The saddest fact of war, of anything, for me, is children losing parents or parents losing children. The Postmistress, being set during the Blitz, was bound to include some form of death and destruction.
But there's something very different between the news reporter, Frankie, talking about people dying and her ending up in a shelter with a little boy from two doors down her own flat. Seeing that tiny snippet of his life was enough to send the shivers through my bones and the tears down my face as Frankie explains the seven year old boy's mother's death. As well as that of her flat mate and fellow reporter Harriet.
My original intention was to talk about how out of place it felt for Frankie to have sex in an alley with a man she doesn't even know the name of. But that seems barely significant with the later events.
No comments:
Post a Comment