An End of Poppies

and although I love the mystery that surrounds his works I felt that the macabre nature of his stories perhaps wasn't fitting, given your circumstances. 'Oliver Twist' however is a story of hope; I do so like how the character of Oliver isn't corrupted by the bad things that he encounters. I feel that hope is often in short supply and we need to be reminded of its existence. I am sorry that it is just a paperback and it is so well-thumbed. I must have read it five times. Although it is my only copy I gladly pass it on to you in the hope that it gives you as much pleasure as it has given me.

  I do hope you had a good Christmas. Ours was especially nice this year. My mother’s sister, Aunt Matilda, managed to come and visit us. Do you know of her? She is a close acquaintance of your Aunt Gracie I think. She travelled all the way up from Dover and, would you believe it? She brought us a Christmas tree. A real one! Imagine! I couldn't believe she had carried it on the train all by herself, what with her suitcase and everything. What must the people on the carriage have thought? Having to sit next to a tree! She said she has been growing it in her garden for the last three years especially for us. Don't you think that was awfully kind? As you know most people never have real Christmas trees, not unless you are rich of course. We have certainly never had one. Dulcie said it made her feel like royalty, and compared our tree to the picture of the King and Queen with their tree published in the paper. Our tree looked rather wonderful in the front bay window. Aunt Mathilda even managed to get some lights to decorate it with. She says she got them from an American friend in the city. They positively sparkle like stars! Of course we only put the lights on when we had made sure the blackout curtains were fastened tight. It looked so splendid; I wish you could have seen it. We fashioned a cardboard star for the top and Dulcie and I made gingerbread men to hang from it. I saved one for you and put it in your parcel; they were bit crumbly so I hope it makes its way to you across the channel in one piece. Sometimes we need such small joys as a Christmas tree to brighten our lives.

  In the morning we opened our presents. Dulcie had painted me a picture at school and even put it in a frame. It is supposed to be a scene of you and I walking along the pier at Brighton that day. She is quite the artist my dear sister, and although I like the picture and have hung it on our bedroom wall, I am not sure she has captured our likeness. I visualise you as being taller than she has depicted and your face is most unlike the way I remember it. Your jaw seemed stronger to me and you carried yourself with a certain confidence that belies your shyness. Of course I think I look like a fright, with my bright messy hair, but I daren't tell Dulcie this. We have to forgive her because she was painting us from memory.

  It makes me wish I had a photograph of you. So I thought about that and have included a photo of Dulcie and I for you to have in the parcel. It is one that mother took of us last summer in the park. The fountains were on for people to water their allotments and lots of children were running up and down the strips of ragged grass between each vegetable patch.

  I think Dulcie looks sweet with the red ribbon in her hair but I must apologise about my appearance in it. I am holding a bag of carrots that we had traded some of our produce from the garden for, and I think I look rather grumpy. At least Dulcie is smiling. I think that I look positively rotten with my hair up like that; it was so bright and hot that day, all the children were splashing in the fountain and had made my dress wet, and I could feel the sun burning freckles into my arms. Hence I am squinting so. However it will have to do, it is the only vaguely decent picture of me I could find. I wonder if you have a place that you could pin it to the wall or something where you are? Or perhaps you may like to keep it in your wallet?

  For Christmas mother bought me a new fountain pen, ink and a pad of writing paper. Just like you got for your birthday. So I now too can write with a decent pen, just like you. Don't you think that was awfully thoughtful of her? She doesn't say it but I think she is proud of me for writing to you Jimmy.

  I bought Dulcie a pair of red leather gloves. Half a week’s wages that cost, but you should have seen her face. She took to wearing them all day long, even at the Christmas dinner table, as if she were some high born lady or some such. Royalty; a princess with a real Christmas tree and red leather gloves! It would have made you smile and I thought of you as we sat down to eat. This year we even managed a roast chicken. Mother bought it from Mrs Chiswick three doors down. She breeds them in her back garden in a run next to her air-raid shelter. Sometimes we get speckled eggs from her too. Her chickens are scrawny things but it was delicious with our homegrown swede and roast potatoes. And gravy. For pudding mother had baked mince pies and made custard. No Christmas pudding with flaming brandy for us, although she did make sure there was a sixpence inside the mince pie that Dulcie got. That made her feel even more like a princess!

  After lunch we sat down together by the fire to listen to King Edward's address on the radio. Aunt Matilda commented that he sounded old and tired. He spoke of our continuing fortitude and bravery against our foes and how we are protecting the freedom of the Empire. Perhaps you have heard his speech?

  We stood with mother when they played the national anthem, although Aunt Mathilda remained stubbornly seated in her armchair. That certainly brought a stern look from mother. Nothing was said but it is obvious that Mathilda doesn't entirely approve of the King.

  Personally I think it must be hard for him having been on the throne for so long and never ruling over peace time. He is only sixty-seven, but that is old for a man. Sometimes I wonder about the very few older men you see about the place; how it must be to be one of the few men who didn't happen go to France and fight, for whatever reason. They must harbour a certain guilt some of them. Though some clearly do not, like Jenkins at the factory; it seems to me that he has a certain selfishness and shallowness about him that prevents any empathy for those who sacrifice for us all.

  Of course the politicians all seem to be old men and those few in protected industries and businesses. Aunt Matilda says that it isn't right that the rich men get to stay behind while the ordinary young 'Tommies' do all the fighting for them. She can be quite the radical, Mathilda; all fire and brimstone about how women should get the vote and be the ones running things. She says it is only fair as we are the ones doing all the work on the home front. Woman can vote in other countries like America she says. Mother scolds her and tells her not to be so unpatriotic, especially in front of us girls.

  Privately mother thinks that Matilda is just crotchety about certain things because she is one of those women that the newspapers have taken to describing as 'heroic spinsters'. She is in her thirties now and hardly likely to find a man that would be suitable. She is one of those making the sacrifice of being without a husband for the good of the country; that is how the Daily Mail describes it anyway. I cannot help but feel sorry for her myself; I do love her so, she is so funny and terribly kind and generous to us. It must have been hard for her. On the one hand the government encourages marriage; you must have seen the posters; 'Family First!' and 'The Empire needs Families', on the other they seem to be congratulating those women who, through no fault of their own, are left alone and childless because there aren't nearly enough men to go around. There is such pressure on young girls to find a suitable man. I hope you do not take this the wrong way Jimmy, I am not suggesting anything too romantic between us, well not yet anyway, but I do not wish to be a 'heroic spinster'.

  I am not sure what I think about Aunt Matilda's radical ideas about women; unlike mother I do not find her crotchety at all. Usually though I tend to side with mother, as I would never want to be thought of as unpatriotic, however I do sometimes wonder why insensitive dull men like Mr Jenkins at the factory get to order me around.

  I only had the Christmas day off and had to work a day shift on Christmas Eve and a night shift on Boxing Day; horrible Jenkins was in charge both times. My friend Sally says he is always talking about me when she does a shift and I am not there. Making allusions about me, as if he and I
have some connection. It is not that he is an unattractive man and plenty of the girls would willingly marry him I am sure. He has the pick of them after all. Sally says it wouldn't surprise her if he has liaisons with lots of them. There is always whispering gossip about it. However I really don't like the way he looks at me; he has a smile as if he knows something that I do not.

  Like I said some of the men who are left behind have a certain guilt to them. A look that says that they are hiding a feeling buried in their very depths. A feeling that says that they should have been at the Front like all of the others. Like you. Funny how sometimes you can see people's deepest feelings etched in their expression. It is as if they are wondering if everyone else thinks they are a pacifist or conchie or that they are simply indolent. Or worse that they are faking some kind of disablement in order to avoid the draft. And to be honest there are those that think this about some men. You should hear some of the girls on the production line making derogatory remarks about this or that man; more often than not it is a man who has turned them down. They can