1021   Docks Operating Coy.,   CM.F.

Dearest,   Not Orsachino, but ORSACCHIOTTO, which has the appearance of a bear cub you must admit, even the round ears and the surprised soft expression. Orsa is the bear and the rest is sheer cub. As for the Jeavonry- your letter of the 23 – 26 came this morning, the best thing is to petition Mrs. Jeavons to organise the Victory Dance and Peter to lead the procession.    But enough of that.     If you did say or have said that she wants to be the Lady of the Manor what nicer compliment.   Anyhow, let them stay in their glass house and not throw stones. Tell Mrs. Edwards I think she’s wonderful and her son Jack a credit to the Insurance world.  But when there are so many nice things, such as bearcubs, Christophers, Mother-annes, yous, the spring onions and all, let us not waste precious writing on precious people. Or I’ll tell you about the Adjutant and Major Baynes, and what Major Moxon said to the Colonel about Mayor Coates and the gear store.   Your scandal, in your village, is nothing compared to ours. You Just Don’t Know.   And when there are any promotions, the reputations that fly about, the pips that peel and the crowns that rock.

A hell of a May Day, I’m stupid with sun, having devoutly gone on the balcony after lunch with the rough of the new Thing and a pen, and done nowt but sleep in the sun and come back sneezing with sun and violet with rays.   The Thing is being read. I finished it this morning, and now I’ll balloon it and slash it and retype it tonight or tomorrow. And in the evening Peter and I have seats at La Boheme, which will not be a patch on the San Carlo production, but will be safe for the principal songs anyhow.     A celebration about the finishing we hope of the Thing.   Hope you sell it for me.    It’ll take about seven or eight air letters, oh dear. Niente poste della mare yet so non ha recuto delle fotografie dell’ Orsacchiotto ne de tu.   But they will come, soon I hope.

I’m afraid there is a dearth of parcels to you, I’ve gone all mean or economical or thoughtless or something.   Probably because there isn’t much to send.   As the sappers say “You’ve Had It” and Richard shall have the proceeds someday. How goes the bank balance? Have you shoes for your feet and a coat for your back?    I must not write Things I want to write because they seem good to do but only Things that will sell.   And may I build me a hut when I come home please.    In the garden at the bottom?    Build it myself when I’m not doing Things?   I am drawing the plans. I could work there sometimes or Orsacchiotto could play there, not both at the same time. It would give us an extra room and quiet from lively young things, and also me a place to pretend to work in and building it would be such fun. Not a plain one, double walled and angle roofed, on a proper base.     We could even have a divan and my camp bed there for an extra guest room. I’d like to do it and would enjoy the sawing, chiselling and so on. Undextrous as I am I have a desire to make things somehow and maybe the desire would bring the results.   Not iron things, woody things, so that if we go away to some far place I can build our house for us. But I don’t know, come to nowt I shouldn’t wonder.

There was a Group Dance the other evening and I went but felt very satirical, they all looked so silly and I felt they were silly so after half an hour I went across to our lines and spent the evening in the canteen with our solemn and comic post corporal the canteen corporal and their assistant a commercial artist.    They were silly all of them, no one could dance like you can dance nor looked so nice. Must be getting old.  Italian lesson after dinner and I haven’t written my essay I was told to write Oh Dear. Trouble.   I’ll finish this later on.

After Italian lesson, Peter & Allan & I all writing the radio on and all cosy. I go to the docks at 2300. Tell me, does Orsacchiotto show any expressions, gestures or looks of either of us? I mean does he scrabble his toes, or wrinkle his nose, splash in the bathroom or leave draws partly open, sing infuriating little false tunes or talk intimately to tramps or gyppos? Such evidence would please and intrigue me hugely. Does Uncle Jack call still on Sundays & how is he? We’re all May Day mad, & writing corners on each other’s letters. This evening the British Field Radio service starts & as I’m still here it seems I’m not suitable. I expected that not being a broadcaster. They’re doing it very well I must say and I’m probably far better off here. San Antonio knows best. And as happy as I could possibly be so far from you and the great unknown Orsacchiotto.

Write often and fully all the news of home
& the birdies & beasties & folk in
our house. Our little house.
Bless us all. And indeed
Ariverdici.
All my love.
Ever your own
David.