Mansfield Park. I do not wish to talk about the war. Suffice to say it was no carnival, not the hostilities. No carnival. Yes, indeed; I have my memories, but I prefer to keep them to myself, thank you very much. Though there are some things I never can forget. The cock that used to crow, early in the morning, in Bond Street. And I saw a zebra, once, he was galloping down Camden High Street, one night, about midnight, in the blackout – the moon was up, his stripes fluoresced. I was in some garret with a Free Norwegian. And the purple flowers that would pop up on the bomb-sites almost before the ruins stopped smoking, as if to say, life goes on, even if you don’t. We kept a patriotic pig in the back garden, fed him with swill – potato peelings, tea leaves. Grandma loved that pig and wouldn’t listen to one word about the slaughterhouse, of course, but it ended up the funeral baked meats after Grandma copped it. She’d have created something shocking if she’d known we’d feasted off her beloved porker, nicely roasted, as soon as we’d cremated her, but what else could we have done for the funeral tea?
