The fire-bombing divides the community. There are those who believe it is an outrage and the perpetrator should be brought to justice. There are others who were aware what might happen but chose to look the other way. Some time after the event, a group of wives confess they know who was responsible but were too afraid to come forward for fear their husbands might be arrested for failing to prevent it. As Frances reflects:
The whole town knew, and did nothing to stop it.
It falls to one of their children to dent the conspiracy of silence. It turns out that he saw - and can identify - the fire-bomber. He tells his friends - but not his parents - and goes to the police. But his evidence is discounted because he is a minor, and no other witnesses come forward. And so the silence continues until, during a public meeting after the war, Frances stands up to question the perpetrator who is running for political office. When he tries to evade her, the young witness and his friends stand up beside Frances to denounce him to the audience.
I caught my breath. Five people stood. One adult and four young people.
There was, for a minute or so, a terrible, threatening silence.
If my child stood up for the truth - a truth I knew - would I leave him to stand alone?
Slowly, the mothers got to their feet to stand beside their children.
Later, when Frances turns her house in Aloe Glen into an art gallery, she deliberately leaves some of the fire damage visible. Scorched floors. Singed paintings.
It is, she decides, a soft revenge.
I forced my community to look me - and themselves - in the eye...
No comments:
Post a Comment