Letters
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons
This is
an old post, rehashed.
When Mary
heard the clatter of the letterbox flap, old memories were reawakened. She recalled
how her heart would leap in anticipation and then be overwhelmed with disappointment.
Many days, the mail brought only bills and she would sigh and shake her head
over the buff envelopes, and hope that the next day would deliver a letter from
David. Some days a bundle of letters dropped onto the mat and she would smile
as she put them in date order, deferring the pleasure of reading them until she
could sit in her favourite chair and carefully open them.
Every
time she slit the envelope, she imagined she could catch David’s scent. She
read the letters quickly, passing her fingers lightly across the words. Then
she would read them again, more slowly, savouring the dearly-loved handwriting.
Every pen stroke was precious and proof of David’s love for her.
My Darling,
It has
been so long since I held you in my arms and kissed your lovely face. I miss
you more and more with each passing day and cannot wait to be with you once
again.
A few of us had shore leave last night
and went out on the town. It’s not much of a town and there wasn’t much to see,
but it was good to be on terra firma again. Getting’s one’s sea legs is one
thing, bur regaining one’s land legs is quite another. I smile when I remember
how you laughed at my rolling gait the last time I was home on leave.
I wish I could tell you more of my daily life,
but you know that’s not possible. One day . . .! Maybe that day will come soon –
I’m sure we all hope so. Until then, be patient my darling, and know that I love
you with all my heart. I long for the day when we can be together again forever,
you, me and our children. Am I presuming too much? You do want children, don’t
you? I know you do – didn’t we decide on five? They will be the most beautiful
ever seen, I know. I will never do anything to hurt you, my dearest one, my
angle. Keep safe, sweet one.
Yours
always and forever,
David x
Mary
giggled a little at David’s spelling of ‘angel’ but loved
him all the more for not being absolutely perfect. She brought the letter to
her face and sniffed it. David’s hands had been the last to touch it – well,
she knew that wasn’t strictly true; all mail had to be censored, but she
thought the people who did that must recognise love letters and skim them quickly,
almost without touching them.
She must write back immediately. During
his last leave, David had told her how important letters were to all the men
and how they brought some normality and a sense of home with them. She had promised then that she would write every
single day. Sometimes it was hard to think what to write. Her life was very
ordinary, her days spent reading or sewing, sometimes gardening or learning a
new piece of piano music. On the most trying days, she enclosed a pressed
flower and told David something about it – where she’d picked it and what the
weather had been like on that day.
She sat at her writing desk, looking out
over the garden, one finger gently touching her lips, remembering David’s
ardent kisses. She picked up her pen and unscrewed the cap.
My dearest David,
It gave me such joy to receive your letter this
morning. It makes the sun shine brighter, the birds sing more sweetly, the sky
bluer. Such nonsense, I know, my darling, but truly your letters lift my spirit
in a way nothing else can, apart from your presence, of course.
Naturally I understand the secrecy that must
necessarily surround all of you. I would not have it otherwise and no-one I know
thinks any differently.
I’m sorry the town wasn’t up to much, though
part of me feels quite glad. I should not like to think of you being tempted by
glamorous ladies in smart clubs. No, don’t worry, my love – I know your heart
belongs to me. Have you not told me so often enough? And are you not a respectable
married man? Yes, I do want children – the more the merrier, I think, but five
will do to start with.
Keep safe, my darling. I love you and I always will.
Your
Mary xxx
Mary bent to pick up the mail,
groaning a little. Her back felt worse this morning, after a restless night. She
sifted through the pile, muttering at the proliferation of unwanted flyers and
impersonal business letters. She tossed them onto the hall table – they would
keep until later. For now she would take her tea onto the patio and sit in the
morning sunshine and listen to the birds.
It had been just such a morning
when David’s last letters were delivered, but she had delayed opening them
immediately. It had been a shock, receiving them from beyond the grave, as it were,
for the telegram informing her of David’s death had arrived only the day
before.
Mary gazed at her wrinkled hands and
felt afresh the emptiness in her heart, less agonising now, more of a dull ache.
There had been no children, no little part of her beloved husband to cherish. At
least she still had his letters and that was as much as she had known of him during
those long months he had spent at sea. She also had the letters she had written
to him. They had been returned unopened and that was how they had remained. She
needed no reminders of the optimism and love she had felt.
She sighed and stood up. ’Life must
go on,’ she chided herself, but some days she wondered why.
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