Thursday
Eaton Avenue
Goodness, my sweet. First of all I have broken the news to Mother and that has taken a load off my mind. Secondly, the sister in India cabled £5 with a brief note: “Good luck. Our blessing and love – Jane and Jack.” Wasn’t that nice?
The breaking of the news was not quite so pleasurable and I was almost sorry, at first, that I had made up my mind to tell her the full story. Afterwards I was glad for a reason, which I will tell you on Sunday if you remind me. She really was cut up. “It’s a pity if you couldn’t tell your own mother. I suppose I’m not worth telling,” and so on for the best part of an hour. Like your mother she was trying to insist that you should come to Liverpool at once. “Her place is with her husband…” You know the argument as well as I do, probably. The sum total of her argument is that she is disappointed in you and in me and in the whole world, it seems. Finally she was beginning to furnish a flat for us, but that was too much for me. I had to leave for town just as she was saying: “Why didn’t you let me know earlier? I could have got you a 20 guinea carpet for £4 last night.” Women!!! Will anyone ever understand them? I’m damned if I can.
Mother definitely prefers the “married some months” story so far as the rest of the family is concerned. Personally I don’t give two hoots, but if it gives her any pleasure I think I’ll give her her own way on that point. I’m going to write to your mother if I can snatch a few minutes in the office tonight and I am going to give you the same advice as you gave me. Will you write a few lines to mine before the weekend? She said she thought women stuck together and that you would have dropped her a line, against my wishes, to say that we were to be married. But I told her that I forbade it! That seems to be your best line, together with the fact that, whatever anyone may think about the circumstances of the wedding, ours was a marriage of choice and not one of convenience.
I’m afraid that if I’m going to get that letter off to your mother I’ll have to leave you now, my sweet. Is Michael behaving any better? I do hope so. Look after yourself, dear. Really, cruel as it may seem, I’m not looking forward to your bringing him back to Liverpool’s filthy atmosphere. You may not see eye to eye with me on this point, but I fancy Salop air is cleaner and better. Sleep well, dear, for I want you looking at your best on Sunday. I’ll drop you a line later about the arrangements for ringing me, but in case I should forget then make it a personal call which means that you can get your money back, or some of it, if you don’t speak to me personally. All you have to do is tell the operator that you want a personal call to Mr Arthur Johnson at – whatever the number is.
‘Bye my love, until Sunday.
Ever,
Arthur
Sep 171936