Memorial

The kids are hanging around by the memorial again. TherThe kids are hanging around by the memorial again. There’s usually about six or seven of them, but there are only four today. They’re bedraggled, standing in the rough, heavy rain. They’re wearing last year’s fashions, old knock-offs and those scruffy baseball boots. One of them has acquired a bag of chips and they’re huddled together, sharing them. The three males protecting the female from the rain, like a faint echo of their primitive roots. I wonder why they’re out at this time, in this weather, and why they’re standing by the old war memorial, it’s been untouched for years. Don’t they have anywhere to go? Aren’t their parents waiting in their warm, inviting houses, arms outstretched, welcoming them in?
They look so young, so unscathed by life that I feel compelled to get up from my comfy position out of the rain in this doorway and tell them to go home, go back to your mother, while you still can.

There are kids by the memorial again today. It’s a different group this time, almost a different type of child. These ones are a lot more raucous than the last group; one of them is clutching a bottle of cheap, nasty wine and taking swigs from it. Several boys are passing a joint of cannabis between them. They’re so young. Why isn’t anyone stopping them? Two girls sit on the ledge of the memorial, legs swinging. Even from the distance of my doorway I can see that they’re heavily made-up, with their hair tied up severely at the back of their heads.
The one on the left looks old beyond her years, an expression I suppose I wore when I was that age. She stares at nothing, shaking her head slightly, causing the large gold hoops dangling from her ears to wobble. She’s looking at my doorway, catches my eye and looks quickly away. They don’t look at me as a rule and she’s not that far gone yet, though it’s only a matter of time. I close my eyes and when I open them again, the timeless girl and her friends are gone. The memorial is as silent, dark and lonely as I am.

There’s one kid by the memorial today. She’s wearing a bottle green jumper and a school skirt; she has glasses and a nice bag. She couldn’t have come from the comprehensive school down the road, surely not. I’ve never been down there, schools are not generally a place that I frequent, but I’ve seen the kids walking up, past my doorway on an afternoon, chattering away about lessons, kicking footballs, eating crisps. They were all local kids, the disillusioned kids, the council estate spawn. No, this girl isn’t from around here; so what is she doing at my memorial?
She kneels down on the dirty pavement. She pulls something out of her pocket; it’s some kind of material. Suddenly I wish that my doorway, that’s always been in just the right spot for me to observe but not to interfere, is just that little bit closer. She’s rubbing the memorial clean, pushing at the grimy surface, worn down and covered in decades of filth. I want to go over and tell her it’s not worth it, it’s an old thing; it’s past its time. I want to scream that she has her whole life to explore; she shouldn’t be spending her time cleaning something forgotten. Of course, I don’t. I sit in my doorway and watch this remarkable child complete her remarkable task.

As she rubs away the grime I realise that, after looking at the memorial across the street for years, I have never really known what it is supposed to commemorate. I’ve never bothered to look, and in all the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen anyone else look. To me, it seemed as though the memorial was otiose, unneeded, unwanted. She is nearly finished now, most of the memorial shining and white, and writing undisturbed for who knows how many years are visible. There’s an inscription, and a list of names. Who is left to remember what these people did to deserve their names on a memorial? Did they die? Did they fight? Were they courageous? So many lives described on that memorial and nobody knew until today, not even I, and I’ve had such a long time on this road to find out. It shocks me to think, as I sit here, that those lives would have remained uncovered and forgotten had not this girl, from another world and another life unearthed it.
Finally she finishes, tucks the cloth back into her pocket, stands up and admires her handiwork. She looks around her, catching my eye and the corner of her mouth rises in a half-smile. I am shocked- I can’t remember the last time someone acknowledged my presence. Our eyes break contact and she shifts her bag on her shoulder, turning and walking back from where she came, back to her shining happy life, into the light and away from the dark of this road, the gloom and despair of me and the memorial, the forgotten ones. I am happy for her.

And the memorial sits like a white tooth amongst a rotting mouth, shining in the dull light like some sort of sad beacon.