BROMBOROUGH . . . 16th. December 1942
Dearest one . . .
Wednesday evening, and a nice moony evening, they’re hanging it out ready for you to come up by. I have just been up to the Davis’, after a two and a half hour conference of officers and W/O’s over Christmas arrangements. I went in the car with a driver because of a stupid reason I’ll tell you later concerning my right (Barton Stacey) Ankle. They were well and happy and pleased to see me and had two friends in, the mother of the man who was missing on the Lancastria, a formidable female with an understandable but trying grudge against all Shirkers and Yellow Rats. She also told my fortune in a tea cup and said I was to have four letters, give a present, have my foot up and go a long journey. The last is ominous and likely, the last but one most probable and the others quite likely.
I raised the question of us and them, and they shelved it but Vi whispered me to leave it to her and come again on Friday evening. They may not be going to the relations after all, she’s poorly, they await the news. I’ll ring about this.
I suggest you plan to come on Monday, and either go to the Davis’ or temporarily to the Bromborough Arms, where Speller has parked his missis. That’s what I suggest ? You’ll travel First and have Porters at every stop.
The stupid ankle went on the Assault Course when I led my section over it. I spent the morning urging other sections over the jump, and did it a dozen times to show how easy it was. Then they put some straw in the landing bed to make it easier and when I led my section over I jumped mightily, landed on the straw and the blamed thing turned over. It burns, aches, kicks and freezes but its only a slight strain and will mend quickly. Damned nuisance though. Blast it. But its not at all bad.
The parcel came this afternoon and your lovely Monday letter this morning, isn’t Postie quick These days ?
So glad you’ve satisfactorily seen Vi Finny, and also been with that dear Mummy. And dear you, resting, learn patience, that bland mystery of what-have-you-hood they talk about. Oh, you haven’t played true to form. You should blushingly take me aside and give me a coy look and say “I’ve something important to tell you, a little secret” and I say, nonchalantly, through the Times, “Oh, what ?” and you say, “Albert, can’t you guess?” and I say “no, my dear”, and you say, “haven’t you noticed what I’ve been knitting lately” and I crumple the Times and leap up and, say “NO not . . . not . . . ” and you blush harder and nod and two tears of happiness trickle down your cheek. and I say, seizing you by the shoulder, “Who’s the blackguard”, Instead of which you say “Sorry darling I’ve mucked your leave up for you I’m afraid”. No, work to script, my dear.
God bless you dearest heart, and my best love, and a soon meeting please
I do love you so very much.
Ever your own. . . . . .
