An English Girl Finds Palestine
A Personal Memoir
WHEN I was young my family lived in a suburb of London called Blackheath. This was rather a pleasant, old-fashioned part of London, not as sooty as it sounds. There was a broad heath where you could fly kites or run with the dog, and beyond the heath was Greenwich park, full of formal flower beds, grass, and chestnut trees, sloping down to the Thames. My grandmother and grandfather had lived there most of their lives in a tall elegant terrace house overlooking the heath. I had been born in what used to be my maternal grandparents’ house in the same road a few yards away, and Blackheath was scattered with great uncles, aunts, and cousins from both sides of my family. In 1936 when I was thirteen we returned there to live, and my father bought an ugly red brick house in a side road off the heath to be near his parents.
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