Remembering Beryl Gilroy

Abstract

Blue aerogramme letters from Mrs. G. still remain on my desk. Not moving them seems to assure her continued presence and concretize my disbelief that she is gone. Mrs. G. would always write to see how the girls and I were doing, offer advice, a funny story or try to get my take on something significant to her: Why was Paul being attacked in the U.S.? What did I think of her latest manuscript? How was Ricky? When are you coming to London? “This summer as I planned!” I continued to tell her, not knowing that she could not wait that long.