Tatter
We do a bit sometimes.
I say, it’s 1917, guess who we are. No, nevermind, I’ll do it. I’m better at it than you. Okay, it’s
1917: Paris, grey skies. It’s always Paris. You’ve just come home from the war. The first one.
You’re trudging through the streets in the remains of your blue uniform (are you sure it’s blue?
Pretty sure. Maybe not.), with this awful hacking cough, but victory in your eyes, and the sunset
gleaming off your truly honourable moustache. I’m there in the freshly swept doorway, my arms
full of pre-war-child; Pierre or François or baby Odette (Odette? Really? Yes, really.). And you
finally make it home and I rush to meet you, and between Pierre or François or even Odette we
are so happy that finally you’re back. But alas. It’s 1917, you’re just back from the first war, and
you’re dying of consumption. That’s what they called it back then. Better than me dying of ‘the
unpleasantness’. Also very possible. There you are, coughing weakly before a roaring fire (never
anything other than roaring, is it), with all of your fine dark looks fading away in the flickering light,
while I go out and become a charwoman. Well, I don’t know what it is either. Like a cleaning lady?
No shame there. I’m trying to keep the babes rosy and fed and away from the fender but there
you are, still there, in the fire-light, moustache (it’s 1917, keep up), still coughing, still looking like
the shadow of the man on a the lid of a biscuit tin, who spreads his arms and grins, and his skin is
clear, his hair coal-black as yours, and his eyes dancing and beguiling. Like yours. The picture of
languid Parisian charm. I burned your uniform. Or charred it. Get it? So out I go, with my face the
picture of drudgery and determination, to char things, and be a woman, even if it’s 1917, because
you’re dying of consumption, because you did that for me - for us - for Pierre et François et petite
Odette.I never finish it.
I end the bit with me rushing nobly around Paris making the sacrifices for you that you’d happily
make for me. I leave you softly coughing by a fire, as warm and comforting as I can make it. The
disease from the trenches won’t leave you, but neither will I.
I start another bit. Another story to sparkle your eyes.
I leave you be.
