The Letters
Giving up her letters had felt like the tip of a knife finding the soft flesh under his ribcage. Pricking, slicing, followed by an outpouring of something vital that left him hollowed and empty. He knew about such things now, on the field of battle, where brave men leaked their essence onto the red soil. The letters had sustained him, wrapping him in solace and hope and helping to banish the monstrous images that plagued his sleep.
He’d discovered her identity on the first day of training, when his name changed from Peter to Johnson. As he folded his coat, he spied a label sewn into the seam upon which a line of elegant handwriting displayed a name and address: Veronica Spalding, 33 Willow Lane, Halifax. His first reaction had been to assume he was the victim of some ghastly initiation right. He’d taken furtive peeks at his comrades, certain it was a joke, a trick, for the new recruit. The activity in the hut had remained reassuringly mundane until cut short by the arrival of a senior officer spewing barks and shouted orders. Nevertheless, he’d waited for the punchline, allowing himself to relax only when days of ordinary subservience, army-style, had passed.
Veronica had replied promptly to his tentative introduction. She worked in a uniform factory, she said, and had sewn her details into his coat in a moment of spontaneity and gratitude for the sacrifices of the future owner. He didn’t dare ask if she had demonstrated the same appreciation to others, but the frequency and gradual intimacy of their correspondence dispelled his fears. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t receive letters from others, after all. But hers were the most anticipated. Each sheet of paper folded and refolded, thumbed to a fragility that made the corners curl, then carefully replaced in a pile that grew tall enough to be tied with a ribbon. He’d bartered three cigarettes to acquire the strip of purple silk from a local farm worker.
The next home leave left him in no doubt. He hadn’t dared to expect such a night yet there was no doubting the strength of their passion. He’d melted into her, incapable of gentlemanly reserve. The love that had poured onto paper, coursed through their bodies as they pressed close, enveloping each other with gentle touches. The following morning had been bitterly cold but the memories of the previous night flushed their skin, making them both smile foolishly whilst reaching for each other again. Time was short, after all.
With reluctance and shrouded in blankets they descended the stairs. She brushed against the coarse, olive green coat remarking on its shape and outline. In her modest home it could be seen from several vantage points and she said its weightiness, as if he were crouched inside, would bring her comfort. He needed no further clues: she was expecting to see it again, hanging from the peg at the bottom of the stairs. His heart ached for the inevitable absence and his own weakness.
A few miles away from his home village, slumped on a wet embankment, he retied the purple ribbon around another set of letters, recently flung into his canvas bag and discarded under a layer of dirty washing. The name on the back of these envelopes was not Veronica Spalding but Mary Johnson. A silver photo frame lay by his side revealing his wide, dazed eyes and her simple wedding dress made from whatever meagre rations were available at the time. Unlike the dreams bestowed by Veronica onto his army great coat, Mary’s bridal ensemble had brought him no joy or longing. This act of spontaneity, grasped in desperate times, had turned out to be a miserable mistake.
The tip of the knife pricked gently and sliced easily. His training had been useful, after all. As he lay back on the damp leaves, he pushed the photo frame and letters to one side, away from his leaking heart. A last, decent gesture for Mary. And, at a nearby railway station, he knew a guard would find his coat and dutifully return it to the address penned inside, the pocket bulging with her letters. The old ones tied with a pristine black ribbon along with his last dispatch.
THE END