SCARBOROUGH. THE TENTH DAY OF DECEMBER 1941. Tuesday
My Dearest,
Two delightful letters from you, the one written on Saturday night in bed and the other on Sunday night, each carrying over to the next day and full of home and you and stories and anecdotes and cyclings to Stratford and Mrs. A going to Haselor and the blurry furryness of my home. Dear letters read on the foot of my bed after duty this afternoon and before I took the Fire Watchers Parade, that being my duty this evening.
Yes, bless you, the Victoria it is, and its not so bad because you’ll be there first, and Harry is taking his wife away to the boarding house after Christmas and you can just be yourself and sit alone and read and we’ll get a chair in your room if you like. And the Pavilion can go without and one day it’ll regret it. Oh dear, not long now, only Tuesday evening Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday Thursday and Friday and then……Yorricks ahoy.
Thornoton is an old woman, he’s been gossiping and chattering talking at an incoherent speed, to a crony in the next room for over an hour. He’s a regular Mrs. A. Did Mr A do anything to the garden.
I didn’t want KLAUS to get me a cigarette lighter, but Father Claus, it was a JOKE, and Joke Over, because I’ve heard from the inscrutable Capes and its all very odd. Either they have other indications for the use of the word Overwhelming or they’re crackers, because they’ve only sold 1660 copies altogether, and as they’d sold 1406 before publication that’s 254 altogether, which doesn’t seem at all overwhelming to me! So I’ve written off asking them if that is right, and why they considered it good; and what the hell. I’ll know more in due course. But don’t get deflated. They did write as you saw, and they are reprinting and advertising, and we shall sell a lot and make some money. But not yet, so our pulses must beat steadier and we must remain, and its rather nice, isn’t it, as poor as ever. Its better so. But we’ll have our Christmas and stay at the Victoria and avoid the extra splashes and be happy with ourselves, our books, some walks on the moors (mistless this time) and some pictures, but above all, ourselves, the Best Things In Life Are Free. So hang on to your Christmas card money and I’ll have your card money here and I’ll sell some books if they come through it time, I’ll damn well open a stall in the Square and sell them, and we’ll make whoopee, because it will be all right by May 1st. when we’re paid. So we go calm, and I am an ASS for getting excited too soon, and counting chickens before I’d seen that there was any oil in the incubator lamp. Don’t tell everyone our Great Success is only two hundred and fifty four copies, most of which I’ve bought! Let them stick to the effect of the letter, and remember that There’s’ A Good Time Coming, and a good time anyhow, apart from mere money, at Christmas. And we’ll afford the good old homely Victoria anyhow, Edith beams at me when she sees me and they know you are coming and all is excited, MEEEEE TOOOOO. So put away in a Tin Box your Christmas Card money if you can, and don’t pay bills with it, use the Klausmoney and the Army money, and tell your mother and everyone that we are well off, in the future but poorer than chapel mice at the moment. Then we’ll see when the time comes. For now, hoard, and I’ll hoard, and sell cards and I’ll sell books and we’ll manage at Christmas, bless you.
It is odd, isn’t it, her letter and the fact that only 254 books have been sold! Maybe there’s a large list of orders, that may be it, lots ordered for Christmas by booksellers, and that would show successful, maybe five thousand are ordered, of course, that would be it, its just come to me. They sell their few, and then orders roll in and the few go and the orders remain and they print hard and tell Miss Lange who is thrilled, and the Sales people only have dry figures. The snag is that I can’t expect a sub. on orders. I bet that’s the solution. 254 wouldn’t overwhelm Eric Hanson. Let alone Capey Lange. Good, that’s solved.
As for the tweeds can you wait till we get the actual money? I’d imagined we could draw a hundred pounds and send you fifty in notes to go to London with, but I think that that, and the packet of notes for our two mamas must wait and we must concentrate on the ready cash for Christmas. Agree? Not disappointed? Slightly relieved? Hooray, you cuddlesome thing you.
If You Talk About the Virtues of That Damned Bear Again I’ll Ring wring its Blasted Neck. With Its swagger colonial accent and its warm stomach, in MY BED, and me here, sleeping with you, cuddled, what you won’t Do To me, fussed, tucked up, arranged, admired, bloody blanket-creeper that he is. But I can’t blame him, he’s a lucky bear, my love to him, but let him hang by his neck in the kitchen when I’m at home! GRRRRRRR. I’m a Driver (i.e., nearly a Signaller, R.A., and a Squad Lance Bombardier, so, Colonial Bear, pipe down when I’m about.
I can’t get anything for Klaus, shall I just write to him? Can you telephone to Kelly, or get someone to call, say, Peter, to get a book? I’ll write to Klaus, and the book can be from us. If I’d the money we have ordered. (I’m sure that’s it) I’d send him ten bob.
I’ll find out about Candy. What d’you honestly think? She’d be a bit of a handicap in a hotel. But would she hate the Golds? Would your mother be away Long? Would she be back in time to release her? Would she be unhappy and an unhappy golden Lady haunt our happiness? You know best, you can organise best. I’ll ask at the Victoria. Mrs. A. wouldn’t be any good? Or Eileen? Eileen, that’s an idea. She’s soft over animals and would take her plenty walks and be careful and she might do it. Try and see, ask her when she’s in the right mood, she used to have Nunk, Its a better idea than Uncle Gold, because Candy might be homesick. What d’you think? Or does she love her Uncle Gold. Would he keep her in a Cage With No Walks and No Fire? Think and see, ask Candy and I’ll think too.
Poor Aunt Jess’ tail.
Yes, I’ll pay J.G.L. the 17/6.
There was a pause. I cleaned Thornton’s billy can and made up the fire. I opened a tin of Heinz tomato soup my dear mother had sent me, and put it in the billy-can. I filched a little Bovril from Thornton’s store and added that, and some water, and there it sits pink and warming, on the fire, to make me a supper in due course, while I listen to the news. They tell me Japan’s come in the War and America’s getting in an embarrassing situation and may have to taste war from the first time since the War of Independence. They say we shall probably be posted to Hawaiaiaiai, which is a nice thought and excites us all, you know, lotus leaves and flowers round the tummy. I’ll listen to the news and see if this is so. Japan? Really? Another country. Oh well, it shows Hitler’s not self sufficing.
But more importantly, Us. It is terrific, isn’t it. I read your letters so slowly and appreciatively and love every word, because its from you, and life is only an infinite series of circles, shading up to you, in the centre. I can imagine you, graceful and vivacious and gay in your seventies, and me doing my best in my eighties, and each of us as potty as ever, and you trying not to let me see you’re wrapping me up, and me trying not to get petulant, and squiggling, and yet lost and forlorn when you are away for half an hour. You love the things I love, because I do, and its the same with me. I’ll wear a nightshirt then, I’d like to now, really. Bring my pyjamas and all the essentials, (Ha Ha) (Subtle) won’t you, and remember the orders in Cape’s books.
My dear, this is awful! And I’ll be so dumb on the Day. Saturday Week. And wet or fine come, but see if things can’t be arranged for it to be fine. But if not, well, why worry, it will be fine before Christmas. Nice, if its fine though. Nothing you can do. Here’s the news, yes, Japan is in the war.
And the Russians are still there, bless them.
But you are there, and I am here, and in nine days from when you read this we shall be together.
Bless you, dearest one,
ever your own…
