Gunpowder

Did you watch BBC 1's "Gunpowder"? Critics have welcomed it, wondering why the gunpowder plot of 1605 had not been televised earlier. But watching it, its gory and brutal scenes of pressing to death of someone who wouldn't plead guilty or not guilty, or of hanging, drawing and quartering, you remember why you wouldn't want to remind people of the background, the context at the time, the persecution and killing of English Roman Catholics, their exclusion from Parliament and from the professions for centuries afterwards, despite their professed loyalty to king and country. It was dangerous to tell people you were a Catholic. Indeed, even in the twentieth century, I rarely told people I'd been brought up Catholic.
Once, on an airfield, somehow I mentioned my faith. My fellow glider pilot, a young Scottish woman, was astonished, "I've never met a Catholic", she declared. You'd have thought I had horns growing from my head. Unlike Muslims or Sikhs, Catholics are not visible. They don't wear distinguishing garments, and the most you might see if you're observant is a small cross or crucifix on a lapel.
As I was growing up, in one of the most Catholic parts of England, I learned that I was English, that we were loyal to our royal family, so loyal that I childishly announced after reading another fairy tale, that I was going to marry the prince of England. My mother informed me that I couldn't because I was a Catholic and English princes couldn't be heirs to the throne if they married a Catholic. Nothing daunted, I accepted that law and I loyally carried on being English and Catholic.
You might wonder why I didn't seek a foreign prince, like my daughter's found (he's her prince - not a royal prince) but after a stint working abroad, I decided I liked English men anyhow and came home where I soon met her father. And we lived happily for a couple of decades after.
There are two more episodes to "Gunpowder". It won't end happily ever after.