Arthur & Stella

Tuesday
HMS High Tide, c/o G.P.O. London
Dear Stella,
And about time I wrote to you, isn’t it? It must be over two months since this sort of thing happened, but I’m in one of my sentimental, “blood is thicker than water” moods, when shadows from the past come crowding in and one gets that nice comfortable feeling – recalling earlier days and basking in the sunshine of adolescent magic (horrible sentence!).
It’s strange to live on a ship. When I am out here and there is no possibility of going ashore, the body appears to relax – one becomes resigned easily to the estrangement and the mind alone has freedom. And the mind is fickle – sometimes my thoughts are to the future, but often they wander back, not regretfully, but almost with pleasure recalling incidents from the limbo of a half-forgotten world…
The little things of no importance. They live in the memory, it seems, where the major events have no place. Mill Lane – and I recall the sharp sound of dishes being washed of a Sunday morning and the mingling of voices – your own voice complaining loudly of Convent Convention, Mother’s a little lower key, understanding and sympathetic. Sunday dinner, always late waiting for father. The tablecloth that is rough and the curtains are dark blue. Sunday afternoon and a trip to Patten’s sweet shop for peppermint creams and Clarnico marzipan… It was quite in order then to borrow Stella’s bike, but any other time met with Stella’s disapproval. No damn wonder – I certainly knocked the life out of that thing.
A stock phrase – “Are Ernest and Margaret coming today?” And if they came, why, then, what a “to-do”… For they came in a bright blue Morris and I’d see it through the hedge. I’d hear the door slam and then they came romping down the path. In they came and the house would shake its head sadly to be thus disturbed on the Sabbath and everybody would start to talk at once.
Back through the years. Back to the [??] long, long ago… back to the land of dreams… Winter nights that were dark and mysterious. Sledges and snowballs – roller skates and “relievio”.
Summertime and the living is easy… A few pieces of wood and four wheels became a racing car, “The Black Panther”, and once I took little Olwyn Lewis, the parson’s daughter – I took her in my car down Deverell Road – and never again will I feel as proud as that moment… and I carved her initials on the back of my bed and all my thoughts of her were the sweetest in the whole wide world – and never again shall I be in love.
A little later and it was S.F.X. [St Francis Xavier School] and a man called Barber, who is now an army chaplain, put the fear of God in me and killed all interest I might have had for education. Hours of homework when the mind would roam and concentration an impossible thing. At Our Ladies’ School it was different. The scholars there were roughnecks, but there was a certain amount of encouragement given. I remember you were allowed to choose subjects for composition and two or three times my essays were read out to the school. I felt proud and pleased and I wanted to go and write some more… this was the way. At S.F.X. I lived in fear… not all the time of course, but the shadow was on the mind, and there was no peace.
And now I’ll snap out of it – too much grave-digging is unhealthy – tho’ to refer to one’s earlier days for enlightenment is a good thing if one is desirous of understanding one’s true self.
In your last letter you erroneously stated that there was never a suggestion of latent histrionic ability evident in my childhood capers. Your mistake is quite understandable. I suffered pleasantly enough from a dual personality. This still endures. The person who cavorts around the town and has, ’ere today, held the front room at Peter’s Bar in rapt attention, has little in common with the less fantastic individual of the maternal hearth… My imagination is now, as then, in childhood, a safety valve. And did I not have an overgrown interest in the cinema? – knew more about cinema than the average adult? Could name the directors and read books on film technique. And all my “outside” life – away from home – I never felt that I was myself – always acting, I tell you – always watching myself – never being truly sincere.
Tragic in a way. But, there – I have delved too deeply. These are my own thoughts and the conclusions reached are my own affairs and future practice will prove me right… I hope.
This is too much about me. I apologise most sincerely. The nostalgic interlude is now over. You understand how it is? Repressions and such… One puts pen to paper and then anything might happen… This sentimentalising over the past is nothing unique. All sailors, perhaps all forces men, have this weakness. Often we talk of our childhood adventures and some awful lies are told. Another thing – it’s strange how most of my comrades earned such fabulous sums in peacetime. They talk about the splendid jobs they had and the magnificent suits they wore (with padded shoulders and pin stripes). It appears that everybody was very happy and contented in their work. Coal mining, for instance, is a grand occupation and work in an abattoir is heaven indeed. And as for fishing… well, apparently it was nothing unusual to be paid off with about £50 and spend it in a couple of days. I myself frankly admit that I have never been more prosperous in my life as now.
I was home last week. I have made three trips in the last month to see a series of productions at the Royal Court and after the shows I have time for a couple of hours up at Limedale. At the Court I saw ‘Othello’, then Robert Morley in ‘The Man Who Came To Dinner’ and last week “the Lunts” – Alfred Lunt & Lynn Fontaine, America’s greatest acting team – in Robert Sherwood’s ‘There Shall Be No Night’. Which means that last week I witnessed the finest acting I have ever seen. The word is “magnificent” – I have never seen such stuff. They achieve a natural effect which is miraculous.
Mother tells me that she has heard nothing from you for a long time. Why so? Is all well at Crosby? And what of Arthur – can he still get home at times? I left a tin of stuff at Limedale for him. I don’t know whether Mother has forwarded it or not.
Leave for me should not be more than a month distant. I suppose my visit to you and the children will be the usual brief affair – though each time I tell myself it must be different. I see us all together enjoying at least one good night’s fun. Can we not arrange something?
I must to my bunk. Four hours I shall sleep and then another watch. I shall stand on deck in the dark and gaze at nothing. I have spent thousands of hours of this precious life of mine doing nothing. It is bad for me – but I see no incentive for promotion, no betterment in change. We are the ones who “stand and wait” – and we do also “serve” I suppose. But God – what a waste of life and time.
With all affection,
Harold.
P.S. My love to the children. Is Michael still enjoying that secret joke of his? Talk about “the Man with a load of Mischief!”