I do hope that your Mother has had no more than a passing migraine, and that she is now her usual energetic and bright self. My best wishes to her.

                        Saturday, then, sans defaute. I’ll be at your house, eager to get away, as near two as may-be, between 2 and 2.15 actually. It is noble of you to come, but I hope the peace of the green and white pattern of it all, the trees and, we pray, the sun and the tremendous quiet of our village will mabe it a not dull afternoon. I shall be with you all the while we are batting, with a brief and painful interval of but a few minutes duration. Then, Cymbeline I hope, or a, prowl round Stratford, and then a picnic supper and so home, chez vous, for the which hospitality I am deeply grateful and in no small measure excited.

                        It is doubtful whether I shall come to meet you tomorrow night. If I can I will, but if I have the day to myself I must make a superhuman effort to finish this play, which tortures me. I even have a steady permanent head-ache, a rare thing for me. It is the doubt, the wondering whether to use this incident or that, whether to make this happen or something else, which is so wearing. Once done it can be patched a bit, and either it will serve or it will not serve. It will then be blessedly irrevocable, and we shall relax. But bad or good, it has been fun. No-one likes the idea, except Bobby, bless him, and you bless you. But that makes it all the more exciting.

                        So if I don’t come tmorrow it will be for the good of the job, and only to make Saturday more necessary.

                        Pray for the sun, and for two seats at the theatre, if that cheque comes ! Fare well, don’t you work too hard. Oh, could you have a week-end with me in May ? I am going to see Kit’s play on the 21st., staying the night, and I wondered if you could come to London in the afternoon of the Saturday, I’d meet you, and we’d gallivant about a bit. But perhaps its a wild suggestion. We’ll look info it. Otherwise I shall week-end at Godalming.

                        Saturday anyhow,  and a hundred to one chance for tomorrow,  no more,  so don’t hang about,  I’ll be there when you come out if at all.

                        After the match we’ll scoot info Stratford, put  down stools in the queue,  and have our picnic in the car. One can’t see a play without meal first.

Poor you, but splash into it and wallow into it and glory in it and of course you’ll tell them how to polish diamonds and get fur coats for nothing in the West End and how to accept diamond bracelets from moustachio-ed baronets at the Cafe Royale.  Of course. If you tell me where the inquest is I’ll try to meet you one of the evenings and take you home. Tonight I can’t as there is not time to be let know, so to speak, and tomorrow I might, though, but if the work calls then I shall have to carry on.  I have a brace of days left for the play and want to forge ahead if I die of it.

                            We’ve written the first five scenes now, and are just starting on the sixth when this pleasant duty is performed.  I’m excited to death about it. Wrote on Friday night after the show and Saturday until four when I went to the cottage. Good there. I spent most of the time cutting and rolling the lawns I know so well, saw Hamlet, walked in the woods on Sunday morning alone, with violets and primroses about my feet, thought about W.S., walked in the afternoon, and gardened in the evening, all very healthy and recuperative,

                          But enough of me, I am selfish, males are.  I should have kept your exam before you and urged you to work, but perhaps you will have a saner more balanced knowledge because of the absence of swatting up. Good hunting. If I am not Dairy-Farmering I’ll meet you on Wednesday after the exam and go home with you and perhaps they’ll be refreshment for us and company and all that.

                             What is a “Stylist in diamond rings ” ?

                        Nice batch of appreciations of your play this morning, all sorts of strange, friends long forgotten wrote saying nice things bless them.

                          A short note, because it is time for me to trundle off towards Great Alne, I’ve been writing all day, and most of last night, at this bloody play, and have neglected all correspondence and communications. Its shaping amazingly, but whether it is absolute nonsense and balderdash or a work of the highest order I can’t judge, Its one of the two, and I favour the former suggestion.          William has just told off his family superbly, and he is now in London writing like hell all day and acting in the evening and drinking all night, and having a rare old time. bless him.

                        I enjoyed that play though it might have reached greater heights, it lacked a certain elasticity somehwre. But it was a great attempt, and a fascinating intellectual discussion most attractively designed.

                        Next week is a strange week, perhaps all free for writing of this play,  or perhaps  all full of money-making.  If the former I shall starve but be happy, if the latter I shan’t starve but I’ll fret.  I’ll make suitable suggestions for co-ordination of plans later. I must flip off now, I’ve left it to the last minute. Writing plays is fun,  I expect drawing pictures is to, Why don’t you draw more.

                        Thanks for your very very delightful letter of yesterday which I have read thrice already. Love to your Mother, Aunt and the newphew Mark.

                         I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a letter, because it will give me considerable pleasure to write it. What we shall say I don’t know, bit that doesn’t matter. I do hope you didn’t mind me giving up the evening yesterday to a round of introductions, but I do want you to know some of these very grand and sweet people who have been friends of mine, miraculously, for so long. Often I wonder at my fortune in my friends, and now, since I met you, I wonder all the more. It gives one something to try for, something to make success if it could be achieved worth while, because they would all rejoice. Kit, charming, gay, debonnaire, sparkling, Prince of good fortune and big hearted and slightly glamourous is one; Bobby, gentle, quiet-voiced, highly sensitive and delicate in mind, affectionate and large eyed is another; Susan, vivid and swift minded, a lover of sail and Japanese art, is a third; Phyl, generous and loyal, powerfully charactered, sensitive and sensible (strange combination) is the oldest of them all. Those, with you and Jack, make up a team of friends than which no man has a better. So you had to know them. I know their good judgement and their good sense, and I know that they will all like you. But if they don’t, then Hell to them, they can go un-Davided.

                        The Radio Tines have been quite generous with us, haven’t they. Quite a goodish length of space compared with most regional plays. Hope it comes off. We shall see, or rather, hear.

                        Sunday will be nice, because I love your Mother, she is a quite grand person. I feel a bit ashamed, dashlng about with you and leaving her, sort of intruding. Very difficult. I think we pair rather well, because age is purely relative. It is I who have to do the adapting, if any. Having been solitary and alone for so many years has made me selfish and broody at times, but it will pass. Imagine living alone from eighteen to thirty, and you must expect a little monastic egoism. But it seems a desolate time now, in retrospect.

                        No more now, save my love, because there is work to be done. Oh, will you come to Murder in the Cathedral with me next Friday, the 23rd ? I am getting a couple of seats tonight on my way to Bill Hughs’ for the Report on Birds.

                        Well, was not the weather kind for us ! Blue sky, lambs all lambish and birds shouting aloud. Splendid. An omen ?

                        Please thank your Mother for the very pleasant and peaceful evening, for the handsome supper and the atmosphere of peace in our time, oh Lord. I have just been giving Punch a titivate up. I have oiled him and greased him and polished his bows and discovered all sorts of things about his construction. A goodly car, and may he take us to many places, notably Wroxham. The Broads book has come and you shall see it. Exciting.

                        Tuesday evening is a bit messy, I think we’ll keep it for everyday purposes and have Wednesday and another evening. I shall probably have some Dairy jobs to do, and may spend an hour later on chez Jack. Or I might go to Blackheath, I must go soon, this week anyhow, because Max goes to Germany on the 12th. and it would grieve his young heart if I didn’t go to see him whilst he is home from school, must see the Brookes, too.

                        Thankyou for yesterday, and forgive more now. My greetings to Mark, who will be the Lord of all he surveys before long, I can see it coming. He’s going to be a masterly dog, unless you keep him well in hand. But he is very pleasant, and has lots of common points with Nunk.

305 ORPHANAGE ROAD
ERDINGTON
B I R M I N G H A M

April 2nd. 1937

My Dear,
After a telephone conversation with your Very Nice Uncle I have arranged to take Punch for his new glasses on Wednesday, we’ll have to risk the Law this week-end.  So I shall be here at Erdington waiting for you. I could meet you here at 5.30 I think, or perhaps six o’clock is dead safe and will give you time to have your tea in peace. At the 17 bus terminus, then, at just before six. Hooray ! At last this* devastating separation is drawing to a close, but the Dairymaid is nearly written. Next week should be easier, Tuesday I expect, Wednesday at your Uncle’s if you like to come, and. Thursday or Friday to ourselves. And perhaps next week-end as well.

In the year, you, as an honest and courageous Worker, as opposed to me, who is a Drone, you have two weeks holiday, in which you are Free, Your own Mistress, and A Lady of Independent means. Could I dare ask you to spend some if not all of those fourteen days with me ? Couldn’t we have a holiday together ?  I have ideas, for discussion. The Broads, perhaps, and for Proprieties sake we could take either Oliver or Stanley as chaperone.  Thus we could have a three berth boat (You respectably sleeping forward), and we should have someone to help in the drying of the breakfast things, and we should also, (Herein lies my subtlety, and this is entre-nous) have someone we could send off to bed at nine o’clock with authority and have the evenings to ourselves. Its an idea. I have other ideas as well. But perhaps it is asking too much.

It rains, let it, we’ll picnic in a Barn on Sunday, or go to the Musical Service at Worcester, and Damn the weather.  Though I have secret information that the sun will shine in April eagerness and the air will be soft. If it isn’t we’ll be soft and go out in the weather. It’s funny, the more I see of you the more I like you and the more I don’t see you the even more I like you.  Absence and all that I suppose. I don’t know as Soames Forsyte used to say.

Your silence about Young English is nerve wracking. Are you seeking a gentle way to let me out? Some honeyed phrase to serve your critical conscience and my paternal egoism ?

A demain, alors a six heures moins cinq, près du Tom-Tom.

Two things have come back from Punch. Oh dear, hold my Head and croon, very softly. I’ve just had a hair-cut, anyhow.

Ever your
P.S. When is your holiday? It seems as though the most convenient for me is the middle two or the last two weeks in August, that is according to Press Days and the Landlady’s arrangements. If you won’t come away with me I’ll have it by staying at a hotel in Moseley and sit in your garden all day.