SCARBOROUGH. SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
13th. January 1942
My Dearest one,
After lunch I sat on my bed, made-up, because it’s Saturday afternoon, to sew on a button, one on my great coat, not one sewn on by you. And I was touched, nearly to tears, because when I took out my hussive* I found a needle already threaded, – and by you, you dear thoughtful hussivish thing, thinking of my one-eyes gropings, and for stalling them with a labour of love and I sewed the button on without tying a knot, as I saw you do. That was fine.
Another mild attack of nostalgie came this morning when, at half past twelve, I went out into a persistent, eternal, lazy fall of snow. Hushed feet and hushed sky, and little flakes lying on the air and turning over and over. I thought of another unexpected snow-fall when we were motoring, oh, ever so long ago, in a dream-world past before waking to living. That snow cut us off from the whole world, added a spice of excitement to what was an adventure, and seemed to be an effort by Heaven to save you, virginal and simple and trusting, from the over-eager planning and plotting of me, a male out to conquer. D’you recall that motor drive, the long endless road from Warwick, the chunks and lumps of snow, and the dingy cheap ricketty little flat which sufficed to make paradise? I remember it, and snow will always remind me. There were chocolates, too, Black Magic. The snow was white magic.
I have refused three invitations to go out this afternoon, choosing rather your company at the other side of the typewriter in the office, and would not, with your company as the alternative to lunch in town and pictures and tobacco and cigarette raiding tours. We have a new man in the Squad a S/L/Bdr from the 36th. S.T.R. named Cambell, tall and pale and spectacled and superior and he dodged lectures for a week, was caught, and has got ten days CB, is stripped and has his OCTU application cancelled, which just shows. He’s scrubbing the floor outside as I write. Widdick is off on compassionate leave having a brand new daughter. He had no money, but we raised his fare and ten bob and off he’s gone. So excited and palpably nonchalant. What a to-do as Chip Lloyd always said, house is L/Bdr. Lloyd.?
Lamp 100% on each reading, buzzer 95, which wasn’t so good, Damn silly, but I’ll make the grade by Friday I think. This starts the last fateful week. If I fail I’ll be very mortified, but its not improbable, my brain’s not the buzzer reading brain, my Procedure and R.A. Code and instrument work is all right, though. We’ll see.
Have you snow? Has Golden ears been out in it? She laughs so heartily at snow and is vastly amused my mouthfuls of it. She also likes catching snow balls tossed cheerfully. And she bounds in it and throws up her head and waves her ears. Dear Golden ears, keep her well for me when I come home. We’ll walk, she and I.
(and you)
If things, by things I mean “things”, haven’t come just as we wished by the time I come home on leave one can put in another application, can’t one?
There will perhaps be a letter for me this afternoon. I’ll take this down to the Victoria when I go, get your ration cards and if there be a letter from you, say so on this, yes? Dear you.
Dear me, because of you. I’ve had such a lot of my hairs cut. The moustache went west because I had to be Canteen Rough – orderly – and parade with the Guard when it was at its goggliest.
Dear your, mother, and good old Klaus.
Bless you all.
Thank Uncle Jack (Scarf) for his letter and say that I haven’t answered it, not because I didn’t want to, but to save embarrassing him with a letter. I look forward to seeing him very such indeed. Who will bring us out on the second, if we have the second for our reunion.
All my love, dearest. . .
Sunday A. M.
I didn’t post is this last night as Gisling was at the Vic. & if I’d gone for your ration cards I’d have been landed with him all the evening. I’ll go this evening & post this & eat there & later ring you, yes? Good. The men’s club till key is on my ring, in the corner of the cupboard or our draw. Two Little keys.
A busy day today. A Regimental Stand To to man the defence posts, in case Jerry tries raids in answer to ours. We parade at 10 o/c & parade again at 12.45, in F.S.M.O. – Field Service Marching Order,- full equipment. We have to be away by six o/c. Gen Shears is coming round to inspect us in position. Its a clear frozen day. Very bright and very cold. But our clothes are extremely warm so why worry. Your two letters & the Spectator came yesterday afternoon, lovely letters. Candy’s fishbone & cure, the violet (bless it), Mr. Clements moustache, you are a Moorish girl, Christopher’s letter, your deliciously absurd idea of me & my picture & so on.
No more now, dinner in 5 minutes (12o/c) & then parade. Ever (still) David
*Sewing kit