I doubt if I’ll be able to maintain this disciplined small writing, but I’ll try. The trouble will be when my ideas get flowing. But it makes the pleasure of writing last longer.

                        I’m back on the ship & it’s a nice life. Once get the gangs organised & the winches rattling & the sets of cases going over the side into the L.C.T. I can relax a my little ships office in the saloon & read your letters, or “Rebecca” or write to you as I am now doing.

                        I went ashore at 1900 yesterday with my men and we were out at 03 30 this morning and back on the job. One great advantage of ship working is the grand food. After 3 months of rations out of tins its very good. Breakfast was – fruit, porridge -Bacon Kidney & eggs – 1st him weeks & weeks -& toast & good coarse marmalade. I dine with the ship’s officers. I do wish you could have such food instead of me. How is the foul situation at home.

                        Two dear letters from you when I got to the mess last night. One began on the 9th & finished on the 23rd Sept. & the other on the 26 & 27. Also 2 from Mother & one from Jamie Thorn – who goes to boarding school. How avidly I read your letters by the light of an acetylene lamp in our pretentious sitting room. You told of Honour & Gwen staying, & of your reading exerpts from my letters at the Haselor W.I. of course I don’t mind. But where on earth did you find excerpts to read ? My letters have been far too sparse of news & scenic views & descriptions. It’s a charming aspect of the war, though & a typically sweet thing for you to do.

                        And our son. By your accounts, splendid refreshing accounts, he’s a dream child – happy, handsome & charming. I’m so awed by all this and so grateful to Divine Providence. It’s all of poetry & music and God. If only I can be worthy of him, & of you. Not having seen the magic of him I can only love him because of you. But when I see the grace of himself and win, as I pray to do, his confidence and affection, then shall I be fond indeed. He, with you, fills my deeper life, and with so uniquely sweet a mother, how can his nature be anything but sweet. Gracious creatures, some boys. One of the many, or several, little coloured dinghies which bob about on the blue sea around our ship, selling oranges & peaches & vegetables & rowing sailors ashore has in it a white shirted black haired man at the oars and an oval faced thin shirted Leonardo of a boy on the bows. A lovely child, so gracious in his sprawling, so large of eye & fair of hair. A young Italian innocent of Fascism I hope. A Mediterranean boy on the Mediterranean sea. Our son will inevitably have graciousness but with your influence he may give us the blessing of having rare grace, like this Italian boy this morning, like many others.

                        This morning the mate lent me Rebecca (Daphne Dumaurier) & I’ve got my head in it – you know my ridiculous absorbtion in a book. It’s rather good, quite good & fascinating. I’ve not read a novel -or had one to read for a long time. In between tours of the ship to see the work I have greedy half hours with it in the saloon.

                        Oh – ARRIVEDERIA = au rervoir – “I’ll be seeing you”.

                        How sweet of the Rector, to offer to be Godfather. I most certainly & gratefully concur. J.G.L. would be an obvious second but his principles might make it difficult. Peter would – Carter. Gwen & Marjorie, for the distaff side. When. Now ? Or when I come home ? I leave it to you. The Rector might have professional or Ethical reasons for not delaying.

I’d like to be there if there is any drinking afterwards. Depends on Hitler a little. Anyhow tell the Rector I’m charmed & touched at his benevolence towards us.

                        And the kindness of people, the silk pyjamas (The old man might have one pair, or the half pair) the Nonie pram cover, the Jeffs red rains, the £15 in the savings bank. I’ll get him to guarantee an overdraft when I get home.

                        Sorry you were anxious about the “goings on in the Med“, (as a matter of fact, so was I at that period !) But all was well, that ends well. So R.J.S.D. is “Lovely & big & strong & Beautiful ! and how he does laugh”. Fortunate blessed people we are & I’ll never be cross -much, if you fetch me from the study to see him or admire any achievement.

                        No, don’t stop the Wops making a Candy basket. Only right they should  for so English a dog as Corisande, to whom my love.

                        “7902” will come & court you. He’s very secure & proper. Even at such places as in Norwich. “7902” will one day cease to be 7902, but when his sentence is served & he’s let out he’ll still be a courtier to you, for your very sweet hand, the nicest hand to hold of all hands – “To have and to Hold”. Yes, luckiest of 7902’s, me.

                        So Harry has a daughter. But I have a son.

                        I’m afraid I don’t give you many notes for friends, local word pictures. Maybe I take it for granted. Until we moved to this little seagull town it was just the British army, sand, or  olive groves, much like other sand. But now, with the tide of the British army sweeping away northwards, the little town is establishing its charachter (if you like it spelt that way, you shall have it so spelt). Little un English shops are opening. Evacuated people are returning from the mountains, usually walking behind the ubiquitous two wheeled painted cart & the little neat footed donkey loaded with cherished possessions. Gradually, before our eyes the people increase, houses open up. Shops open, fruit, fish & vegetables is gradually coming in where all was a dead town three parts starving & with barricaded empty shops. The people, poor for the most part, are fattening to peace and security before our eyes, and zealous against us as they were, there can be no doubt that now we are here the ever kindly Tommy & the discipline and plenty of the British arm, the haunted look and the fear dies out slowly from their eyes. As I marched alongside my men to the quay at 5o/c this Sunday morning, a pastel dawn behind the mountains, the men whistled and the old old bells pealed with one delicious note of musical discord. for Mass. Steep tinted houses, cobbled  alongside the harbour, cool fresh dawn, marching feet, whistling as they march, schooner masts in the harbour & the old church bells ringing for Mass, and Italians, mostly mourning young women & old women, & opening houses.

                        I do hope you can read this effort at Multo in Parvo. Your understanding of me & your love give you a rare gift of deciphering.

                        Bless you & your son & your kind & so fond Mother. They’ll play patience in the Home for Ladies Whose Heads have been Turned by Little Boys with Beautiful eyes. Mother’s letters indicate eligibilility.

Your letters are never censored
How are the Crofters.
Love to Uncle Jack & Marjorie. & You & R.J.S.D.