![]() ![]() They lived in a different world from the world where she had grown up. Her grandchildren showed her photographs on their phones. At Oxford? After? There were no slides any more. It must have happened later, whatever it was that caused it. Her memories of childhood were solitary and fixed, clear and single as slides thrown on a screen. She was born in 1926, the year of the General Strike she held on to that. She kept finding out and it kept slipping away. They asked her how old she was and she said she was nearly ninety, because she couldn’t remember whether she was eighty-eight or eighty-nine, and she couldn’t remember if it was 2014 or 2015 either. She was confused, there was no question about that. Thinking about that she felt the strange doubling, the contradictory memories, as if she had two histories that both led her to this point, this nursing home. My Real Children is the tale of both of Patricia Cowan’s lives…and of how every life means the entire world. Each with their loves and losses, their sorrows and triumphs. ![]() Two lives, two worlds, two versions of modern history. ![]()
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