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1939 pre war

24th Aug 1939 b

Numbered 110. Postmarked ELIE FIFE 6pm 25th AU 39
addressed to R. Helme Esq., 34 Albert Road, Colne, Lancashire

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife

24th August, Evening.

My dearest, sweetest Ronnie,

My heart is so full of love for you that I feel I must start another letter to you. As time goes on, the lump in my throat gets bigger and bigger. I want the week to fly, and yet I don’t; because who knows what will have happened by the. You would, you say, bet me a thousand pounds you would be still in Colne to greet me next Thursday. If I had a thousand, I would lose it all willingly if I could be sure that in losing it, you would be safe next Thursday, and all the other Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays for always.

I had my first golf lesson this evening, and thoroughly enjoyed. Chiefly because I did so much better than I expected. Reebie asked me if I’d ever played before, and of course, I said no, thinking of my scenes with you in the garden. (Bang, slam, crash – exit) Quite a number of times he said good and very good. He says I have a good swing, but my feet seem to be my bother (*Don’t you mean your legs {illustration}). They are a bit to stiff. I don’t bend my bum inward enough. He hadn’t to tell me to keep my eye on the ball, though he did tell me to keep my shoulders a little farther forward. I’m really very pleased, anyway.

He leant me a driver, and I think he hoped I would buy it. It was a second hand Tom Morris club, but I didn’t ask the price, as I can’t see any possibility of my being able to afford it. He informed me it was a very nice wee club. I took yours down, but I didn’t use them today. It was nice to have them though. I walked down, and all the way I was thinking “His hands have fondled these clubs lovingly – though not as he fondles me.”

Oh darling, I hope your not mobilizing. Please ‘phone me if anything happens. You wouldn’t have to leave the district at once, would you?

Prince was very glad to get his hug from you, but Sunni thought it was disgraceful favouritism, and wept bitterly – whereupon, I gave him a hug from myself.

Daddy has gone out for a walk by himself, and hasn’t even taken a dog with him. Marjory, Adéle and Daphne have gone down to Elie to the Fair, which opened tonight. Moué and I have stayed in. A fair would be lovely with you, but not without. There are so many things I like to do with you that I don’t care for otherwise.

We say Mummy and Granny off o.k. and I’m glad Mummy’s coming back tomorrow evening. The house isn’t the same without her dear self. Like most fat people (though I only cuddle one other) she is very cuddlesome, or, as that one other would say – cuddleable.

It is a quiet, still night, and Autumn is in the air, alas. But if the winter brings an occasional dance with you, our usual Saturday night at the pictures, the dear ordinary things that I have known in the last two winters, I shall be content. It is hard to think of any other kind of winter. I have only been really alive since Christmas 1936. My thoughts and my actions have been bound up in you.

It seems that they have always been. When I was a small child pulling off my leggings by the nursery fire, a chubby youngster biting my pencil at Mrs Wildman’s, a gawky school girl failing my Arithmatic exams – surely I must have thought of you then. You have always been there inside me, waiting till the moment I was old enough to love; barrelling out at me, and taking me in your dear arms. Red frock, short hair, and pimples. Big tummy, turned in toe, brylcream, evening dress, and the dearest softest brown eyes in the world.

Good night precious, and a million kisses. I’ll continue in the morning. I love you.

Friday.

Well, you seem cheery enough, my boy, which I guess is a good sign. I’m glad my letters cheer you up, because, heaven knows, they are miserable enough these day.

I went to bed early lasnight as I had a bad headache, and felt sick and tired. I am not so bad today, but I couldn’t face bacon and egg, and am sweating like a pig. My love for you must have given me a temperature I think.

Marjory goes to Edinburgh this morning, the lucky thing. It will be lovely for her seeing Bill, but she has such very long separations, that I would far rather be me.

I dreamt about you last night. You were walking down a station platform with me, but you didn’t seem to be catching the train. We were just walking up had in hand. Look up  train in your dream book, as I have dreamt about trains two or three times lately.

John hopes to come up here on Saturday. He doesn’t mention the crisis in his letter to Daphne. He must have been too busy to have noticed it. He’s been living in hospital for the last few weeks doing midwifery.

We feel very quiet here today, and it will be blessing when John comes to support Dad. Mum is coming back this evening on the 6.13. This-afternoon with both Mum and Marjory away (note the spelling of Marjory) will be terrible.

I had a sample of how lonely you must feel yesterday afternoon when the rest of them went to Queens Ferry. I couldn’t go because of my golf lesson at 6.30. They weren’t to be back till seen. I felt desperate.

Time is dragging, and the joy of the holiday seems to have gone. I wish to goodness I was home. It’s fortunate the Railway strike is off, as that would have messed things up somewhat.

Write me a dear, sweet, comforting letter tomorrow. A long one containing both news and endearments. Of course, it will be Monday before I get it. Not long now, sweetheart. All my love, Kay

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