A Blyton-esque postcard? Or does it show, perhaps, a not-quite-so-innocent time?
Three knitted jumpers, red, white & olive-green. My sandaled-sister’s protective arm around our brother. Me crouched. The setting familiar, the Rutland show-cave. The usually ‘unusually-clear’ well-water is corrupted. We gaze into the karst miasma much as we might a crystal ball.
A haunting postcard.
For years, and in our separate ways, we each held the memory of that one corrosive moment. It overshadowed things.
You see, long before it happened, we knew. As, there-&-then in the silence and deep below the ground, we witnessed the splintered narrative of a death foretold.