the room closed comforting and familiar around her as she settled in her rocking chair listening to the silence. Only when she was certain that the house was quiet, did she reach into her pocket for Andrewâs letter. Taking a knife from the .drawer she slit open the gummed section and began to read.
My darling Beth,
Today is the second anniversary of the day we arrived in this camp â¦
Checking the date, she discovered that the letter had taken only three and a half as opposed to the customary four months to reach her.
Needless to say all of us âDunkirk veteransâ are even more depressed than usual. Itâs exactly two years, two months, one week, four days and five hours since I last saw, kissed and touched you. Every morning I open my eyes, hoping that this will be the day that will bring the news that I can finally come home to you and the children. Sometimes, I think itâs the uncertainty thatâs the worst. Criminals are better off than we are. At least they go into prison knowing their sentence. They can scratch a calendar on the wall of their cell and tick off the days. If only I knew that it was going to be one, two or six months longer. Surely to God it canât be another year!
I tried to cheer myself up this morning by imagining the journey home. Packing my bag. (About thirty secondsâ work. If anyone had told me before the war that a man could survive with so few possessions I would have laughed at them.) Travelling through Germany in a real train instead of the cattle wagons that brought us here. Walking across the French docks and up the gangplank of a boat without a guard pointing a gun at my back, fighting for a chair inside rather than out on deck, sailing to Dover; getting on another train, arriving in London, picking up presents for Rachel and Eddie as I cross from Victoria to Paddington â thatâs if there are any toys in the shops to be bought â or even any shops left after the bombing. Do you realise I donât even know what sort of things theyâd like?
Iâve seen Rachel holding dolls and teddies in the photographs youâve sent me, but what kind of new one would she choose? Does she prefer dolls with black or blonde hair? Big ones, or little ones? And Eddie? Does he like toy cars yet, or does he prefer playing with lead animals and farmyards as Mother said I did at his age?
Paddington â sitting on the train â a corner seat if Iâm lucky, looking out of the window at the countryside, reading off the towns as we pass through the stations, everyone taking me closer to you. Changing trains at Cardiff â I went through the whole rigmarole, step by step, even down to checking whether or not I needed a shave in the menâs room while I waited for the Pontypridd and Rhondda Valley train. Pacing up and down the carriage while we passed through the local stations. Running down the steps from the platform into Station Yard to be first in the queue for a taxi. Driving up the Graig hill to Penycoedcae, seeing the house bathed in early morning sunlight and overshadowed by leafy trees â I always imagine arriving on a bright summerâs morning, I have no idea what Iâll do if the war ends in winter.
You sitting with the children on the lawn, you look up â¦
Bethan started guiltily. She hadnât had the heart to write and tell Andrew that there was no more lawn. Every inch of garden had been dug up by her, her father and Maisie in the months after Dunkirk when food rationing had really begun to bite.
⦠will you be wearing essence of violets, the perfume I remember from the day I left? And your hair? Do you still roll it under at the nape of your neck? Itâs difficult to see from your last photograph because of the hat. In my daydreams youâre always wearing the dark blue frock you bought for that last Christmas we spent together in 1940.
Then I open my eyes, look around and realise that I am
My darling Beth,
Today is the second anniversary of the day we arrived in this camp â¦
Checking the date, she discovered that the letter had taken only three and a half as opposed to the customary four months to reach her.
Needless to say all of us âDunkirk veteransâ are even more depressed than usual. Itâs exactly two years, two months, one week, four days and five hours since I last saw, kissed and touched you. Every morning I open my eyes, hoping that this will be the day that will bring the news that I can finally come home to you and the children. Sometimes, I think itâs the uncertainty thatâs the worst. Criminals are better off than we are. At least they go into prison knowing their sentence. They can scratch a calendar on the wall of their cell and tick off the days. If only I knew that it was going to be one, two or six months longer. Surely to God it canât be another year!
I tried to cheer myself up this morning by imagining the journey home. Packing my bag. (About thirty secondsâ work. If anyone had told me before the war that a man could survive with so few possessions I would have laughed at them.) Travelling through Germany in a real train instead of the cattle wagons that brought us here. Walking across the French docks and up the gangplank of a boat without a guard pointing a gun at my back, fighting for a chair inside rather than out on deck, sailing to Dover; getting on another train, arriving in London, picking up presents for Rachel and Eddie as I cross from Victoria to Paddington â thatâs if there are any toys in the shops to be bought â or even any shops left after the bombing. Do you realise I donât even know what sort of things theyâd like?
Iâve seen Rachel holding dolls and teddies in the photographs youâve sent me, but what kind of new one would she choose? Does she prefer dolls with black or blonde hair? Big ones, or little ones? And Eddie? Does he like toy cars yet, or does he prefer playing with lead animals and farmyards as Mother said I did at his age?
Paddington â sitting on the train â a corner seat if Iâm lucky, looking out of the window at the countryside, reading off the towns as we pass through the stations, everyone taking me closer to you. Changing trains at Cardiff â I went through the whole rigmarole, step by step, even down to checking whether or not I needed a shave in the menâs room while I waited for the Pontypridd and Rhondda Valley train. Pacing up and down the carriage while we passed through the local stations. Running down the steps from the platform into Station Yard to be first in the queue for a taxi. Driving up the Graig hill to Penycoedcae, seeing the house bathed in early morning sunlight and overshadowed by leafy trees â I always imagine arriving on a bright summerâs morning, I have no idea what Iâll do if the war ends in winter.
You sitting with the children on the lawn, you look up â¦
Bethan started guiltily. She hadnât had the heart to write and tell Andrew that there was no more lawn. Every inch of garden had been dug up by her, her father and Maisie in the months after Dunkirk when food rationing had really begun to bite.
⦠will you be wearing essence of violets, the perfume I remember from the day I left? And your hair? Do you still roll it under at the nape of your neck? Itâs difficult to see from your last photograph because of the hat. In my daydreams youâre always wearing the dark blue frock you bought for that last Christmas we spent together in 1940.
Then I open my eyes, look around and realise that I am
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