Harvey

‘Blair secret promise to Bush on Iraq Invasion’

On my table, a newspaper, gin and tonic, and a tin of cashews. Tabloid revelations, the nation shocked, no surprise.

Deathly silence all around except for muffled whispers about lamb stew, marble cake, and household renovations. No background music, no crooners, no big band.

The Prince Albert, a jovial free house in the Fens waits in silence, hard and soft cover books on dusty shelves, old wall tiles and classic vinyl from the seventies, a bonus at 20p, the proceeds going to a worthy cause.

She sits alone, dressed in black, doodling on a small table with condensation from a pint on a soggy coaster, a poppy pinned to her coat. She thinks of him now, so proud in his 6th Regiment uniform, standing tall and bold, smiling at the lens of a forgotten cameraman, smart in the small oak picture frame on her table.

A dozen well-wishers say goodbye, and leave her with a large swollen envelope, the proceeds accumulated over the past three weeks, a few hundred in coins, notes, and cheques.

For Harvey, written on the front.

monumental lies,
weapons of mass destruction,
so much loss and pain.