November 6, 1953
Dear Mavis,
I honestly don't know why you want to live so far away. Think about it, Ducks. You're skipping out on everything exciting in Britain. The coronation was quite spectacular, and you missed the entire thing. Don't tell me about watching it on your "television set," whatever that is. They have those here, too, you know, but I can't see television overtaking my employer, BBC Radio. Even if your fancy new television set is a whopping NINE inches across, I feel quite confident that seeing the coronation parade in living colour from the kerb outside Buckingham Palace, as I did, was far more impressive. (I hope "colour" wasn't too difficult for you to understand. I know it's quite a labour to remember to spell words properly.)
Here's another thing. You can now drive a motorcar onto the ferry to cross the English Channel. Not that I have a motorcar, but if I did, I'd gather up Rita and the children and take Louis to visit his uncle in Paris every weekend until he got sick of us, which would actually not take him too long to do. His children, unlike mine, sit very still at all times, but he didn't have four of them in five years, so he really has no clue what we're up against. I mean, we're outnumbered 2:1, and that's not including Jamie and the rest of the kids, who thankfully are no longer that little. But LeBeau's appalling lack of hospitality notwithstanding, my point is that you can do amazing things like travel to Paris in a matter of hours from here. From Britain, that is. London, to be specific.
Also, sugar rationing has ended, just six weeks ago. Once they stop rationing coal and meat, there'll be absolutely nothing to complain about. OK, well, maybe the Tory government has its faults. But at least it's Winnie. You can't hate Sir Winston Churchill. Anyway, you have a war hero leading your government too, don't you? Eisenhower is all right, but that shifty-eyed little man who backs him up as vice president, what's his story? I know a crook when I see one, Mavis.
I won't keep needling you, but I do need to give a brief nod to British literature. If you haven't heard of Casino Royale by Ian Fleming, you're missing out, but of course you haven't heard of it, because it hasn't been published in the USA, has it? Granted, the spy storyline a bit far-fetched, and James Bond must be the most boring character name ever, but it's a cracking good read, especially the baccarat games.
Oh, I'm sorry, I'd be remiss if I left out science. The discovery of the DNA molecule—you know, the basis of all human life? Has that news made its way to your shores? Watson and Crick? Oh, you've heard of them? Then you know they're BRITISH.
Don't you miss me? Of course you do. Then why don't you come home where you belong?
With endless love from your darling brother who is deeply devoted to you (and your child, and that other person who stole you) even though you're technically no longer British,
Peter Newkirk, Esquire
H=H=H=H=H
November 12, 1953
Dear Peter,
Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Mr. Newkirk. I haven't surrendered my citizenship. I remain a proud British subject. And her Majesty the Queen looked very nice on our brand new TWELVE INCH television screen.
Of course, I do spend my days thinking about all the delightful things I'm missing in Britain. Other than rationing, I mean. I don't have to think about that, especially when we're having filet mignon for dinner, which is what tea is called over here, mate. And it's way better than sausages, beans and toast, and much more flavorful.
I was sad to miss the Great London Smog of 1952. The idea of having to find your way through the dark streets in the middle of the day seemed such an adventure! By the way, have you stopped coughing yet? Because that thing bloody well nearly killed you.
Let's see, what other enviable things do you enjoy in Britain that I utterly lack? Oh, the Cambridge Five—all those British agents defecting to Russia. That's been good. And how about those hangings? Do you really believe Derek Bentley deserved to die? I'm sure you don't, Peter, but your government does. No thanks. I'm happy here.
Speaking of science and books, we've combined them into something even more spectacular called science fiction. Read Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury and then remind me about the groundbreaking quality of British literature, will you?
And since you mentioned motorcars, I'd like to point out that my husband just got a Corvette. Do you know that that is? Oh, darling, it's a car. (We just say car, not motorcar, because Americans are very efficient.) It's as curvaceous as a woman—you'd go round the bend simply from looking at it. Corvettes are brand new, just like everything in America. He would probably give you a ride in it if you got your arse over here for a visit. Of course, you could start by sending him a letter. I mean, he did name his only child after you.
Love to you, Rita, and the children. I honestly don't know how they put up with you.
Your loving sister despite the awful things you say to me,
Mavis
H=H=H=H=H
November 19, 1953
Dear Mavis,
Don't start on me about spies. Didn't your lot just put the Rosenbergs to death? After making them beg not to be executed on the Jewish Sabbath? Disgraceful. The entire world, even the Pope, was against you on that, Love.
Just one more thing, Ducks. I have Mam and you don't. I win.
By the way, she is doing very, very well and sends her regards. I think she vaguely remembers you, but it's hard when you haven't seen a person in four years. You could come visit, you know. There are only three of you and eight of us, counting Mam and Jamie. Soon to be nine, in case you're interested. Our new addition is arriving in April. I plan to tell Da when I see him at the pub tonight.
Fondly, your brother who has always been his Mummy's favorite,
Peter
PS, Happy Thanksgiving. I know obscure American holidays are important to you now.
H=H=H=H=H
November 26, 1953
Dear Peter,
Mummy's favorite, eh? That's not how I hear it. I believe my very charming and attractive husband is now actually her favorite. In any event, your letter arrived yesterday, on the eve of Thanksgiving. Thank you for the warm, albeit backhanded, holiday greeting.
You work for the bloody BBC. Mam says your comedy show is one of the most successful things on the Light Programme. Ask for a bleeding raise, Peter. Do you need me to coach you? Are you actually that feeble?
Regardless of how you answer that question, you should come to visit next summer. I've already discussed it with Rita, by telephone in fact, since she does not insist on writing letters out of some strange nostalgia over wartime correspondence. The travel cost isn't an issue, Pete. Now that my dear husband has retired from his illustrious military career, he has accepted an executive position at Pan American Airways. We're moving to New York! He can fly the lot of you over here at no cost, and we have plenty of room if you don't mind the kids doubling up. Given the size of your tribe, I can't imagine that would be an issue.
Congratulations on the blessed event. If it's a boy, I hope he's just like you and not sweet like my darling nephews Robert and Louis, because you really deserve to experience yourself.
And by the way, we've got another one on the way in April, too. Yes, two kids, five years apart. There's this remarkable thing you can do called family planning. You might want to read up on it before you've fielded an entire baseball team. (In case you don't know, that means nine players.)
I've read that spacing your children five years apart is just perfect. It certainly worked for you and me.
Love always to my thick-headed but otherwise perfect brother.
Yours,
Mavis
H=H=H=H=H
December 3, 1953
Dear Peter,
You haven't changed a bit. I've never known anyone who argued so hard to cover up his hurt feelings.
I love your sister, and she loves me. You can't hold that against us forever. We have you to thank for bringing us together and we're both eternally grateful. How many times do I have to tell you this? Because I'm pretty sure I'm up to 10 or 12 by now.
So quit being a jerk and get over here to visit with the family. As Mavis mentioned, the tickets won't cost a thing, and that's the only big expense. We'll come to London the following summer—I promise.
Affectionately,
Robert E. Hogan
Lt. General, USAAF, Retired
P.S., Just remember: I'm the Gov, and you're not. I have Mavis and you don't. I win. Chop, chop, chop.
H=H=H=H=H
December 12, 1953
Dear Robert,
Righto, Gov. Give all my love to Mavis. We'll see you in July. In the meantime, Merry Christmas.
Your obedient servant,
Peter Newkirk
Warrant Officer, Royal Air Force, Retired
P.S., Try to remember to keep your Corvette keys in a secure place when I get there. I'm quite sure I can handle a left-hand drive vehicle, no matter how wrong that is, and I do enjoy late-night mystery excursions. Actually, the keys don't really matter at all. I can hot-wire the motorcar. But you already knew that.
Astute readers may note that this final thread of stories begins 10 years after the first ones began.
Do I really think Hogan and Mavis would end up together? No. Except in this story, that was never my head canon. But it IS a fun idea for this story, and there was no better way to end it. Huge shout out of thanks to Tuttle4077 for helping me see that and for coaxing me with ideas on how to end of this saga! The reference to the Great London Smog of 1952 was a nod to one of my favorite fanfic authors, whirlyite, who wrote about it in "Never Give In." All the other historical events I referred to are real events of 1953 or slightly earlier in a couple of cases. I hope everyone knows that the shifty-eyed little man is Richard Nixon... sorry, I couldn't resist.
I need to give a shout out to Prolegomenon/Old English Game/26493/Caroline, whose story "To Colonel RE Hogan" got my juices flowing. It is unfortunate and deeply disappointing that she has taken down the original story and her other outstanding works. She is talented and she's missed in this fandom. She brought a real spark, and I know many of us hope she'll return one of these days. Thanks also to L.E. Wigman for some really fun prods and prompts and ideas in her own response, Mavis' Missives.