May 24, 1944
Dear Mavis,
I've had your letter of April 28 for a few days, but I used my ration of writing paper and all that I could cadge, and there was nothing available for trade. However, LeBeau's mum sent him some, and he was kind enough to lend me a few sheets. Lavender's not the manliest scent, but LeBeau said we're lucky to have what his mum could spare, and I can't argue with that. It certainly gets the job done. I just hope it doesn't make you sneeze.
I'm pleased the old man stopped by and passed a nice afternoon with you, Mam, and the kiddies. But Ducks, I just need to warn you to be careful. I know you've heard those words from me quite a bit lately, but when it comes to Da, I'm dead serious. It's easy to get close to him only to be hurt by him. Once he feels that Mam or anyone has any expectations of him, he is liable to flee and stay away for quite some time. I wish it wasn't so, but it is. I know from your letter that you do understand the risks. I just can't bear the thought that he would make you cry.
He didn't happen to ask after me when you saw him, did he? I doubt he would, but I do wonder if he ever thinks of me at all.
I trust "Robert" will report that I've been a good, church-going lad. Blimey, how did this happen a scoundrel like to me? You have entirely too much influence over both of us.
As for your inquiry about my Lenten sacrifice, let's just say that there are times when you and Mam oughtn't pry. It was a sacrifice, believe me. All I can say is I'm glad Mam taught us that Sundays aren't part of the 40 days of Lent, because "every Sunday is a little Easter." The Guv accused me of looking for "loopholes," but I don't bloody care. If I manage six consecutive days of sacrifice, I think I'm entitled to one day off for bad behavior. In any event, I've never been so relieved by Easter's arrival in all my life.
There have been no significant holidays to celebrate, but the Fourth of July and Bastille Day are just around the corner, and wouldn't my friends think me cross if I sat them out? Remind me to tell you when I'm back home about the concoctions you can brew from sultanas or what the Yanks call "raisins."
Most importantly, the arrival of spring—not to mention a steady stream of letters—has lifted everyone's moods, notably mine. It's hard not feel a surge of hope when the robins are singing on the glistening barbed wire. This is the closest I can come to your sunny optimism.
Brown Betty has been a tremendous hit and has earned you more than one dinner; if you will consent to be my date for one glorious evening, there will be dancing and a show as well. The British prisoners are spread out across the camp, but elevenses is now at my place. Imagine me being mother! But since I'm the one what also manages to obtain the milk, sugar and tea, it just makes sense for me to do all the work, like any mum would do.
With great affection and abiding love from your very sober and less moody brother,
Peter
H=H=H=H=H
Author's Note: "Elevenses" is the 11 o'clock tea break. I just like the idea of Newkirk surrounding himself with British buddies once in a while. "Being mother" is a wonderful British phrase. Who pours out the tea at home? Mother, of course. So when you say "I'll be mother," you're volunteering to take charge of the teapot, pour tea into cups, add milk as required, hand out the cups, and replenish them. As for Lent, I will leave it to your imagination to decide what sacrifice Corporal Newkirk has made. Perhaps he has given up Shakespeare. The debate over whether Sundays are part of Lent or not was lively and real in my youth.
H=H=H=H=H
May 28, 1944
Dear Mavis,
Shortly after I posted my last letter to you, a letter from Da arrived in my hands. I am very short on writing paper, but I cadged some because I had to tell you right away. I'm shaken to the core by this and hardly know how to answer him.
Mind you, it wasn't a bad letter. He mostly wrote to me about Uncle Peter, who was on his mind because he would have turned 50 on May 7. Being the fool that I am, I spent that day lighting matches in Uncle Pete's memory—22 of them in a row to mark each year he lived. Colonel Hogan caught me and thought I'd turned into a pryo, and I had to explain what was going through my feeble brain. He seemed to understand, though I'm sure the incident helped cement his general impression that I'm completely mad.
Da seemed to be saying Mam asked him to write to me. I told her in a letter I was a bit sad that I'd never heard from him in all the time I've been here, so I suppose I brought this on myself. After 10 years, I'm shocked that he can place me. I might ask the Guv to read the letter. I haven't decided. Blimey, I never expected to hear from the old geezer again after what happened last time.
In his letter, Da told me to look after myself and seemed to wish me well. I wonder if he might have some shred of affection for me after all these years. Just thinking about it gives me the collywobbles. I wish it were true, but I don't trust it.
I love you madly and wish I could speak with you right now.
Your devoted brother,
Peter