1021 DOCKS OPERATING COMPANY R.E. C.M.F.

DEAREST HEART,

Our O.C. has, left us!   He has gone, having wrecked all our beds in his last two minutes in the most affectionate way but he has also gone with no fly-buttons on any of his trousers, with single pips in place of crowns on his uniforms, with his cap badges upside down, with rude notes on the top of every page of his note book and desk-pad, and with strange things in his pockets.   Thus, with puppy-like foolishness we showed our affection, and we drank seven different bottles of wine with him after lunch, – having had three pink gins in the morning in the Ward room of a Destroyer, not knowing of the trouble at the Mess – and we are sad and he is sad in his new place.   A dear fond man, desperately loyal to his officers, clear brained and alert, yet always a boy at heart. The R.S.M. and the best W.O. have put in for direct commissions and will get them, two officers here are booked to go any day, Allan will be Posted up as soon as the O.C. (ex) can get him, as his Staff Captain, Peter is planning a move and I have put in an application for a different kind of job.   Jack is thinking of jumping down a spout or just reverting to Lance Corporal.   But we’ll settle down and the new, though he can never be like the old, will have everything done for him we can to make him do a job.   Its very odd.   But Cliff deserves to get on.   He’ll get another pip before very long I think and then he threatens to have Peter and me on his Staff as well!  The Old Gang.

Its my morning off, I’m on at eleven tonight until seven tomorrow, eight hour shifts again now which is better, so I am writing letters and chatting to resting Uncle, soon to leave us for another country, a tartan one.   He’ll be ringing you one of these days. Matthew Taylor is the name.  Owns ships.   The most knowledgeable man in the Group. Plump, fat thighed, puts his hands there when he sits, and laughs like a melon would.   We like Uncle.   Scottish kind of a bloke. Three children, Douglas the youngest, aged seven, and his doings are regularly recounted. If he rings up ask after Douglas.   Mac’s soft spot.

Ones sons are.   I find that.   Anyone who asks after Richard is my master in all things and suffers descriptions which outlast his kindly prompting to enquire.   But then Richard is outstanding I can see that.

Jimmy, the newcomer, looks to me pathetically for support, he’s startled at us all and feels sharply our family-attachment to each other. Like being a stepfather with six hostile children facing you, rather dreadful children too, I fear.   Oh dear.

Been inoculated against Typhus, the first of three.  I shall be so punctured soon I’ll go flat.   Its an odd one, doesn’t do any harm but makes Sappers swear very hard for ten minutes. The things they call Doc Bolchover as they go away are delightful.

Yesterday evening I had a half hour of repose at the Dock and read your last five letters, lingeringly and happily.   They are good. Full, rich, the light touch which conveys deep things, swift of intellect and sure of touch.   Happy, precious letters.    But don’t write at night when you are very tired, don’t make it a strain on you.   Sleep when you are done in and say “David would rather I didn’t write now, even though my letters are the breath of life to him.”   Say that, and snuggle down with a sigh, with one, elbow-propped, peer at our son first.

The Italian lessons go on and I am in the Future and the Past indefinite and have touched on the subjunctive.   Oh, it should be Caro Bambino, Cara Bambina for his sister.   Care Bambine for all of them. Caro Mio Ben doesn’t mean, Dear Ben.    I know you didn’t say it did.

Two more Shakespeares came yesterday, Lear and Caesar, bless you. They are a very good edition, G.B.Harrison is a good lad.   Did you like the Spectator article on “Q”?   Real Cambridge atmosphere.  Any news of our Cambridge Bobby?   Any broadcasts of his?   Oh, does the Radio work yet?

You will be getting dirty weather now with sudden deceptive springlike days,   when the Spring comes we’ll get a bit nostalgic I expect. Spring in Great Alne is an arresting affair, startling, too.   And can be disturbing to lovers, like us.   We must cycle, in the lanes.   I cycle round the docks here, swoople around like a schoolboy on holiday.   Its fun.     Our house, a long straight street with the railways station at one end and the Governor’s Palace at the other.   Suddenly, going towards the station, over the many crossings, a Piazza, and opposite it a four storey, as they all are, building, flush with the pavement, balconies at all windows. A pair of thick wooden doors, barnlike and curved at the top, a stone lobby, high, and stone stairs.   Up the first flight, two doors on each side, both ours as ours is a double flat.   Tall rooms, stone floors, no carpets, deeply recessed double windows, mosquito meshing frames outside, all for coolth, elaborate electric chandeliers, modern bathroom and kitchen, and our belongings everywhere.   That’s the Mess, lots of horse & carts passing, cloppity clop, and the horses often canter about, Jeeps and heavy ten ton lorries rear up just in time.   Trees in the piazza and a statue of Umberto with a flowing feathery helmet and a good horse, Umberto 1, king of somewhere sometime, slender sword in hand.   Trams whistle, the sort of thing they would do and need lubricating.

A silly letter, nowt of us in it, but it sends my love to you and to Dickie and to Mother Anne and Candy, and Mrs. A and everyone, and the Laudable Pus.

God bless you dear heart….   David