Sometimes we’re the best we can be, sometimes the worst. It’s called being human

On the 21 October 1966, a tip of coal waste slid onto the village of Aberfan, killing 144 people, 116 of them children (South Wales) ©Getty

 

William is here now because he has a skill that nobody wants to need. But they do, and he will provide it.
(p. 24*)

The knowledge of how happy he makes her, just by breathing and being close to her, drapes over his shoulders again like a warm, heavy cloak. There are moments, however, in their cosy flat when he feels a little trapped. When his mother’s loving eyes on his face are too much. Too caring. Too intense.
(p. 103*)

‘Just because they’ve lost everything, doesn’t mean they’ve stopped being human. I’m guessing most of them have probably been in love. Most of them have probably thought at some point, the world was a good place. The way I see it, singing about it keeps them in touch with who they were, are, could be. I don’t know, William, but when they really connect with the song, with the lyrics and music, it feels like it’s doing good, not harm. I’m damned if I’m going to look for songs that aren’t about love and life and loss and pain and joy. This is being human.’ He briefly raises both arms into the air. ‘I treat them like humans.’
(p. 262*)

‘It’s not easy being loved by people you keep hurting.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Martin speeds up, head down, then stops dead momentarily. A cyclist swears, swerving to miss them. ‘Do you think anyone deserves being loved, really deserves it?’ He shakes his head and starts walking again. ‘You’re not special, William. You’re like all of us. Sometimes we’re the best we can be, sometimes the worst. It’s called being human.’
(pp. 263-264*)

*according to my reader

Jo Browning Wroe - A terrible Kindness (Faber and Faber, 2022)