My Dear Elizabeth,

            Well ! Many Happy Returns of the Day. Now you have a Vote (and may you use it rightly), you are no longer a minor, you have managed to keep alive for one and twenty years, and congratulations.  The offering with which this is enclosed is accompanied by lashings of good wishes and greetings. Hope it is pleasing, but if you get seven similar offerings, Whitlocks will change it. Don’t be afraid to say so.

            You will have numerous tokens of esteem and whatnot, I hope. We’ll celebrate somehow sometime specially. The enclosed is but half the offering.

            I’ll be there at eight of the clock tomorrow evening, with no car. So I’ll risk the invitation and bring sleeping things, I believe I was invited. It’ll save having to dash off at eleven which would be silly.

            Then we have the week-end. I’m having the motor vetted thoroughly. Giving them ample time. Its noble of you to wait until the Saturday to drive down with me. And its better for two, and nicer for your mother to go by the saloon car. If you are all alone on Friday night I’ll come and keep wolves from the door. Lone or otherwise. But if it is better to let them think I’m staying here, we’ll say nothing and only get the idea on Friday night. Fender just said on the wireless “as a matter of fact no catch is easy in this game of cricket”.

            A certain aloofness this week-end must not be interpreted by you wrongly. It’s so easy to indulge in cosy cuddling when one is tete-a-tete with a nice and attractive female, and one is naturally suspicious of the justness of easy things. One is always nervous of spoiling something rather sterling by mere obviousness.

            Yes we’ll do something about holidays. You will be twenty one then, and perhaps It would be all right to gad off on our own. We’ll see, – what we’ll see.

But for now, surface gaities and enjoy this your day. You have now “bade fare-well to youth and childhood, finally

and irrevocably.  Its forward now, poise and self establishment; adult sanity and rich balance.  You deserve happiness galore, and may you get it.  I take games seriously, you take Life

seriously. My method is a useful safety valve, hence some virtue in the much maligned Publfci School System, and also the reason for the sanity and irritating (to foreigners) sang froid of the English.

You will have much to read and to think about.  Its selfish of me to take so much of your time. But at eight I’ll be there, earless, and happy to see you, happier if I see you happy. Your party shall be a success, for I’ll step into the breach if it flags, I’m famed for making parties go, a grim hearty-fool sort of a reputation. But you’ll have a grand time, and do not flinch from the lime-light of this your Pay.

The rest of your present shall be a dinner dance and a drive back from London, I promise you.  Consider it look-forward-to-able.

My love to your mother, and has she a corkscrew ?

Again congratulations on a well played twenty one not out, a firm promising opening to your innings.

                     Thankyou for your letter, safely and gratefully received. No, I did not journey to Oakfield road specially. And I did ring the bell, somewhat shyly and deferentially, because the port-cullis was lowered and the drawbridge up. But I rang and listened, hopefully. I had been at the cottage and the meat safe had been used last week but three for our supper and I’d taken it on to Kettering while you came home by bus, and had brought it back this weekend. The problem is cleared up.

                        My pip has been traced to a cause. It was incipient Malaria coming on, and for two days I have had a fluctuating temperature, a weakness at the knees and an airiness of spirit with which all Empire Builders are familiar. Also a gently throbbing head and a pathetic woe-begone air generally. But ce n’est pas rien de pleurer, et ca passe tout a 1’heure. I’m staggering out to cricket, brave and foolish, but have cut all bathing severely. I’ll be fine and dandy or dead and buried by Saturday, so meet me at the bus stop at seven and we’ll go to the pictures like all good modern middle-wits and nit-wits. If it pleases you. If I’m not there, buy some melons and come all Florence Nightingale, to 305 where I’ll be an interesting invalid, all dressing-gown and courage.

                        Bill has suddenly presented me with the most delightful birthday present, the pig, (I like pork) – the Cambridge edition of the Tempest, with superb sane and clear-eyed introductions by Q, and J.D.W. Blessed man, Now I have two I’ll have to get the lot, which is a bit hard at six bob a time ! I need book cases, but books are grand possession, the only things to which I am loyal and constant.

                        You remarks re hunting au pair are sound, admittedly, but pairing up is a serious business, you know. There’s more in it than meets the eye.  I’m no lone wolf, I like a pack, lots of people skittering about, and then one can slide or slope or lope off alone unremarked for periods and cogitate, brood, breed or just sleep in the sun. Ha.

                        Dr. Bashford is being most mysterious, he has something up his sleeve, but what it is I can’t say. He’s just written, apropos of nothing, and says cryptically watch out for B.B.C. adverts. Perhaps because they don’t take people in the back door now and only advertise he has bribed them to advertise specially for me to answer ! He’s cryptic and droll and Susan says he is vastly amused and concerned with placing me. I don’t know. Things’ll happen though.

                        They’re giving me ten jimmy o’goblins for the Boy They Made King, which is generous, I think for children’s Hour. I go to collect the Shakespeare script next Thursday. Lazy of them to make me go to save the post age !

                        Greetings and I’m wallowing in self pity, use nine hankies a day, drink gallons of lemonade and am working like a Trojan. So in my maelstrom of activity I’ll plunge, with a salute to you. Fortunately I’ve lost my thermometer.

                        My love to your mother, glad she likes my sweet William, a nice youth.

305 ORPHANAGE ROAD  ERDINGTON  BIRMINGHAM

 Mon Chere Elizabėth,
(The accent is local colour).
I called last night at 11.30, a scandalous hour, but either you had been very virtuous and had retired  betimes, or you were making whoopee chez the banker and were out betimes. So I left the travelling larder by way of visiting card and trundled home, rattling. Both wings forward are disintegrating themselves and it is a musical progress we make now.

I can’t afford such narrow margins, the machine was set for a brief letter to Owen Reed, whom I am seeing to collect the script of the Shakespeare play. (My wireless set makes obscene noises all the while, – comic.)

I was going to telephone you this evening, and may yet, but the idea at present is to come home after the orchestra    to mess about with notes (literary, not bank). If my mind weakens I’ll tootle on the telephone. Tomorrow is mucked up as I’ve a conference with Bill Hughes after the children to see how he could carry on without me in the Children’s Club. I must depart decently, with everything cut and beautifully dried. Rotten finishing a job untidily. Demoralising and depressing. A telegram from Susan came on Saturday after I had left. It was from Liverpool Street Station and said, “DRINK YOUR BEER”. So she’s married. Strange thought.

Thursday I’m cricketing and may roost at the cottage to do the Dairy- Farmer make-up all Friday, its a convenient plan.  The sooner we get into it the more chance of an extra day at August.  I have booked the week-end safe and sound, but it looks as though sheer hard boiled press dates and facts mean resumption on Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest. But three days sunshine and frolic will be salubrious as carbolic. (I’ve been crosswording, hence the strange words which pop out of their pigeon-holes.  Shall we go to the pictures on Saturday night? There’s a goodish looking one up here at the Odeon.

Believe me, when the opportunity arises I’ll tinkle you.    But your David, or alternatively, your Albert, or your Bertie, – me, anyhow, is working to make some money these days. I need some to tidy up my affairs neatly, and there is no hurry to depart, so no sense in refusing.    So long as I am not demoralised. So voila.

Are you coming to the garden party on Saturday? Pretty dud show, of course, but we shall be there.    Oh, I’ve got that Bayeux tapestry for you from home. You’ll like it.   Also the Listener about that Hambledon hulk. Its not a viking ship at all, but very early Tudor.   You’ll see the evidence. ‘Ware guide books, curates write them.

I must fly. I’ve just oiled and greased the motor car, whom I shall christen Maud, because she will come into the garden when I am opening the gates, because the brakes slip.

My greetings to your mama, and to yourself. We’ll be seeing you. For now, a Dios, and what ho.   Yes, queer about us, but I’m not made for double harness, I get fractious and snappy, which is quite absurd.   I don’t know.

A bientot, alors, and that library book is very stimulating. The man’s a bit mad, of course, but has ideas.
Soon, then,
Yours,

                           I’ve shirked the family visit to church this morning to be able to get some letters written. A spot of peace & quietness in the delightful but very hectic week-end. Whether or not you’ll be able to read this I know not, but as I’ve left my typer to be cleaned & adjusted, a pen is the only method.

                        Cricket was fun. I failed again batting ! Stayed some time, & got bowled with a yorker after scoring one run. But a made up for it by fielding adequately. This afternoon we are playing tennis & the court is now beautifully green and smooth, rolled & mown. Last night we played Monopoly, & shopped all Saturday morning. The boys like uncle David’s “funny old car”, & sit in it all day. It’s so like a conventional old type car that it delights their hearts & they prefer it to Rolf’s superb 18 h/p Rover.

                        Mon Dieu, how I love this south of England ! I must live hereabouts. Everyone is more human, bath oftener, talk better, look better. A break away from my present mode of existence is very necessary. You’re quite right. But it’s not as easy as you imagine. One has roots, small & not lasting, but just enough to need some pulling up.

                        If I do the next D’maid, & it’s the last if I do, then August is spoiled. But the weekend is not & I could come to Romsey from the Saturday to the Tuesday, – better than nothing at all. I don’t want to leave them stranded. But I may be able to do the writing only. Anyhow, I’ll see. Be patient & don’t get too concerned. I know all about it !

                        It was unkind of me not to answer your letters last week, but honestly, there was just no time at all ! Never have I had such a week. The letters were fully appreciated, only I’m pretty dumb really.

                        I’m not going to London tomorrow lack the time. I’ll chase straight back, & perhaps you’ll come up to Erdington in the evening. I’d like that. Or I’ll go to your place if you’d rather. If I don’t telephone our meet the seven o’clock bus at the tram terminus. I must smash away at adapting that play now.

                      Heigh ho, I belong to these parts, & thrive best in a well ordered house with adequate food. How shall we achieve that ?

305 ORPHANAGE ROAD  ERDINGTON  BIRMINGHAM

 My Dear,
Did you get home all right?    I did, at eleven p.m., as arranged.    And yesterday we had a good run to London and spent the day with the Uncle and the Aunt. Here we are, back in Birmingham.

 Nice of you to come picnicking on Saturday, as I said, life’d be pretty empty and meaningless now without you in the picture, but you are far too often in the corner instead of in the bang middle, it must be altered.

 I’ll arrange luncheon this week so that we can see something of each other, and if I can have an evening, no matter how late, I’ll let you know. I might arrive at eleven one night!    On Friday I go to Godalming, so the week is short.   No cricket at Great Alne, which is sad.

 I’m just off to the Exhibition to look at the stand, and then the fun really starts.   Heigh ho. What shall we do?

 Anyhow, August should be all right.    If I do the next Dairymaid and Dairy Farmer it’ll be off, because the Dairymaid goes to Press on the 10th., but it looks as though I’ll be unattached then. But don’t imagine anything dreadful about August, Grim days of decision these. Perplexing.

 I must fly, this is not a letter, its a greeting note.   I’ll try to write next time more fully. But let me hear from you, and we’ll meet somehow this week. Until then, farewell and lots of love, and whoopee for August,

Ever yours,