I think I am under influence of spray glue. It hangs heavily in the air.
The project proceeds. The village has progressed from boggy hollow with attendant Iron Age finds, via tithes and enclosures, railways and dams that never were, to 'Within Living Memory'.
I'm just compiling a sheet entitled 'Lest We Forget' as someone has been industrious enough to research the names on the village war memorial. All is neatly aligned; the names and details of the 9 who fell in the conflict (WAR damn it) of 1914-18 and the 1 man who lost his life in 1940. Euphemisms. All euphemisms.
I have 2 fading photographs to place, tenderly, alongside these names. Such handsome young men sent marching from the shires, caught forever by the camera's eye. Harry Oliver the shopkeepers' son and 22 years later, John Evans from Woodmoor - 20 years old when he died - 'missing in action'. Boys, both of them, really.
'Had he the choice of his end - he would have chosen - as he has done - that of giving all for his country.' Here I quote from the commanding officer's letter of consolation to the grieving Mr and Mrs Evans. How I wish I believed that: 'The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori.'
I'm going to move on now, as the world moves on - and with only a slightly moistened eye - to make sense of a jumble of information about the Lowfield Pub which has made its mark in the story of Marton by being demolished.
As I write it is rising again, phoenix-like in its old footprint and pretty soon it'll be business as usual....plus ça change.