Brixton bustle Berkshire bombs

Sr Frances Howlett FMM leaves the problems of the city for the green fields of Greenham only to find a vision which is haunting to contemplate.
PERSPECTIVE suffers in the narrow streets and frenetic bustle of Brixton. One almost comes to believe that the rest of the country is living the same lifestyle and grappling with similar problems. So, for a change of scene we went down to Greenham Common; Liz to visit an ex-magistrate friend, myself on a nostalgia trip — Greenham revisited. Twentyfive years ago I was teaching catechism to the children of the United States servicemen at the base.
Every Christmas they came up to the convent and gave our boarders a party on the last Sunday before term ended. Everything arrived that makes an American celebration. Tree, presents, cola, angel cake, lights, ribbons and music. For three hours bemused children were showered with gifts, candy and most important the full attention of dashing, smiling airmen.
Cold Ash
I sat and looked across the valley to Cold Ash. A little village clinging to the edge of the Berkshire Downs. Some say the name comes from the ash trees bending in the full blast of the south-westerlies.
However, the ancient sheep road to Newbury made it a last resting place and some man forgot to bank up his fire with clods. The following night the next unfortunate shepherd found only cold ashes and the name stuck.
But I was staring at the large brick building in which I had received my training as a Sister and after ten years of teaching left for Ghana. More recently another stay of five years in the retreat and conference centre which replaced the novitiate.
I traced the Kennet canal and river rambling through the sprawling urbanisation of the town of Thatcham. The great ancient sweep of fields and the flaming red of Bucklebury Woods had mercifully been left untouched. They shimmered in the brilliant cool November sun, an aching loveliness I missed every year in Ghana; it was 25 years since I had seen it from this side of the valley.
Reality •
The drone from the Bath Road was no more than a hive of bees. Slowly I became receptive to deeper feelings which merged with the cycle of nature drawing me into reality, life and death. The 18 years spent in the red brick house became tangible in the present.
It was a spot devoted to life. The west wing to the growth of the spiritual and intellectual — the quality of education in Berkshire — to unity between Christians, spaces for growing in friendship with God. The central
block — the old hose given by Lady Alicewho lived with the community in a suitable manner until her death in 1921.
Trekking back from all parts, several of our elderly sisters now prepare for Sister Death who alone can open the door they fixed their eyes on soniarty years ago. Next door to these awaiting the resurrection the children of the parish prima)/ school bubble over towards adult status. Truly three dedications to life and love.
Apocalypse There was sot a eoud in the sky yet a cloud was forming; a sense of distress invading my senses. Suddenly contrast collided within me. A place devoted to life before me and a place devoted to death behind me. I was in the middle and the knowledge took ny breath away. There was rci escape. Those apocalyptic weapons lying hidden in the Berkshire earth waiting fcr what? Everything had chansecl.
It seemed as though I wakened from a dream of long ago that was gone lor ever. I heard the feverish activity and felt the pulsating beat of a hundred spots devotel to death scattered through the land. I saw troops armed for alert, their only allegience to a nan 6,000 miles away. Tie miss rose to hide the nightnare_ I stood and shook the thoughts out but into the vacuum rolled the drums and the bugles played, "Tlis land, is facing the greatest theat to its integrity as a nation slice Hitler looked at us from over the Channel . . ."
Brixton
There were nine pairs of swans on the grave pits at Theale. Climbing the stairs at Brixton tube I laoked inxiously for fan" ilar figures. Gatefully I acknowledged the )unk in chains and the lower ady_ The men w ith handkerchives and socks in suitcasts werein place.
Our eyes reflected de relief at being arnong the mercy human as we plunged into the Lsing tide that is the High Sreet on Saturday. It was goccl to be back.