Ghosts of London
I have had far too much to drink tonight so I will tell you a story that my grandfather told me a long time ago. I am visiting his ghost tonight in London.
The year was 1943, and my grandfather was in Britain wearing a uniform.
He was on leave in London and, traumatized and in a zombielike state, he walked along the river where he met a young lady. They talked and walked for the entire afternoon. My grandfather said they never touched, they never held hands — they only talked. He said that he fell deeply in love in a matter of a few hours. Admittedly he was only 19 years old but he said there was no doubt in his mind that he would marry this woman and that she would have his children. All this decided in a few hours over a chance meeting. But it was wartime.
When they were hungry he decided to spend a month’s wages on a meal. As he told me, no one saved anything during the war. What was the use of saving if you might not be around to enjoy it?
They chose a restaurant and took a seat. After 20 minutes when no service was offered, my grandfather became angry and he stormed into the kitchen to demand service. An old cook took him by the arm and said “Lad, the girl has a sore on her lip. Everyone knows who she is and what she does and you had best not be mixed up with that sort young lad.”
I asked my grandfather what he did and he hung his head and said, “I went out the back, and there is hardly a day has gone by when I have not thought of that in shame.”
I have never told anyone about this before. Not any of my long gone wives or women. Not my frineds. No one until tonight.
And that is my story for you on a wet and dreary London night.
( Marcus: if you want to delete this go ahead)
Photo credit: Flickr