Michaelmas Term 1977

Dear Helen,

I hope this letter finds you well, and your parents are not too upset still.

These first few weeks have been hard. We barely have more than a few minutes to ourselves; they keep us busy – I'm writing this by moonlight by the window in the barracks. So far it has been lots of physical training and gun handling, and theoretical classes in the afternoon. I am enjoying it though. It is different from college life, yet the hectic schedule has similarities!

I don't know when I will get to post this, or when I can read your reply, but I want you to know I'm thinking of you.

Yours,

John

Dear John,

I'm glad you're enjoying it! I hope you were not caught in the storm last night, it looked very heavy. What do you learn in your classes?

I moved back into college yesterday and your letter was in my pidge – a lovely welcome home! My new room is on the top of your old staircase, the one with the squeaky door. I'm sharing with some other medics this year, so hopefully I won't have noisy neighbours to deal with this time.

Mother and Father are still displeased. Father barely spoke to me on the entire drive back up. I am sure they will come around though. Once you graduate Sandhurst you can visit again and hopefully he will listen this time.

With love,

Helen

PS I hope the chocolates survived the post.

My darling Helen,

The chocolates were a little battered after their journey, but lived to tell the tale until I laid hands on them. They had a good life, lived well and sacrificed themselves with dignity.

Classes this term include military leadership and tactics, fieldcraft and basic military skills. Essentially, a bunch of men rolling around in the dirt learning to not stab themselves in the foot with the bayonet. It's all very glamorous.

How is your term? Are you enjoying this year? I hope you're not spending too much time in the library - make sure you get some fresh air, and have some fun for me!

Always yours,

John

Dearest John,

You would have loved to see Blythe's face today! Someone climbed up and dressed the gargoyle using his hat and gloves they'd stolen from plodge! You could hear his shouts from the other side of college, he was ever so upset.

My staircase went to formal last week and it wasn't the same without you - Tommy tried, but he got caught pennying one of the fellow's drinks and got hauled into his DoS's office the next day.

This term is going better than last year – it's definitely easier now I know what is expected. Week five blues are still hitting hard, but I'm not spending too much time in the library, you'd be proud! They've changed the lock on the Radcliffe actually, so I'm glad you taught me how to pick different types; it took a while but I managed it. The view was beautiful. It's been really nice to escape there sometimes.

I'm sure you look very handsome rolling around in the mud with streaks on your face. Are you still enjoying it? What are your plans over Christmas? Do you get leave during Christmas? Mother wrote, she is inviting you for New Year's Eve if you are available.

I've sent you some proper tea. I was talking to one of the demonstrators who spent some time in the army just after he graduated, and he advised that the tea provided is poor! I hope you like it – guard it well from sticky fingers though!

All my love,

Helen

My dearest love,

Did Blythe get his hat down? If he has, when I visit I'll put it back there! Poor Tommy, Farrow is never pleasant. There's a bit of a knack to it, tell him I'll show him next time.

I'm really glad you could still get up there. They never change the locks, it's been the same one for over a hundred years! How strange. I miss watching the sun set from up there already.

The tea is lovely. Your demonstrator was right, the tea here is more like cardboard water. And the biscuits are like cardboard. And the food. And the mattresses. Sometimes I wonder if they're trying to kill us by starvation, but then I look around at some of the lads and realise they need to toughen a few of them up. Do you remember Wilkins, doing Classics, who tripped and fell into the gong? He's here. I have no idea how he got past selection.

I'll have two weeks leave so I would love to join you for New Year's. What drinks do your parents prefer?

However hard this is, it is worth it. It's a good laugh after, and the lads are great. It will be good to graduate and not have to share the showers with twenty men though!

With love,

John

Dear John,

The sunset is my favourite part. I wish you were there with me though, it's just not the same alone. I must confess, I have been wrapping myself in your blanket when I'm up there. I miss you.

Mother says she is expecting you from the 30th to the 2nd.It's always fairly wet in Wiltshire in December, so bring a decent coat and boots; we go on family walks most mornings, and Father will probably take you shooting. And you'll need something smart for supper. Mother likes sherry and Father is partial to single malt whisky, not blended. Father can collect you from the train station if you tell us which train you will be on.

I remember Wilkins – such a small world!

I'm glad you liked the tea so I've sent you some more and some biscuits too. That should keep you fuelled a bit more!

Can you reply to me at home please, I'll be moving back in a few days. It's been a good term but I'm so tired, I can't wait to have a break.

Looking forward to seeing you,

Helen

My beautiful Helen,

I have to write this quickly, only a few minutes to get this into the last post to get to you before Christmas. Have a merry Christmas.

You are an angel. Davis has spotted the biscuits though, so I've had to share them to keep him quiet. I'd never have any to myself if they found out I had them.

I won't need to be collected - it was going to be a surprise to show you, but I've bought a car. I hope you like her.

Not long now until I can see you again! I've spent far too long without you.

Yours forever,

John

30th December 1977

John pulled up to the old farmhouse gates in the dark. The sun had set a few hours ago, just after he'd left his parents' home in Colchester. John took a moment to check out the house as he opened the gates, drove through and closed them again. It was set back a little from the road, partially concealed by several trees, but looked to be a small traditional farmhouse with a more recent brick addition on the side. The entire ground floor was lit up, the windows throwing squares of light across the gravel.

A dog started barking - it must have heard him at the gate - and a curtain twitched in one window. A face briefly flashed into view. Helen.

John hopped back into the sportscar, a two-year-old convertible TR6 he'd bought only last week and still marvelled over, and quickly drove the last few metres up the driveway, gravel crunching under tyres. Helen flew out the door and ran to him, but a fat golden lab barged past and launched itself in the air at John, slamming him back into the seat.

"Riley, no, come here! I'm sorry John, he likes people too much-"

John laughed as he wrestled the dog back out of the car so he could get out a second time. "Don't worry, he's a good boy."

"Oh, is this your car? She's beautiful, John, such a pretty colour."

"Yes, well, she's our car."

And there, that look. That was why he'd bought her – so Helen would look at him like that, shock and happiness just radiating out – and then she threw herself at him, just like the dog had. But with kisses he quite enjoyed this time.

And then the dog squirmed in between them, demanding attention.

"Riley! That's enough now, you silly dog!"

John laughed and released Helen to pet the dog. "Riley, was it? You like a scratch, huh? Well, you can have plenty in the next few days once you let me inside."

"Father is in the sitting room before dinner. I'll introduce you once we stow your bag away in the guest room."

John followed Helen inside, carrying his bag. Most of the original features had been removed, following the fashion in the last few decades to modernise everything, but the old flagstones remained in most of the downstairs - a practical choice, in the countryside and with a dog. The house was full of brightly coloured soft furnishings and dark woods against whitewashed plaster. Helen led him up the old, creaking staircase to the first room on the right.

"The bathroom is next door. Mine is down the hallway, but Mother won't be happy catching you further down the landing, so please don't."

He set the bag down on the bed and stepped towards his fiancee. "Helen darling, I won't do anything to upset them. I want them to approve of me, I want them to be happy for us. I know they weren't pleased I didn't ask for permission first, because it was a spur of the moment proposal, so I want to make them realise I'm serious. I won't jeopardise that."

"Ok. You're right, I'm just... they're… It's just the past two weeks since I arrived home, Father has been difficult the entire time. I'm sure they'll warm up soon, though. Everyone in college loved you, even the porters when you trampled the grass. It'll be fine."

They embraced briefly, then headed back downstairs and across the hall to an antique wooden door, painted white. Helen opened it with some difficulty - it was partially jammed in the frame - and they entered the sitting room. Riley slunk in with them to flop at the feet of the man in his mid-fifties who sat in the airchair closest to the fire. He looked up at their approach and set his paper down, but didn't stand.

"Father, this is John Rider. John, this is my father, Alfred."

"Sir, it's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard so much about you." John stepped forward, smiling warmly, hand outstretched. A moment's pause, then Alfred stood up too and shook it firmly.

"Don't call me sir, it's not the army here. Sit." He waved at the sofa opposite.

"I'm going to check in on Mother and see if she needs any help. John, do you want a drink?"

"Just water please, love."

Alfred's frown deepened. Wrong choice then - or perhaps it was the endearment?

"So you drove here from...?"

"My parents' house, from Colchester."

"I see. Are they married? What does your father do? Any siblings?"

"Yes, they're married. Dad's an accountant, he studied for it after the war. I have a younger brother, Ian; he just started at Cambridge this year."

"Hmm."

They were interrupted by Helen poking her head around the door. "Father, Mother says dinner is in a few minutes if you'd like to move to the dining room."

"Very well."

John stood and followed Alfred in silence. Helen waited for her father to pass her and reached out to squeeze John's hand.

The dining room was back across the entrance hall - patterned carpet, dark stained panelling on the walls, the table already laid. Alfred went straight to the chair at the head of the table. Another door in the room opened directly onto the kitchen, and Helen gave John's hand another squeeze as a woman stepped through carrying a large serving tray piled with dishes.

"Mother, this is John. John, my mother."

"Lovely to meet you, Ms. Beckett. This looks wonderful."

"Mother always was the best cook. She taught me everything I know."

"I certainly hope so, if this is what I get to look forward to," John said with a smile. But there was a strangled silence and Helen's smile faltered; John shot her a helpless look and tried again. "Can I help bring something to the table?"

"No, thank you, please, have a seat. And do call me Florence," she all but ordered, and John hesitantly took the seat across from Alfred, praying that he'd made the right choice. He didn't earn a frown, which was an improvement.

"You mentioned your father went into accounting after the war… I take it that he served as well?"

"Yes, s... Alfred." He caught himself, but Alfred didn't miss the pause.

"I see… a family tradition?"

"Only him and me. Ian's thinking about it, but hasn't made up his mind yet."

"Did your mother meet him while he was in the service?"

"Actually they grew up in the same town. She worked in a factory while he was serving; they wrote almost every day during the war."

"What a lovely story," Florence chimed in. Finally, something positive.

"Yes, quite, you just don't hear of men in the military staying faithful all that often."

Or not.

"Alfred!" Florence hissed. "We talked about this."

"Of course, Florence. My apologies, John."

"No offense taken, Alfred." He pasted a genial smile on his face. It was a lie, and from Helen's frown at her father she could see clear through it, but they all needed to get along. John had no idea how he was going to make it through this dinner, let alone three days, at this rate. He glanced back up at Helen, who shot him a smile. Oh, that was how.

"John, why don't you say grace?" Florence asked. John froze.

"Mother, please, don't put him on the spot like that, it's not fair." Helen interceded. I knew I loved her for a reason.

"He's at Oxford - surely he's smart enough to throw together a prayer."

"Father!"

"It's alright, Helen. Umm... Thank you, Lord, for this day, and for um bringing us together, and... Bless the food and the hands that have prepared it. Amen."

"Are you Protestant, John?"

"Father! Can you pass the potatoes, please?" Helen tried to distract him without success.

"My mum is. Dad isn't religious."

"And you?" the man pressed.

"Father! This is not an inquisition."

"He is marrying my daughter; I think it's only right for me to ask some questions."

"We have all weekend," Helen said stiffly. And that was not comforting to John in the slightest.

"Well, this probably should have taken place before you became betrothed..."

Helen's mother cut in before Alfred could resume the questioning. "So, John, how are you finding the army - it was Sandhurst, wasn't it, not enlisted?"

"Yes, I'll be a commissioned officer when I graduate in the summer."

"That's good, it would be a shame to lose bright young men on the front lines. What regiment are you planning on joining?"

"Possibly the para-" Helen motioned for him to stop but it was too late.

"The Parachute Regiment?" Alfred questioned. "Well, there's no future there, they're all fighting in Ireland against the rebels."

"Alfred!"

He acquiesced this time, and they began to eat in an uncomfortable, choking silence, only punctuated by the sounds of cutlery on china and the occasional request to pass a bowl.

"This is lovely, Florencet."

"Thank you, John."

They lapsed back into silence again, until Alfred finished eating and resumed his interrogation.

"You must pay attention to the news then, if you read PPE. What's your view on the strikes this winter and the pay cap?"

"Alfred!" Florence snapped.

"Florence," he returned just as stiffly.

"Why don't you go grab some scotch and I will prepare a glass of ice for you," she said as she stood and brushed her dress down smartly.

"Yes, I think that is a fantastic idea." Alfred sniffed and stalked back through the entrance hall, presumably to the sitting room.

John just met Helen's alarmed gaze. She mouthed "sorry" and flinched as her mother slammed a cabinet open in the kitchen.

He just mouthed back "it's okay" and reached under the table for her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. Another slam in the kitchen. An accompanying one in the sitting room. They pretended not to hear the whispered argument in the entrance hall and awkwardly smiled at each other. When Helen's parents filed back into the room a few minutes later, Alfred's cut glass tumbler was already almost empty.

"Now, John," Florence began as she retook her chair. "Why don't you tell us about how you two met? Helen's told us, of course, but I'm sure she exaggerated a little."

"Of course - well, I guess it started when I saw her across the room when she was at her interview..." As he told the story, with Helen interrupting frequently and adding her side, Alfred sniffed disapprovingly over his tumbler, earning sharp looks from Florence.

"That's lovely." She smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes - clearly her patience was wearing thin with her husband.

"Do you mind if I ask, how did you two meet?"

"Of course not, although I'm surprised Helen didn't mention it. I was a typist for his father's company and I was working late over a stack of documents that just had to be finished that evening. Alfred was a gentleman and walked me home, and the rest is history, as you might say."

"That's so sweet," John said. Alfred sniffed again at that.

"It's nothing special, that's how things are supposed to work. I would hope that you aren't letting Helen walk home alone at night."

"Of course not, sir." John hurried to defend himself.

"Alfred," the man corrected and John repressed a wince.

"Of course, Alfred. Helen and I were both at Christ Church, so we would walk back together a lot. Now I've graduated I won't be there, of course, but with the car things'll be easier to visit."

"I saw that... thing out the window. Very sporty." He clearly disapproved; it was written over his entire face.

"It's for town and motorways really, but she made it pretty well on the roads out here too."

"New, I take it?"

"Just shy of two years old."

"Not very good resale value on it. Must not have listened to your old man; as an accountant I would expect he would have taught you better."

"As I recall, Alfred," Helen's mother interrupted. "Your first car wasn't exactly the most sensible either. It got stuck on the road to work nearly every day, until you finally gave up and swapped it in."

"Really, mother?" Helen smiled.

"Oh, definitely. I can't tell you how many pairs of heels I ruined in mud, and he had to keep a spare set of clothes and shoes just to be presentable at work."

"Yes well, some things couldn't be helped," Alfred muttered, embarrassed. "Money was tight at the beginning when we met and…"

"It would have been less tight if you'd bought a practical car instead of a pretty one. And hadn't spent all that money getting it repaired, after you put it into the ditch by the old farmhouse after drinking too much in the pub."

"Father, really?!" Helen laughed behind her napkin, while John desperately tried to keep a straight face.

"Your mother straightened me out when we got married. No more fun after that," Alfred groused, but there was a smile behind it, and John thought they just might survive this after all. Then his gaze turned back to John, cold as ice, and he realised with complete certainty, Alfred Beckett hated him.

In the privacy of the bathroom that evening, John exhaled and leaned back against the door. A knock interrupted his thoughts.

"John, are you in there? I've got a washcloth for you here."

He spun around and opened the door quickly to find Helen standing right outside.

"Helen, he hates me! Nothing I did was right – and he disagreed with everything I said. Even the weather!"

"He's just a bit prickly, John, he'll warm up soon." She looked back over her shoulder down the stairs. She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, then stepped back and handed him the washcloth and a towel. "Make sure you don't miss breakfast in the morning, it's at 8. Father will walk Riley first, so if you are downstairs before 7 you might be able to catch him. He likes early risers."

"I can do that."

"Mother is a little trickier. She won't tell you how she actually feels; she's probably even less pleased than Father, but she likes to be a perfect host. She pushed hard for me to apply to medicine. Father wanted me to study something in the arts and to make a good match, but Mother wanted me to have something for myself. I think she wished she could have gone there, really. So perhaps in the afternoon, when Father is in the study, you can talk to her over tea? I think she worries I will drop out; maybe you can tell her that's not an issue."

"Is that what she thinks? Of course I can talk to her about it, convince her I want nothing more than for you to be a successful doctor."

"Thank you, John. I'm sure it'll work out; I think they both just need time to get to know you. They're just a bit surprised I met someone so quickly, I think."

"I hope so, Helen. I want them to like me."

"I know. I'm sure they will one day, and they'll realise how amazing you are."

They didn't.

The truth was, they hated even the idea of John Rider. They hated the car he drove, the clothes he wore, the way he talked, the fact he had joined the military, that his parents had grown up working class.

Most of all, they hated the way Helen looked at him, like he was her sun.