be so spiteful in the face of rejection. When men are in short supply and the women are desperate it is the men who get to choose. Though I shouldn't be one to judge I have seen the shortest, fattest ugly men with the most beautiful of women. I am sure you must have noticed this phenomena too. We don't mean to be rude but whenever Dulcie and I have seen an odd couple like this, especially one where a pretty slim woman towers over her short husband, we cannot help but giggle to ourselves at the absurdity of it. We laugh because it is the very opposite of that silly song that children sing at weddings. You know, the one that goes 'Here comes the Bride, all fat and wide, here comes the Groom, skinny as a broom...' to the tune of the wedding march.
But I suppose at the end of the day if they are happy then who are we to judge? To be fair most of the young girls I know would not countenance such a thing; they dream of meeting a fine young soldier. Not some older, unfit man. If there is a suspicion hanging over a man that isn't fighting then that suspicion hangs over any woman they are attached with too. Like an unseen black cloud. Did they marry simply for money or convenience? So there is still something terribly romantic and honourable about the desire to marry a brave soldier in their fine uniform, or so it seems.
I will tell you Jimmy, that I have kept the fact that I have met you and that we correspond a secret at work for fear of the wagging tongues; the only one I have trusted with this knowledge is my dear friend Sally. We grew and went to school together so I know that I can trust her.
Now that I think about it, perhaps I have not been entirely fair to Jenkins. He does, albeit very rarely, have that look of guilt about him; guilt at being a single man not at the front. I have noticed the way he looks, especially when women in the factory talk of brothers or sons or even husbands at the Front. But in these moments he can also have a certain smugness about him, as if to hide his guilt and prove himself the king of his tiny castle. He is only the shop floor manager, but, perhaps because he is often the only man there, I feel that he has ideas above his station. I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way about him. He boasted to Sally that he will soon be promoted to the design office, which is important war work. I am not entirely sure that this is true or that his motives are honourable, especially when he boasts like this, as he often does so obviously in an attempt to impress a pretty girl. But I suppose like everyone else he would long for a partner to share his life with and who am I to deny him?
As a treat before Christmas mother took Dulcie and I to the cinema. I do so love it. We saw a new 'Disney' film from America; 'One Hundred and One Dalmatians'. It was quite different from the book, which I have read. I wonder if you are familiar with it? When Dodie Smith wrote it in 1956 it was set in Suffolk and despite being a delightful story for children it did include some of the deprivations England faces in wartime. Somehow the Americans have contrived to set it in New York with American characters. I suppose they don't want their children to be faced with war and the kinds of things we face. The American films are so full of colour these days. As if they live in a happy peaceful world. I know it was just a silly animated film but it made me feel that life in America must be so full of light and joy.
Despite my reservations about it, it was delightful fun and Dulcie loved it. She has been pestering mother ever since to have a dog for a pet. Of course mother says this is an extravagance too far in times of war and that if we did get a puppy we would simply fatten it up ready for the table. Besides puppies are very expensive.
I used to try to go to the cinema at least every other week with some of the girls from the factory, until the Odeon was bombed out a few months ago with no sign of it being rebuilt as yet. So for this mother took us on the tube up to the west end. Such a treat.
The air raids are much rarer in these last few months; the rumour is that the Germans don't have the fuel to mount any sustained bombing, but then again these rumours are always going around. We all know that there are months and months with no bombing and then suddenly there they are again, the sirens and the heavy drone of their engines in the night sky. So one can never be too careful or let your guard slip and forget to acquaint yourself with the location of the nearest shelter or underground station. It is second nature for all of us, like you describing ducking for 'cover' in your letter.
A couple of years ago, it must have been 1958 or '59 I think, we seemed to go the whole year without any bombings or rocket attacks. I don't suppose you remember, what with being at the front. At times one could almost imagine what life might be like without the war. Foolish I know.
Mother says this always happens; it has been happening her whole life. It is like the great war machines of both nations go into hibernation for a while. Sleeping giants resting and consolidating before the next big push. Then they wake again, after many months of inactivity; they stretch their enormous limbs, yawn and return to the heavy task of combat once more. It is only natural I suppose. There needs to be time to breathe; to grow food, make weapons, rebuild and construct new bomb resistant buildings. Although all construction is temporary. Even those buildings the war ministry says are 'bomb-proof' seem to need rebuilding.
Every year the streets change, new patches of wasteland appear once the rubble is removed and, for a few months at least, little boys have a new bit of ground they can use as a battlefield. Grubby snot-faced boys acting out their futures on their own piece of no-man's land in suburbia; toy pistols and sticks as rifles. When I see boys like that on my walk to work I imagine what it was like for you and Billy Treacher not so long ago. I am sure, from what you say in your letters, that you must often think of the freedom of those past times.
After a few months the wasteland gives way to new off-white pre-fab houses that appear quickly as if by magic. Their appearance is soon followed by mothers and children moving in, fresh from the ever present tent filled evacuation centres dotted around all green spaces and suburbs on the edge of the city. But I guess you are all too familiar with all of this Jimmy, having grown up just down the street. Were you ever bombed out? We have been so lucky to have managed to stay in the same house for so long. Mother says it is because we have a guardian angel watching over us. Do you believe in angels Jimmy? Aunt Mathilda certainly behaves like some kind of angel.
At the end of the day it is a truth, I suppose, that our lives are built on shifting sands. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing. Not the houses or the factories or, indeed, the people. This is why I have decided to continue to write to you Jimmy. It gives me comfort to think that I may be of use. That I may, even in the smallest ways, be of comfort to you. Like you said in your letter, we all wish to belong and I am no different. Our correspondence will not last forever, for whatever reason, but while it does I can at least feel I am doing my bit. For you. Does that sound awfully silly to you Jimmy? I hope not.
So, I will make a promise to you Jimmy Fitzpatrick. That I will reply to your letters for as long as you write, despite how shocking or sad your letters may be. This I promise.
So, Jimmy, I wish you the best of New Years and hope that your unit gets leave soon to come home to blighty. I am hoping that this letter finds you in safety and good health and I very much look forward to your next letter.
Best wishes
Esme
X
M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.
Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!
076938964
Ypres Zone
Middlesex Regiment
Sappers Unit 2064
12th January 1962
Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick
Dearest Esme,
To receive your parcel was a wonderful Christmas present. You wouldn't believe how much I love that you have sent me ‘Oliver Twist’! Would you believe that it is one of Dickens that I have never actually read? How marvellous that you would choose that one. What a coincidence! Thank you so much; so very kind
. It is far from silly that you would wish to 'do your bit' and so very flattering that you would do it for me. Do your bit by sending me parcels I mean.
Perhaps you, my dearest Esme, are my guardian angel? I am not one for believing in God and such things necessarily. I am not sure that you could call me an atheist exactly; I sometimes feel that there is perhaps something beyond this life. I have seen it in the faces of the dead here, a certain peace that lies beyond this war. A dead face can be angelic. I don't mean to be macabre, but I have seen a fair few of the dead and there is something other worldly about the absence of pain in their countenance. I would not describe it as comforting but it has the impression of a release. They are released. So in all honesty, like many I suppose, I do not know what to think about such things. But if there are such things as 'guardian angels' I like to think that they are people; people like you, and your family. People like your Aunt Mathilda and my mother. My dear mother.
She used to send me things, things in heartfelt parcels, just like you. But now the truth is I haven't heard from her at all in these last six months or so. Or perhaps longer, I forget; not since she was sent to the north. You asked if we were bombed out. We weren't bombed out but we