Who was Margaret, I asked myself as I picked up his mobile phone after I managed to get back to
where we had stood before the bomb went off and saw a text message starting ‘Hi Margaret’.
Who was Margaret? I asked myself repeatability. I didn’t know a Margaret and was sure
there was nobody in the Post Office or anybody who went to the Protection called that.
I didn’t know a Margaret in any of the surrounding farms or in the next village or indeed
the one after that. It wasn’t like John I told myself I told myself as I flicked through the calls
which dated back months and months often at night or first time in the morning whence
would he would have been up in the hills with the livestock.
The text messages were first, simple and business like asking how did the
meeting go before progressing onto have you booked the hotel and are you sure
about this to which you responded ‘She doesn’t know, who would she know?’
How would she know what?
I almost called out before you arrived at the back of me
denying everything.
‘How could you?’ I called out ‘at a time like this’
‘I was trying to sort out your surprise birthday party’ you responded.
(Wrote at a writing workshop on Peterloo by Mosley Writers at Ashton Library
a few weeks back. The first part of the workshop was creating a character
from notes provided from somebody else and then inserting into a place
where they find a item on the floor just after a terrible event had happened)
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