Let me take you back to the late 1960s; to Underhill Road in East Dulwich. Rose was a lady we sometimes saw passing the prefab. She was very tall, walked faster than Billy Whizz and always wore a headscarf. She was no Audrey Hepburn, but the type of lady you saw walking up and down our road all the time. She was also a nervous person but the only glimpse you got of that was the rate at which she chewed her gum (Maxi Mint as I recall). She had three children - David, a middle one whose name I can't recall and Wendy who was my age (about 9). I always thought they were lucky because they lived in a real house made from bricks and they had a front room which they never used. Rose was full of life and more energy than a power station and when she looked at you she caught your attention and fixed your gaze. It was like she could see into your very soul. She was more together than my mum and for that I think I admired her. Then one day she lost her sparkle. In hushed tones my mum told me her husband had been run over on his moped going to work. What made it worse, she said, was that he had been run over by a lorry that rolled back on him in a traffic jam. As a 9 year old I agreed that this death was cruel and worse than being killed by a car. I don't think Rose would have agreed somehow.
This morning at 5am I had the overwhelming desire to go back in time and hold Rose's hand. I haven't thought about Rose for 40 years and in the dark of my cold silent bedroom I wanted to travel back in time and hold her hand and tell her it will be alright and things will get better and that Jesus is here to help you and he will restore the years the locusts have eaten and ...I can't. I hope somebody did back in 1969.
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