Monday 1.35pm
On train
My Dear,
I’m not exactly in the best of tempers at the moment. I had an interview with a woman at 12.30. She kept me waiting for exactly half an hour and then decided not to give the interview. As she happens to be Mayoress of Shrewsbury I couldn’t give her a piece of my mind.
I am now sitting in the most uncomfortable of trains waiting for it to decide to take me to Bridgnorth. Apparently I am the sole passenger so perhaps they’ll decide not to run it after all. At Bridgnorth, if I ever arrive, I have to do an inquest at 3pm and then find the Mayoress. I’m not particularly fond of Mayoresses today. You will be glad to hear that I registered a protest on being sent to an inquest, but Sloane pointed out that I would be going to B’north in any case this afternoon so it was not worth while sending two of us.
Forgive the pencil because, as I said, this is being written on a train.
I gather that you had received my letter by the time you wrote the second instalment of yours so I need not answer your questionnaire? Let it be said, however, that I am quite immune from falling for all the masculine charm around me. I feel far too matronly for that. Mickey seems to have banished all such thoughts from my mind and I’m not a bit keen on going up the river with anyone but you. In case this statement makes you conceited I’d better balance things by giving you cause for jealousy. Tomorrow night I go to a dance somewhere in the wilds to witness the choosing of a beauty to compete for the title of Miss Shropshire. The judging is not until midnight so I am to be brought home by Mr Wood, photographer! However, I am sure he is a perfect gentleman, and he is engaged, so you can rest in peace tomorrow night, darling. You know, I’m not a bit subtle – I shouldn’t have told you he was engaged.
I’m glad to hear we have some additions to the bottom drawer. All I can contribute at the moment is half a vest (first size) for Mickey.
The candlestick will be useful when they cut off our light for failing to pay the bill, won’t it? The drinking goblet will be just ideal for mixing up Mickey’s Cow and Gate’s! I’m afraid my B.T.-trained mind will only suggest improper uses for the decorative jug, so we’ll ignore that.
On Saturday I gathered my courage in both hands, walked to the outskirts of the town and saw a doctor.
(The train has actually started!)
After all that, he only told me that in matters like this it was against medical etiquette that he should see me, as I was not his patient. He advised me to see my own doctor, who, he assured me, would think nothing of it as every doctor had girls asking the same questions every day. I am thinking of trying again while I’m in Bridgnorth, but you’ve no idea of what a lot of courage it requires. After today’s interview I was a nervous wreck.
I don’t think you could find a cheap trip during the week, darling. Couldn’t you come on Sunday and get the 6pm train back, which would get you home in time for your night calls? If not, Wednesday and Friday and Saturday are likely to be free. The only time I can be sure of being in the office is 9.15 in the mornings. If you do decide to come any evening this week, do ring me at that time and I’ll let you know for certain whether I’ll be free. I shall probably chew the flesh from your bones when I see you!
On Friday afternoon I remove my goods to the side of the river and the house where I have to “find” myself.
The family came down in a hired car yesterday and Harold arrived at Shrewsbury Youth Hostel for the first stop on his cycling tour so it was quite a reunion. I’m afraid it’s getting quite impos. to write to you on the train. Finish later.
Bridgnorth Station.
6.20pm.
The inquest dragged on until 4.45. After that I saw the Mayoress from whose house I staggered out in a state of agonising hunger that seems to be one of the symptoms. After feeding, and getting back to the station, there was of course no time to see a doctor. This 6.40 train is the last tonight!
At the inquest an ancient man in a long beard introduced himself to me. He is the local freelance. There are hundreds of them around here and they are all over 70.
It’s ridiculous to be longing for bed at this time of day, isn’t it? But the fact remains that my legs are lifeless and I can’t keep my eyes open. I suppose one should be “putting one’s feet up” instead of going to inquests.
I can sympathise with your lack of concentration and your inability to complete your well-meant efforts at fiction. My own concentration is far from perfect just now and I think we would both be subnormal if we were able to concentrate on anything these days.
I have discovered, by cunning and subtle questioning, in what direction the registry office lies, although I have not actually seen it yet. I have also written to Gertrude asking her, if necessary, will she assist us as witness. Have you thought of another one yet?
Sloane is very keen on creating a sort of grand debut for me in the paper including a photo. This is going to be awkward because it means that people in the street and in shops may recognise me. Also one can’t prevent the registrar from seeing the paper. Difficulties seem to be crowding upon us from every quarter, and I’ve got a nasty feeling that we haven’t realised half of them yet.
St. Chad’s Terrace.
The third and last instalment. Darling, shall I go to my own doctor who knows where I work and all about me? I shall abide by your decision in this matter.
I’m writing this lying on my stomach on the bed, which accounts for the backhand slope of the writing. At the moment my only want is to be lying by you, not talking, not worrying, not thinking – a want that will have to wait a long, long time for fulfilment, I’m thinking.
I’ll expect a phone call or a letter within the next few days. You don’t know how much it will mean to me to see you again.
Till then, keep smiling (if possible) and remember that I’m thinking of you last thing at night, working, eating, walking.
My love for always,
Stella