The word "missing" is particularly cruel, leaving as it does a ray of hope that the person will turn up safe and well, even in the most doomed circumstances. As days go by, it becomes increasingly unlikely and yet and yet...
Recently a young journalist came to interview me about what I was doing the day war broke out. During the course of the interview I recounted the deaths of my only brother, my husband's only brother, a brother in law and my four best friends. "So," she said, did the war affect you in any way?
Father was a good driver and enjoyed driving, but the sight of a female in charge of a vehicle was sometimes too much for him. If a car came to close or made the smallest mistake with the rules of the road he shouted, "blasted woman driver", to which my mother was often able to say, with truth, "Funny thing, she's dressed as a man."
Deborah, Duchess of Devonshire recounts her decision to leave her husband after decades of struggle with his alcoholism. Several days later, he wrote to her: "The miracle occurred; I realized that in addition to all the suffering I had caused, I was not my own master. I decided this slavery must stop once and for all." And it did.
Our underclothes were woolen vests and knickers and an extraordinary, but apparently necessary, concoction called a liberty bodice, which had no freedom about it, so how it got its name I cannot imagine. It was made of some harsh stuff, with here and there straps and buttons that did nothing.
