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Replete in casual suit, no tie, and perfectly manicured nails, Mr. Wilkinson led me gently into the empty classroom.
Desks had been thoughtfully moved to one side, the seats arranged in rows in a semi-circle directed towards a single chair that I guessed it would be my privilege to occupy.
Mr. Wilkinson asked, “Will this be comfortable enough for you?”
I nodded, easing forward on my walking frame, unable to speak.
My throat felt dry, my clammy hands gripping my frame tightly to conceal the shake. I wanted to leave, to make my excuses and return to the security of my sheltered home, but I fought against my instincts.
For weeks now I had been preparing for this day.
Making notes.
Drawing on long-forgotten memories.
Struggling to bring order to my thoughts.
Now, at last, the moment had arrived. The time had come, to relate a story I had kept buried deep within me for almost six decades. I prayed I could maintain my composure before my audience when they arrived.
My host seemed quite indifferent to my plight, chatting amiably about the curriculum. Only half-listening, I cast my eyes around the room, searching unsuccessfully for the comfort of a blackboard. My eyes alighted on a white screen. I caught my breath, interrupting Mr. Wilkinson to apologise for not having brought any slides along.
Mr. Wilkinson tried to hide a smile, explaining to me this was an interactive whiteboard.
My blank response saw him toying with a keyboard with practiced movements that put my own humble typing skills to shame, bringing the screen to life in a blaze of colour and sound. Maps and still photographs combined with video clips and commentary and suddenly I could witness the rise of Nazi Germany, Hitler’s invasion of Poland, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour...
This was twenty-first century interactive education, Mr. Wilkinson explained with undisguised glee, extolling the virtues of IT in his class as if it were his personal invention.
Not just the Second World War, he stressed, but any other conflict I would care to mention, from the Mycenaean battles of antiquity to the more recent Gulf Wars. I need but name it and he could produce a file or web-site to bring it to life before my eyes.
I declined the offer, struggling to explain that for me there was only one war.
His condescending smile said it all.
I was an old lady, living in the past, unable to see the greater picture.
And slowly I realised my role in being here today was not so much to bring recent history to life, but rather to say goodbye to it.