1224/5    Shipworking Sections R.E.  C.M.F.
No. 189

Dearest Heart,
I wrote yesterday and here I am again writing this evening, having just come across to the Mess from the office, where it has been a busy day, busy with those problems peculiar to being an O.C.  I think the day has gone well. Now I can write to you, which is respite of the most comforting kind.  Then dinner and maybe a Thing or a messing about with play book or even with chapter 2, I won’t promise anything.

Dreams are insubstantial things and of no note, yet I have of late had hauntingly sweet dreams of that son of ours.  Last night again dreams not important for the incidents or details, but for the sweet aroma of them, atmosphere rather than incident.  Age and time were, of course, vague, he was merely a son, a boy, and his company was pleasant to a high degree, he was gracious and slender arid timid, and I too was timid.  But it was a subconscious expression of the mystery of parenthood and has been with me ever since, dreams, in fact, “that when I wak’d I cried to dream again”.  Alas that I have to comfort myself with dreaming, yet it is something, and he, this son of ours, is now deep embedded in my being.  Odd, but I had to tell of it.

Is it true that he did really greet my picture when he came home? That is touching indeed.  Is the portrait part of the house yet, or is it- difficult to live with.  It could be.  But it could I imagine become a part of the whole, with the books and the lampshade and the hearth-rug, integral to the whole.  Good if it did, good if it means anything to Dickie.  Bless us, for all my dreams and thinking and imagining I cannot get hold of the full rich and wondrous reality of having a son, a fully-endowed man child, gifted with your love and influence, to bear my name and have for Father none other but myself. There is temptation for making sacrifices, a star to set our course by, and a jewel in the crown of immortality.  It is difficult for me to know this, the animation of him, the being of him, the look and sound of him.   It goes deep, all this, bites very deep into me.  And makes me hold my head high.  God   is goodness indeed.

And all this, deep and sincere and so wondrous clean and lovely, is superimposed upon and in addition to the richness of yourself. That would seem to have been enough for one man, now I am humble at the abundance of the harvest of this life.  I must not commit the arch sin of losing the lustre of all this, of seeing it in plain colours.  I must live and work in such a way that something of my appreciation is shewn. ‘Tis enough to send a man to the paratroops’. And after I am free of this War, what Time there is and what Opportunity, for living and loving and working.  And what a whole vast curriculum to study, of fatherhood and of fairness and of kindness.  Affection too, and warm and private intimacy.  To win, and hold untarnished, the faith of this young child will be an achievement; failure would be despair.  You are generous in your tending of his love for me, trying to plant what must be nearly impossible in his consciousness. Other women would perhaps cheat and gain a start through jealousy, which would always ensure a lead.  You being yourself will find the same pleasure that I shall in a trinity of love, equal and selfless. It is all wonderful… and words are not adequate.  So there is the reality of my son, and here I have my dreams, slender he is and shyly affectionate, and that’s all there is to it. Dreams are dangerous, but at times the best we have.

Today I sent off some airgraph Christmas Cards, Eileen, Jim Jeffs, Careless, Inspector Woods, Leonard Beare, Bertie Wright, Norman E. the Hansons, Christopher, odd ones like that.  You will make up the official family ones I know.  I have written to J.J.H. and others like that, shall do too the Spencers.

I may go to Pagliacci on Friday, with Allan, if Felix gets seats in the morning.  There’s a great scramble for seats and the theatre is huge and the audience all Allied serving men, no civilians.  Just shows.

I must write to Jonathan Cape. I will, after this, bless the man.  And you shall have your two pieces of coral, a whole necklace if you like.

I would dearly like another picture of Dickie if you get the mood, to match the one I’ve got, charcoal and slight wash.  The size of this one is 10″ x 5½” and it is beautifully mounted on grey and framed by Lanave’s framer in a light oak hand carved frame, deeply bevelled.

I’ve got two first class N.C.O.’s come to me from 1021 and two more coming.  They have left because we get on well together and so I’m well away.  They’re grand chaps.  Hell of a good thing.   I see that Jonathan in his letter starts off “My Dear Scott Daniell” which is friendly I must say.

Just a few lines of penny writing. Stoopid I am about that Orsochiotto of ours. But there you are. Were all stoopid about something & with me it’s you & him. And weve never even met! he thought of that meeting is so delectable that it seems to be impossible He’ll even find me a poor hand at pram pushing! I must get some practise in. Bless you both, I am full of love. For always- David XXX