Jul 171943
 

Saturday
London
Dearest,
Let me try to answer your letters while I have the chance, for time is rather crowded just now, as you may imagine, and I’m annoyed that I cannot take full advantage of the weather – real heat-wave stuff. But there’s so much to be done that it was impossible to go off to Lords, or to Windsor Races(!) and leave everything until I came home. In some ways, I’m sorry now that I didn’t.
By the way, did you hear about the old boy, a bachelor of forty years standing, and a bit of a lad not merely in his young days but even in the later days – and nights! Eventually he decided to marry and a few weeks after the wedding some of the lads in the local were chaffing him. “Still manage a bit of what you fancy, Arthur?” they asked. “Aye,” he piped in his shrill treble, “every night except Thursday.” “And why not Thursday?” asked one of the lads. “Oh,” came the reply, “the young feller as lifts me off is firewatching on Thursdays!”
A modern slant on an old story, eh?
Sure, love, March 30th is a date if it can possibly be managed. I’m sorry my children regard me as a standing joke, even in dancing. Tell ’em I’m ’uffed!
I’m so sorry to hear about May. Last time we saw her I thought she was looking a bit better than usual, but it has been obvious for some time that she is utterly neglecting herself and I doubt whether she will ever change no matter what you say to her. Probably the only one with any real influence over her is Harold. What does he think of her? Or perhaps you didn’t get much chance to exchange opinions of that nature. I’m glad to hear Harold is looking well, but he must be worried about your mother. Don’t worry about the tobacco. It’s bad luck but I know how easily these situations can arise.
Michael seems to be taking longer to get over this business than Wendy did, but I’m glad to hear that he is eating more now. How is he now? I do hope you are not going to have a lot of trouble with him.
I’m afraid I’ve only answered your letters very sketchily, but time is short and the mere effort of writing is tremendous in the weather. The heat is really scorching. After I had written you yesterday I saw the officer who is eventually going to be in charge of this new station, which he tells me is at Whitchurch and not Shrewsbury. Fifteen or eighteen miles nearer home, but perhaps not such a good place for really fast trains as Shrewsbury would be. But I’m not grumbling! The arrangements at the moment are that we leave on the Liverpool train on Monday morning – but we change at Crewe, just one hour away. Still, I’m getting nearer. When we first get there we’ll have neither beds nor food nor, so far as I can see, are they likely to be there during the first few days when we will have to find what accommodation we can locally. Quite apart from the fact that I’m coming nearer home, I’m really looking forward to this trip and if I get the slightest chance I’m going to carve myself out a cushy little billet there. If I can get the chance of something like store-keeper I’ll be on it like a bird. But all this is speculation leading nowhere really. The main thing is that there is a good chance of my being able to get home next weekend. Once I get settled down there, I’ll drop you a line giving you the low-down, but don’t be disappointed if there is a break of a day or two in my letters. In the meantime you could write me c/o Poste Restante, Post Office, Whitchurch, and just address it Sig AJohnson with my number. I’ll leave this letter open until Sunday so that I can add any further news there may be then. In the meantime, night night, sweetheart. Be a good lass and look after yourself. All my love, sweetheart.
Ever,
Arthur X