquake and resulting tsunami in Japan have captured the worlds attention. I know I am not alone when I find that regardless of what I am doing, my thoughts are constantly turned towards that island in the pacific and the people who live there.

As I write this on Saturday morning, CNN is playing on the TV and I feel numb. It is as if my mind won't allow me to think too deeply, a form of self protection perhaps. I feel sympathy and will be reaching for my credit card to help in some small way, but I simply cannot wrap my head around the enormity of the situation.

On the afternoon of the earthquake, several people I know were working over in Tokyo. Through the marvels of technology, and in spite of the major system breakdowns, messages were posted on facebook,  texts were received and sent.

By evening of day one, the people I know all accounted for. However, a good friend of my husband is still trying to make contact with family and friends who live near to Sendai. With 9,500 people reported missing in the region, we can only hope he has some good news soon.

Yesterday was an inservice day for students in the Beaverton school district so, like many parents, I watched the news unfolding with my son. We sat in silence, full or horror and awe.  We could not believe what we were seeing, as the tidal wave swept across the countryside, poured across poly-tunnels and roadways, gathered up lorries and cars and crushed buildings, creating a bizarre and evil soup of mud and metal and wood.

 I can still barely allow myself to think about the people - the fathers mothers and children -who were inevitably mixed into that heaving broth.  Even thought the image has been replayed many times, the visual impact is no less.

As is often the case, it took one story, one shot captured by reporters on the ground, that will stay with me forever. It is not graphic and not so very different from many posted across the world wide web.

A father and son, surveying the scene. They appear to be standing absolutely still. In shock one can only suppose. Are they looking at a pile of debris that was once their home? Or are they simply trying to get their bearings in a neighborhood that they could once walk through without thinking, and is now as unfamiliar as a landscape on the moon? The boy is clinging to the man and I can't help think that in a world that has literally been shaken to the core, is his father now the only thing he can rely upon to stand steady and firm.


Looking at the photograph I cannot help but wonder about the woman; the wife and mother missing from the scene. I can only hope that she is safe, as we  all hope that other mothers and wives are safe.

The fact that the picture is taken from a distance is poignant. It suggests that the photographer can see and feel their grief and respectfully stands far away.

 The disaster is on a scale larger than most people could ever comprehend, but the tragic consequences will affect people deeply and personally, creating many tiny pockets of unimaginable pain.

Words can't describe the magnitude of the event and we are all left feeling helpless. The footage of the churning water left me speechless but this photograph touched a chord and brought real tears to my eyes.

The sweet old dangerous driver.

There seems to be a theme this week. Another elderly lady in a car park caught my eye.

 I was outside a local store (not the one with the peculiar smell), wandering between the pots of pansies and summer bulbs lined up in the covered area.

A grey Toyota Corolla pulled into a spot close by. Something told me it wasn't going to stop in time and I was right. The worn front tires jolted against the curb then breached the side of the path. The whole vehicle rose up, paused for a moment, like a swing curving upwards through the air, then dropped back into place.

I expected to hear the growling engine to go quiet. The woman inside must surely have realized that she was as far into the space as she could go? But this did not seem to be the case. In fact the driver pressed her foot against the accelerator and the car mounted the sidewalk once more.  People glanced over, looking nervous. A woman with a child stepped back.

But this time when the car came to a halt the engine was turned off. Although two wheels where still in the parking spot and two butted up against a pallet piled high with bags of compost, the owner seemed happy with her parking.

An employee of the store stepped forward. "Er..." he began as the elderly woman pushed the drivers door open wide. She applied more force than was necessary and we all heard the door hitting the side of the vehicle in the next bay. Fortunately the nonchalant driver had she'd clipped a monstrous SUV and had made contact with a mudflap the size of an elephants' ear. If any damage had been incurred it would be to the Corolla.

The lady slowly emerged. Her hair was white as duck down. It floated above her head as if pulled and teased by static.  She was short, dumpy and rosy cheeked. I could picture her baking apple pies.
Steadying herself against the door frame of the car, she reached inside and grabbed a stick. She leant heavily on the cane, trembling with the effort, as she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and straightened her curved back.

The next task was to close the door.  She placed her hand flat against the window and pushed hard.

The door slammed into place but bounced open again. She tried again, applying even even greater force. But the same thing happened. The second time we heard a crunching sound. The sound of metal being squeezed by metal. The old woman was oblivious. She got set to slam the door again.

The employee, who had been watching, leapt forward.

"It's the seat belt," he explained. "It's hanging out the door. The buckle's getting caught."

The cloudy haired lady frowned and flung the seat belt inside. She closed the door, and began to walk away.

"Did you lock it?"

"Oh!" The lady paused mid step. After rummaging through her bag she said she thought perhaps the keys were still inside. The helpful young man re-opened the door. He reached towards the ignition and removed the keys. He then locked the car and handed the fob to its owner.

The pint-sized woman smiled and shuffled off. As she made her way between tables loaded with spring annuals, she caught her bag against a tray of pansies and knocked them to the floor.

The store employee sighed and bent to pick them up. He caught my eye and said, "When is old, too old to do you think?"

I thought about this as the little old lady stood pondering how to enter the store through the door marked 'exit'.

"That car's probably her life line." I said, watching her searching for buttons to press and stamping on the mat -  in the hope of triggering a sensor I supposed.

"I know," The man agreed "But it could also be a death trap."

The exit doors slid open as a couple with a loaded cart came out. Our  lady swung her stick, walked into the store and disappeared.

The young man shook his head and straightened the last of the pansies. "I just hope she takes care." he sighed.

I agreed and carried on my way.

But it left me wondering.  When does 'just old' become too old? And on what criteria must we all decide?

Someones' Grandma.

       I was in a super market this afternoon. It's one I rarely visit. I don't like its lay out and it has a funny smell. The one upside is that it is an outlet for TicketsWest so sometimes I still go in.

     When I do brave the strange aroma and the disappointing range of veg,  I find myself scanning the faces and profiles of the other shoppers. I am searching for one woman in particular. I don't know her name, we only met the once, but I am on the look out all the time.

      About two years ago I was cruising the aisles in the afore mentioned store. It had just been updated and I was hoping to be impressed. Nothing had changed. The produce was still poor quality, the range of   products limited and the smell, if anything,  seemed to be worse.

      I wandered around, leaning wearily on the handle of the shopping cart, looking for things I knew I wouldn't find. In the canned goods aisle I felt a tugging at my coat. I turned, expecting to see a small child who'd mistaken me for its mother, or to discover that my jacket had snagged on a passing basket or shelf. Instead I saw a tiny old woman. She smiled and bowed 'hello'.

        I wasn't sure of the correct etiquette. She was clearly Japanese, but I was English. Should I bow back, and if so, how low? While I was still pondering the question she tugged at my sleeve and pointed to a place above my head. I turned and followed the line of her extended finger. Apparently she wanted me to help her pick up something that was beyond her reach.

       This happens to me all the time. I'm not excessively tall, but I'm above average height. And, unless I'm on an aeroplane,  I tend to make eye contact with strangers and this seems to make me easy to approach.

     I lifted up my arm and rested my hand on a random tin. "This?" I asked. "Or this?" I continued touching items on the shelf she pointed to until, at last, she nodded and her mouth gaped into a smile.

     I handed her the item. There was much bowing and nodding but as I set my shopping trolley into motion, she hung on to my sleeve and pointed down the aisle. She clearly had more shopping to take care of.

     I followed her round the shop for another quarter of an hour. The tip of her conical bamboo hat barely reached my shoulder and her worn, cotton espadrilles made no sound on the linoleum floor. She was swift and efficient. She knew exactly where to go and what she wanted. Her cart was soon full. Mine, on the other hand was empty, so when she indicated with a decisive nod of the head that she was done, I smiled, waved goodbye and hurried off.

     I knew I wasn't going to do my 'big shop' that day, but the store is not so bad that I couldn't stock up on basics like eggs and milk and flour. When I reached the  cash registers, the diminutive shopper had gone.

     I went through the check out, (remembering that another reason I hate this place is that they still offer plastic bags) and set off outside to my car. I dumped the single bag of shopping on the back seat and closed the door. As I stepped back I tripped against something  low and small. I turned round and there she was. She'd popped up out of nowhere, like a leprechaun or gnome.

      The miniature lady  pointed at her chest, then at her shopping and my car. I cocked my head on one side. I thought I knew what she meant, but I needed to be sure.

      She pointed at me again, then mimed gripping a steering wheel and driving. She pointed at the bags of shopping in her heavily loaded cart and mimed staggering under the weight.  I involuntarily glanced at my watch. This expedition had already taken twice as long as it should have done and I had other things to do. She saw that I was having doubts and held her hands out in front of her, palms inwards, just a few inches apart, indicating something short or small. The distance to her home, I guessed.
 "O.K." I said. "Get in."

     Of course, I couldn't day 'no'. This fragile woman, who spoke no English and looked as if she had only recently stepped off the boat, was unlikely to produce an axe or gun. But besides that, stirred something had stirred within me, and I knew just what it was.....

      My grandmother lived until she was ninety seven and she only gave up cycling a few years before that. The roads around the house she had lived in for over seventy years (yes, seventy years, really) grew busy towards the end of her life. She had a few near misses and, I seem to remember, a fall.

      There were two ways into town from where she lived. One took her along main roads and the notoriously busy and narrow Stone Bridge. The second was picturesque and ran along side one of the prettiest embankments in the world. The path by the river was, understandably, the one that she preferred.

      Even so, in spite of the graceful swans gliding by on the fast waters and the flower beds full of colour almost all year round, there was a downside to this route. She had to get over Bedford's landmark suspension bridge and although it wasn't particularly high or very wide, it involved a considerable number of steps.

     Grandma's bike was old and heavy, she was also old and no longer very strong. To get over the bridge she had to ask for assistance. And this is what I thought of when the tiny Asian woman pointed at me, herself and my car.

     The teenagers my grandma asked for help where the sort other people steered away from altogether. In fact my grandfather (who died several years before she did), used to complain about them al the time. He was wary of the glowering youths who gathered on the bridge. He didn't trust them - what with all their chains and leather jackets, their safety pins and ripped up jeans. He eyed them cautiously and suspected they were up to no good.  

     My grandfather warned my grandma to avoid their type entirely. He assumed that one of day soon they would run off with her bike. It was hard to imagine what a group of punk rockers could possibly want with a cast iron, sit up and beg, nineteen forties ladies bicycle, but my grandfather wouldn't have put anything past them.

    My rosy cheeked, white haired grandmother, on the other hand, walked right up to them, smiled sweetly and asked if they might lend a hand. She maintained that if she was polite and kind to them, they would act the same way towards her. It turned out she was right. She never had any trouble from them and they always helped her up the steps and to the other side.

     I thought about all this as my trusting and grateful passenger pointed left and right. She really did live  close by but it would have been a long and difficult journey for a small, elderly woman carrying a heavy load.

When we said goodbye she spent many minutes expressing her gratitude. Her words were in a language I had no knowledge of but the message in her eyes was articulate and easy to understand. I assured her that it had been my pleasure.It was the least that i could do. She was probably someones' grandma, so how could I ever have refused?

Bedford Suspension Bridge. Not huge but difficult to cross if you are an octogenarian carrying a cumbersome bike.

The Stone Bridge back in 1916 (when my grandma was six). It wasn't such a bad bridge to cycle over all the way back then....

But what about the others? Part 4 -Francesca

 If Magda and Nicholas' arrival on the ward had caused a stir,  it was nothing compared to the circus that accompanied Shelly and Francesca.

Francesca had been born on the same day as the others but with only a few minutes to go until midnight it was deemed too late to disturb us and they had spent the night in the delivery room.

Shelly, Francesca, and their entirely female entourage, arrived just after breakfast.  We were nicely settled in now, it was warm and we were protected from winter storm that had begun to rage outside.

We heard, and smelt,  Francesca's clan before they entered the room. They were proceeded by a ruckus of guttural shouting and the stink of stale tobacco smoke .

Shelly, sixteen if she was a day, was wheeled in like a queen by a woman who staggered on high heels. She was only in her thirties but she wore a large badge announcing "I'm a Nan,". Another woman, probably a sister or possibly an aunt, clattered through the doors with an armful of teddies and balloons. Her face was sour and she kept glancing at her watch. An older woman, great grandma perhaps (although she couldn't have been much more than fifty) carried the suitcase and a stack of coats. She moaned about the heat in the room. Looked at Hyacinth and muttered something about 'blacks'.


Once Shelly was settled into bed, they discussed the baby's name.
"'Ow do you spell Francesca any way?" asked the Sister/Aunty picking at the varnish on her nails.
"F.R.A.N.C.H.E.S.C.A" Shelly told her.
"There 'aint an 'aich in Francesca." Sister/Aunty scoffed.
"Course there is or, 'ow do you make the 'CH' sound?" Shelly snapped back.
"I dunno. But I  know their 'aint a fuckin' aich."

There was much debate, until 'Nan' pointed out that it didn't matter. They could spell their babies name however they fuckin' wanted to and no one could tell them that they fuckin' couldn't. The rest of us pretended not to listen, and no one chose to enlighten them on the actual spelling of this poor child's name.

Further proof of the general lack of intellect came when they made a telephone call. Shelly was talking to someone they all referred to as 'Bird'.

"She weighs 6 paands, and she's 54 inches long." Shelly shouted down the 'phone. Bird must have contradicted her because Shelly frowned and pouted into the receiver. "Well the nurse said she was 54 inches. " She continued to scowl as the other person spoke. "Well centimeters then. I don't fuckin' know."

As the morning wore on, the entourage drifted away. Shelly fussed over Francesca, like a little girl playing with dolls. But after half an hour or so, Francesca began to cry. Shelly looked desperate. "What should I do?" she hissed. I looked up. Hyacinth was sleeping and Magda just looked plain out of it. Shelly's plea for help had been addressed at me.

"Does she need feeding?" I asked. "Or changing?"

"I dunno." Shelly's eyes filled with tears. "What should I do?"

I went across to their side of the room. We talked about when Francesca had last been fed. Only a couple of hours ago, but it could be that. She wasn't sure when her daughter had last been changed. I suggested she looked.

For the entire stay Shelly asked for help every time Francesca cried. Nan and the other female relatives visited less frequently. I didn't see a dad or second set of grandparents at all. Shelly was not taking to motherhood well, and Francesca's dad, was of very little help. He didn't even put in an appearance until almost two days after the birth. When he finally did turn up he sat with his head bent over drooping hands staring at the floor.  He rarely spoke but neither did he listen to Shelly's dramatic rantings or respond to her outbursts and tears.

 He usually stayed for ten minutes. He hovered by the door as Shelly reeled off a list of things she needed him to bring. He looking shocked and unprepared. His eyes were empty and distant. He had not heart for the task at hand. In his mind he was already gone.

When I think of Francesca now, I fear the worse.  This may seem heartless and pessimistic but trends are set, history repeats itself and statistics speak for themselves.

And in addition to that, in 1991, when these four children were born, we were fighting a seemingly pointless and futile war. Twenty years later, things are eerily the same. The allies are still scrambling round in the middle east for reasons that seem more to do with oil than humanity. And it begs the serious question; Do people ever look at what has gone before and say 'we cannot let this happen time and time again,' or does no one ever really learn?

But what about the others? Part 3 - Nicholas

Nicholas and Magda arrived on the ward sometime after ten. Lights had been dimmed and all visitors had left, but there was nothing quiet or subdued about our new room mates arrival. Nicholas was crying, Magda was crying and Magda's husband, Paul, was flapping like a mother hen with a brood of unruly chicks.

Every time Magda moved, she groaned and called to God for help. Nicholas was tightly wrapped in a hospital blanket but managed to buck around in his cot like a maggot on the end of a hook. Paul would not stop giving advice. Advice that, as a first time father, was based loosely on things he had picked up in books and things his mother might have said.

Nicholas was the only boy on the ward and if there was a ever a male who proved that it was NOT good to have a man about the house, Nicholas was it. Next to my own sweet and easy going Amy and Hyacinths' adorable Hope, he was a horror. After just a day on the ward he brought to mind the children's nursery rhyme, "What are little girls made of?"

Amy and Hope were indeed sugar and spice and all things nice. They fed efficiently, made no fuss when  bathed and changed, and gazed into the eyes of anyone who held them, pulling cute little faces and waving with their tiny fists.

Nicholas, on the other hand, was frogs and snails and puppy dogs tales in the form of projectile vomiting, exploding nappies and snot. He cried if held, cried when put down. He screamed when he was changed, and howled when he was bathed. We all tried to calm him, if only to give his mother something of a break.

The first time I held him Nicholas I was shocked. The boy was huge. He had entered the world already weighing 13lbs (5.8kg). I was used to holding Amy who had been born at a reasonable 7.12oz. Nicholas felt simply enormous.

We all remarked upon it.
 "I shood 'av known," Magda told us in her thick, southern mediteranean accent, "my 'usbands' farder, 'e weigh 20lbs."
"Wow" The rest of us murmured, appalled at the thought of having to give birth to such a child. "That must have been awful for his mother."
" She dye-ed". Magda told us, swiping a hand through the air for emphasis. "She never see baby. She dead on bed. She reeeeep apart -  and blood, blood, blood." Magda mimed a river, a flood, pouring from between her legs. We all nodded our heads to show we understood. None of us were surprised. And we were all glad we hadn't heard the story a couple of days before.

On the day of the bomb scare, Nicholas wailed the whole time.  Whilst we sat parked in the lobby, he opened his gummy mouth and bawled. New borns generally attract oos and ahhs, but Nicholas was grating on people's already fragile nerves. A few of the more able bodied elderly women who were sharing our small corner suggested things to do. "Fold him in half." "Rock him harder." "Lay him on his tummy." Magda put her head into her hands and sobbed. "I have c-section. I can not leeeft him. He so beeeg."

Nicholas had colic. Magda had mastitis. Both of them sobbed when it was time to try another feed. He needed changing at least once an hour making us wonder how it was possible for a baby to expel so much fluid when he took in so little. The greenish- black meconium soon giving way to yellow streams of diarrhea and he was almost permanently leaking a dribble of sour, milky spit-up from the corner of his cavernous mouth.

A midwife reluctantly suggested a bottle and things began to improve. Not least because Nicholas' father could now help out. As soon as Paul arrived on the ward, Magda would hand the squirming bundle over, close her eyes and go to sleep.

I saw Nicholas and Paul a couple of years later. I was visiting my doctor to confirm that I was pregnant again.

Paul and I knew each other immediately and the children, though physically unrecognizable, had not changed at all. Amy sat quietly, swinging her legs as she concentrated on a book. Nicholas shouted for attention and flung bricks across the room.

"He's a bit under the weather," Paul told me when I asked if everything was O.K.  As I watched Nicholas scale a sofa and jump onto a coffee table, I wondered what he looked like in full health.

"And Amy?" Paul asked. "She's O.K"
"We're here for me", I told him. "I'm pregnant again."
Paul was very sweet. He congratulated me and wished me well. But then he sighed. "No more for us," he said, "Magda say 'theeees fac-torree close!' " He sighed again. "He broke the mold did that one." We watched Nicholas empty a box of farm animals into a box of cars. "But he's lovely sometimes." Paul laughed ruefully. "Like when he is asleep."

I think Nicholas is probably doing well. He was at least lively and enquiring (for want of a better word) and he certainly knows how to assert himself. As long as Magda and Paul have been able to channel his energy, he is probably O.K.  I picture him running marathons or whacking a ball around a squash court. He would, I'm sure, be excellent at free running and parkour. I try not to picture him vandalizing his surroundings and generally causing chaos wherever he goes. But I'll never know for certain. Nicholas is the question mark.

But what about the others? - Part 2. Hope

Hope was the eldest of the babies on the ward. By the time Amy and I arrived she was curled up in a cot and her mother, Hyacinth, was propped against her pillows, half dozing and half flicking through a copy of  "Hello.".

As we were wheeled in, Hyacinth raised a hand and smiled. I smiled back, but neither of us spoke. A nurse settled me into the room. I was shown the baby changing station, how to operate the emergency button and where to put my things. Hyacinth concentrated on her magazine and pretended she couldn't overhear every single word being said.

My husband went off to the canteen. I was starving after such an active day, and I needed chocolate. NOW.

Once we were alone, it seemed impolite not to speak, so Hyacinth and I introduced ourselves.
"Boy or girl?" She asked after we had exchanged names.
"Girl. Amy. You?"
"Girl. Hope. She's My fourth."
"Fourth baby?"
"Fourth girl."
"Any boys?"
She shook her head. "Just girls." She touched the bundle lying in cot at her side and we both returned to our thoughts.

There is an etiquette to sharing a room with a stranger. It's like sitting next to someone on a 'plane. Just because you are going to be in close proximity for an extended period of time doesn't mean you have to become best friends. Polite but distant is a good way to start. Get the measure of a person before you strike up conversation or you could be in for a very long ride. I could see that this woman shared my approach and I liked her just for that.

The door to the ward opened and a man came tiptoeing in. His coat was damp across the shoulders and his face was dark and shiny from the rain. He was carrying a plastic bag in one hand and in the other, a great bouquet of flowers.
"For my girls." He whispered, bending to kiss his wife. He let his coat fall from his shoulders and rubbed and blew on his hands. When he was satisfied that they were warm, he reached to scoop his daughter from her cot.
"I've only just put her down," Hyacinth whispered, reaching out and touching him on the arm. "Let her settle. Just a few more minutes and she'll be good and asleep. You can hold her then."
"O.K" The man sat down. He noticed me for the first time.
"Hello". He was still whispering, but he made sure I could hear. "Congratulations."
"Thank you."
"Boy or girl?"
"Girl".
He turned to the bouquet, pulled a pink carnation free and came across the room. With a little bow he placed the flower across the end of Amy's cot. "She's beautiful" He whispered. "Just like her mother."
Hyacinth laughed and shook her head.
"What?" he asked, looking innocent.
"You're in maternity ward. Stop flirting, you old dog." She looked at me and smiled. "I apologize." She said.

"Can I get her out now?" Hyacinth's husband hovered over Hope's cot. Hyacinth nodded. He gently lifted the baby into his lap and stroked her bouncy, black hair. He curled her fingers round his own.  I  wondered if, after three other girls, he wished Hope had been a boy. But judging from they way he held and rocked her, kissed her cheeks and whispered in her ear,  he truly did not care.

The next day when he visited, three girls followed him into the room. They were dressed identically in green and red plaid skirts and navy tights. Their hair was immaculately twisted into neat and even cornrows, the ends of which were adorned with tiny bows.

The girls crowded round the cot, taking turns to kiss their sister. Then they removed their shoes and climbed onto the bed. Hyacinth took them into her arms. They whispered and giggled together, telling stories or news from outside. And all the time, Hope's dad held her, gazing into her velvety eyes and kissing her fingers and toes.

Each time he visited, he sat in the chair holding Hope, his youngest daughter, as if he couldn't bear to put her down. Her sisters brought her cards they had made, and pictures they had drawn.

The older girls, Grace, Faith and Joy, were always quiet and well behaved. They read books with their mother, played cats cradle and noughts and crosses. They said "Hello" when they came in and waved goodbye to us all when it was time for them to leave.

When we were moved to the new room to make way for wounded soldiers, they were full of questions and concern. They asked questions about the war, asked when it would be over and would their daddy have to fight.

Before evening visiting time on the day of the afternoon bomb scare, Hyacinth made a request. Could we please not talk about the incident while her daughters were in the room. She didn't want them to worry or to be afraid. Nothing had happened. We were all safe. There was no need for them to ever know.

  I didn't see Hyacinth or Hope once we had gone our separate ways. But in those brief few days, I felt I'd had a glimpse of how they lived their lives. It was easy to see how much they all loved and cared about each other. They were a strong family.

When I think about Hope, I am certain she is doing fine.