Category: 1939 pre war

Numbered 114. Postmarked ELIE FIFE 6pm 30 AU 39
addressed to R. Helme Esq., 34, Albert Road, Colne, Lancashire

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife

30^th August.

My darling Ronald,

I haven’t had a letter from you yet, but I am still hopeful that one will arrive by the afternoon post. Gee honey, I shall be home in no time – no time at all, and I am longing to see your dear fat form again.

We have been packing all morning and we (infants) have got nearly everything in. We have packed one big trunk as full as it can be. We have fairly steamed ahead, but I expect there is plenty more to be done in the way of household goods etc.

I hope you don’t mind, honey. I leant your pullover to John to wear to Macduffs caves yesterday. He wanted to wear one with long sleeves instead of wearing a jacket – so I was really proud to be able to produce yours which fitted him quite well. It returned to it’s customary place of honour in the evening, and was put round my feet which were very cold – and remained there all night. So you see, it has been all round useful as well as a great comfort to me!

Yesterday afternoon, Mum Dad and I after having made our unsuccessful attempt to purchase some fish in Elie went on for a run to St. Andrews. In Elie we met Mr and Mrs Walker and their daughter who had just heard that the boat she was taking back to India is not sailing. She seemed very upset at having to be parted from her husband, but was hoping to get back somehow. She informed us that her butcher said they had been given orders to kill no more livestock, and as this only seems to be in Elie, we can only think that it must be because of the 200 soldiers coming in a day or two. They must be saving their meat for them. The reason we can’t get fish is that, as you’ll know the Forth has been mined, and the fishing fleet are not allowed out.

So we had to have egg and chips for supper last night instead. What a life! Do you still think there isn’t going to be a war – even when your trousers have come back? Well anyway, I’m sure of seeing you soon, and we can talk things over. What shall I do if anything does happen? I shall have to do something.

I am very empty and wish it would buck up and be dinner time. Well, it is dinner time, but there doesn’t seem to be anything doing.

I have tried my captive ball, and it is good fun – although of course, I missed it altogether once or twice. I just seem to top it even when I hit it which is troublesome. Still, I am hoping for a speedy improvement with some more practice.

You were lucky to go from here before the ‘wasp season’ started. It is now in full swing. For the last week or so, there have been ever so many swatted by the great Hunter Crichton – and even I have swatted quite a few. I think there must be a nest near here.

Prince has been more than usually troublesome this morning. He came upstairs and was promptly sick on the nice green carpet. As he did it the first day, he wanted to do it the last day; but this was about three times as big an effort. The grande finale. Just before that, he deposited a worm on the bedroom rug; and he is nodding furiously. So a fat lot of chance there is of him getting a prize. I am rather depressed about the whole thing. He is sure to misbehave himself at the crucial moment anyway.

I believe dinner is about to go in. Good But I don’t suppose it will be anything interesting.

By the by, I discovered a wonderful rash all over my sitting position this morning. There was also a little on the legs and wrists. I showed it to Dad at the request of the others who thought it was infectious, but Dad was not at all hett up, and said it was only a nettle rash; probably some thing I’d eaten. It seems to have more or less subsided now. A very funny place to develop don’t you think? I should never have noticed it if it hadn’t itched me!

To return to St. Andrews (very badly composed letter!) Dad met an old school and University friend there. They hadn’t seen each other for about thirty years, and were more friendly at school than at university, but this man – Dr Alec Dick – remembered Daddy’s face, so they had a good chat. He is the superintendent of a Looney Bin near Glasgow. His wife was with him, and we were introduced.

Ha Ha, I nearly put something very funny there by mistake. Very funny. But I can’t tell you, well not here, anyway.

There goes the gong. I must away to eat (“you think more of your stomach than you do me”) Cheerio, for now. I’ll write a line or two more of trash later.

…. Your letter has arrived and been perused. Very nice, my boy, very nice. You sure are excited about my home coming. It heartens me somewhat. Probably, we shall not be setting off from here till about ten, so you could have written after all. But then, there is always a chance the letter might not arrive till this post. Besides, I shall so soon be home.

We are going out in the car this afternoon. I don’t know where. It has turned out nice.

Now I am just going to say what comes into my head: I love you, I love you, I love you -. Oh dear, I’ve come to a dead lock. The gramophone’s stuck. I love you. But I think it’s time you gave some of my love to your Mother. You are very selfish. Haven’t I always said so?

I’ll be seein’ you, precious. Never mind the crisis, never mind the rain, tomorrow it is Thursday, and Kay comes back again. – Wonderful. All my love including kisses, cuddles and caresses, Kay

Numbered 113. Postmarked ELIE FIFE 6pm 29AU 39
addressed to R. Helme Esq., 34, Albert Road, Colne, Lancashire

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife

29^th August

My dearest Ronnie,

It’s funny to think that you maybe writing to me at this minute as it will be your lunch hour. I guess it’s about quarter to one.

You needn’t worry about me now because I am quite well again, and not feeling nearly as upset – even though the news is no brighter. I seem to have developed a certain amount of philosophy. And anyway, it is so nearly Thursday now that I am sure to see you. That was a big worry.

I thought to myself when I’d read your letter this morning how much better you are at letter writing than I am. Your letter today was so well composed. Don’t get swell headed honey, but Eadie gives credit where credit’s due!

The bit about the Helme Hussars and the flags etc amused me highly. Fancy the germans being so thoughtless as to enter the water as smoked fish! Dear, dear! Actually, I can’t think of any water near Short Neck Ally (*) – unless you mean the wee stream down by the canal.

I am afraid I am going to look very unlovely when I arrive back in Bonnie Colne, as my hair has not been washed for centuries – well, a month! And I am expected a large crop of pimples on my chin! My skin has been so clear since we came here (as you noticed, remember) that I shall find it difficult to get used to my customary lumps and bumps. But I am seriously thinking of taking some artificial sunlight this winter to keep my spots at bay. Also in an attempt to put on a little flesh. Dad says I am a poor specimen with my bones sticking through. He says I must fatten up a bit, and I agree. It is not good to be too thin, is it?  Well you can answer that when I see you.

Gee, it’s great to think of seeing you so soon, though youre a pest going to camp so soon. I shall have to get some more cheap note paper. This stuff is completely lacking in artistic taste, and very uninspiring. I think woolworth’s glorified toilet paper is better.

There doesn’t seem to be any news for you sweetie pieceese, but I shall just have to ramble on ‘cause I’m not having you grumbling at my short letters. No, I wouldn’t say your letters are shorter than mine – only occasionally, but they are often about the same length. Besides, what the heck does it matter. I don’t really see that it matters, do you?

The bit about Bert Haighton – I knew what your idea in saying it was, and in my usual style, I felt perverse and a bit nattered at your letter.

I am now almost sure I shall be coming home in the car, and I am quite glad really. Prince is probably coming in the Austin with John driving, Daphne and either Mum or me. Daddy Marj Moué and Mum or I are going in the Wolseley – with Adéle too, perhaps. She may come to Colne for the night. The maids will go on the train – and then they’ll have no dog to bother about. Oh of course, wee Sunni will be in the Wolseley too. Marjory and Adéle are thinking of going in to Edinburgh early by train. They will see the maids on the train home, and Marj will meet Bill, and Adéle will go to an agency maybe – to see about a job. Then we will pick them up at Edinburgh as we are going that way and down through Moffit etc. I should say I am definitely going in the car, anyway. We usually arrive home somewhere between six and seven I think. I’m hoping we’ll set off fairly early.

If the situation had been any worse, we were going to pack up today and go home tomorrow, but as things seem to be at a standstill, we are staying till Thursday.

Did I tell you the Edgar Duckworth Family had been staying in Elie?  I don’t think I did. Another black mark. We didn’t go to see them as Dad said he sees them enough at home; but he and John and N went in the Beach Hotel this morning where they had been staying, and heard that they had left yesterday. Edgar has probably been sent back to his A.R.P. duties!

Dad is looking at the ‘Dog Book@ and has just said, “This is a good wee book on dogs, Kay.” I replied_(oh yez) “It was a good wee boy who gae me it!”

So you are expecting me to be demonstrative when we meet – are you? Well, you know what I am. A lot of my love is bound round inside me. Anyway, it all depends where we are and everything, doesn’t it? Don’t get cross with me all at once, anyway. No more bad tempered scenes – no more nattering – no more messin’ which means just anything at all that causes misunderstandings and quarrels. By order – Kathleen M Eadie X.Y.Z.

… Here I am back again after dinner – or lunch as I suppose it should be called. You will be glad to know that my appetite is greatly improved. I have really enjoyed my roast lamb.

Some of them are thinking of going to Macduff’s caves this afternoon, but I shan’t go. Daphne and John seem to be keen. I hope Dad will take some of us for a run.

The ‘girls’ are, as usual, making a terrible din. Wherever Adéle is, there’s a noise. And Moué is just hopeless. I am the quiet little creature – sometimes.

Oh dear, I haven’t made the dog’s dinner. I shall have to go and do it now.

I am getting very excited about seeing you – so look your best. I hope you haven’t just had your hair cut. Oh no, I remember now. You had it trimmed a bit ago. Wash your ears on Wednesday night or Thursday morning! I’ll write a wee note tomorrow I think. Don’t write to me though as I may have started off before post, as I’ve said before.

All my love, Yours, Kathleen

Numbered 112. Postmarked Kilconquhar Fife 6pm 2? AU 39
addressed to R. Helme Esq., 34, Albert Road, Colne, Lancashire

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife.

28^th August.

My darling Ronnie,

Your letter today was very welcome and it was a great deal nicer that your Saturday’s one. I’m afraid you will have something to say about the mouldy note you received from me today, but I beseech you to take into consideration the fact that I was definitely not well on Saturday and had only a minute in which to write to you.

I am in bed at the minute, but shall be getting up this afternoon. I am ever so much better, and was up for the evening meal last night. I know you think I’m a sausage, and you are not far wrong. I can’t imagine why I should have suddenly become groggy.

I am frightfully upset about the golf lessons. I had to put today’s off, and as the general opinion was that I wouldn’t be fit tomorrow, I have put tomorrow’s off too. I know you will be very disappointed, and I hate the thought of that, but when Marj and Adéle were down, they got me a capture ball at my request; and I promise you I shall practice terribly hard in the garden when I get home. You have it in writing!

Which reminds me, I haven’t ‘been’ yet this morning. It seems such a long way from here! I guess I just can’t be bothered. And fancy, it is nearly twelve!

I like your ‘Inside Information” and Mummy insisted on showing to Dad who chuckled and said, “He’s a great boy!” or words to that affect or effect – whichever it is.

Keep up your prestige dear boy, because it is without doubt good just now (of course, prestige can’t be good can it?) Mum showed Dad your letter of thanks and he said that both those boys (Bill and you) seemed to be able to write a good letter. Also, Mum says it was a very good idea of yours to thank Dad for taking us in the car the last day or two. Dad seemed bucked at that. I said you were a diplomat. Look at the way you brought Granny flowers when she was ill. Look at the way you get round me after a quarrel. You old schemer.

I’m sure you can’t read this terrible writing. You must always be torn between the love of hearing from me, and the horror of deciphering my scrawl, and trying to keep yourself from being sick at my vile spelling. Poor dear Ronald.

I am so glad things are looking brighter now, and have even dared to meditate upon the style and colour of my next winter’s evening frock. I think I’ll have a ready-made. Don’t write back and say we aren’t going to dances. I insist upon you going to some – just one or two as we did last year. It would be an insult to our love if we didn’t go to Ilkley. I have a big hunch it’s going to be in the hotel this time.

Oh darn it! (Did you think I was going to say “Oh Darling. Well, I mean that always) A wasp has come into the room. I had at least six in yesterday, and I kept calling for Adéle to come and slosh them for me.

On Saturday afternoon we had some thunder and very heavy rain. Fortunately , the thunder didn’t get very close, but what with it, the heat, my sore head and swollen glands, your somewhat mouldy letter and the international situation, I was in the very depths of despair. I wept bitterly.

The others went off for a run, and Mum stayed to keep me company. The electricity went off, and we couldn’t get a cup of tea till it went on again.

I don’t think I have mentioned that John came up here on Friday. How did you know he was in Colne? He arrived at about seven on Friday morning, and set off north at ten to eleven – so he certainly wasn’t there long.

Marjory had a fine time in Edinburgh, and came home full of all she had been doing and seeing.

She liked ‘the parents’ very much, and Bill said she had made a hit with the old man! She enjoyed the tennis, which seemed more of a show than anything else. Budge is very ugly, and makes funny remarks all the time.

I’m sure you will be thinking this is too newsy, you old swell. If its too short, if its too newsy. But damn it, I love you inspite of your exacting ways!

Please don’t write on both sides of your notepaper. I have finally decided it is difficult to read. Anyway you’ll only have one more letter to write when you receive this. No, don’t write on Wednesday, because I shall probably set off early. That is if I go by train. Marj seems to want to go in the hopes of seeing Bill an hour. And it would be silly for us both to go, as we have plenty of room in the car. She’d just have to look after Prince. I’ll let you know when I know myself, which will probably be at the last minute.

Well, beloved, I think I shall pause to ‘go’ and then to have a wee snooze before lunch.

…. I have now had my snooze and my lunch. Can’t you see that my writing is firmer now? Hem, hem!

We are very glad Moué has got school out and it was good of you to send such a charming message of congratulations. I gave it to her, and she thanks you. You are very sweet, aren’t you? Mum sends her love by the way. She said yesterday “I should think he’s a very affectionate boy.” She actually rolled your gansie or gansey or gansy up and put it in my bed with me last night!

The wireless was left on for my benefit during dinner, and there was some lovely music on from Sweden. It was a selection of old dance tunes, and they were played beautifully; Sweet Sue, Whispering, Dinah, and lots of others. My feet were jigging about in bed. I could just see myself dancing round the floor with a dear fat boy with soft brown eyes, and lustrous hair with golden light in it… Then believe me, if they didn’t fade it out in the middle of ‘Dinah’. And then I was miles away – and then I came back with a terrible plonk.

Ooh, I am going to have some fun with this captive ball. Sorry I should say I’m going to have some hard work. It looks most intriguing.

Now about seeing me, treasure. I have no idea when I shall be home. If I come on the train we’ll probably catch the one you caught as it’s the best one. If I came by car, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Anyway treasureable one, I shall phone as soon as I get home. That is to say if it isn’t in your office hours. We shall probably go to the flicks on Friday night, as I have all day to get Prince ready. (By the by, he is nodding badly again, and there is no chance of getting anything.  I guess.

Adéle sends her ‘regards’ to you. She is in here guzzling toffees. She insists on me changing it to kind regards.

Sad news. Sunni has lost another tooth – a front one: the last on one side. We’ll have to get him false ones now.

Which reminds me dear, I would like you to go to the dentist before you go to camp. I expect you’ll say you haven’t time. Well please try to have time. And if it is quite impossible, you simply must go as soon as you get back. You must preserve your teeth as I far prefer a kiss with real teeth in the mouth than one with false or none at all Just think of it! I must go to see Mr Ross very soon too. I must practice what I preach.

Well, I’ll get someone to post this for me now beloved. If you know what I’ve been blethering about you’re wonderful. And as I’ve told you often – you’re wonderful anyway. And I do adore you, and I’m just longing to see you. Tuesday Wednesday – then Thursday. Whoopee!!!!!

Give my love to your mother, and keep a whole heap of love, kisses, cuddles and caresses for your own big soft self.

Yours aye, Kathleen P.S. Yes. We’ll go to the flicks on Friday – if you agree.

Numbered 111. Postmarked CUPAR FIFE 7.30pm 26 AUG 1939
addressed to R. Helme Esq., 34, Albert Road. Colne. Lancashire

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife.

26^th August.

Dearest Ronnie,

This is the second attempt. I blodged the first very badly. Did I write you a short, short note the other day? I didn’t think any of my letters had been particularly short. I might add, without grumbling, that as a rule, my letters are longer than yours these days.

I retired to bed yesterday with a temperature and a few aches and pains, and I am still there. But I suppose I shall be o.k. very soon. I can’t imagine why I am ill. It must be celebrating the anniversary of my appendix pain!

Your remark that you were glad the weekend at Bridlington was cancelled was typical of you “I wanted to see Burnley v Coventry City, the latter being the dirtiest team in present day football.”  Good old Ronald! You are really rather unperturbable, aren’t you old boy? I wish I could be, because it’s a help. Maybe I’ll be able to cultivate it soon now.

Unfortunately I missed my golf lesson yesterday, which was too bad as I had done so well the first time. But Moué has made one for me on Monday at 11.30 and one on Tuesday at 6.0 – so it looks as if I am determined to be better by then.

I don’t see why Bert Haighton should think of getting married as Crewe(*) is no distance away, and if he’s to be in this country all the time, it makes a great deal of difference, doesn’t it? You seem to have the worst time. As Ian Reebie(*) said “just like rats.” It seems difficult to know where you will go exactly. Poland, I suppose.

Well, anyway, let’s shut up about that.

I am now in the room that Joy and Moué had when you were here. Moué is still in the same place. The hens cluck all day long, and I heard the cock crow at five o’clock. There was also an owl making merry.

Oh well. I can’t write more as the rest are going out for the afternoon, and as the maids are out, there will be no way of posting this unless it goes with them. I’m sure you will be horrified by this terrible unloving note and beg you not to be hurt about it. And to remember that I do love you, and that it is my nature to be stupid. I shall be with you soon I’m sure – if I have to trapse through Europe. All my love, your puney, Kathleen

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

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife

24^th 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

Numbered 109. Postmarked Kilconquhar Fife, 6pm illegible 39
addressed to R Helme Esq, 34 Albert Road, Colne, Lancashire

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife

24^th August

My darling,

Oh dear, I am so worried. You seem quite cheery in your letter, but then, in the big things you are always a philosopher. I’m worried stiff about this crises, and wish I could be home near you. I hope to heaven nothing happens before I get back. And I don’t know what I shall do if anything does happen. Oh darling, it will be misery. I have given myself a headache with worrying about it already. I don’t seem to be a bit brave.

Poor Stanley is probably creeping about on tiptoe and talking in a whisper by now. He’s probably sleeping with his sword by his bed. It cheers me up to have someone to laugh at.

Adéle is singing softly to Moué’s accompaniment, and it is very pleasant. Why aren’t you here beside me. You could sing in half a dozen different keys, you could croon hymns – anything honey, if only you’d coe.

Daphne is really very nice, Ronnie, and I am finding her quite easy to entertain. She and I walked over to Shell Bay yesterday evening, and it was simply beautiful. The sea was very calm, and almost at full tide. It was dusk, and the lights were just going on across the water at Leven. Had you been there it would have been heavenly. I think Daphne was thinking of John, too. She will probably go there with him when he comes.

Prince was with us, and thoroughly enjoyed himself. He was chasing bats on the way home. You wouldn’t have enjoyed yourself, as the bats were batting about very near our heads. You sweet little baby! Ha ha. The bats were batting. I never thought when I wrote it.

Yesterday afternoon, Daddy took Mum, Granny, Daphne and me to St. Andrews. We had intended to go to Crail, but we decided to go on to St. Andrews. It was more or less just a run there and back. To think it’s not so long ago since you were there. I’ve been there often, but now I shall always think of you being there with me when I go.

Granny and Mum go to Glasgow this afternoon. We’ll miss Mummy even in the short time she’s going to be away.

Oh heck, there’s a terrible din going on behind me. Adéle and Moué are yelling Boomps-a-Daisy. It’s terrible. Prescious me.. Thank heaven it’s over now. I had to shut my ears. They are now doing “One Day When We Were Young” and I could weep.

I’m sure you can’t read my writing, and I know this letter is very disjointed. I am feeling confused. I wish a week today was here, and yet I don’t know what it will bring. Daddy says we are going straight home if anything happens.

Please forgive me for being so weary and hopeless. I think only of my great love for you. I could do without a lot of food and comfort, I could even live through an airraid I suppose, but I can’t live without you.

Yes, I’ve got the wind up, and I want you.  Love me always, darling, as I know I shall always love you. There will be no one else. Forgive my lack of guts. All my love dearest, Kathleen

Numbered 108. Postmarked Kilconquhar Fife 6pm ? Aug 39
addressed to: R. Helme Esq., 34, Albert Road, Colne, Lancs

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife

22^nd Aug

My dearest Ronnie,

Now I am lonely and unloved. Not a scrape of the pen from you today, and as I am usually so spoilt, I immediately start to wonder why. Are you ill? Of course you’re not. Have you forgotten? Not likely. Or have you just not written. Anyway, I believe there is another post at three; and it must be nearly that now. Hope still burns within me!

Oh dear, the dogs are scrapping in the garden. What a din. The others are all out there – so they should be able to stop it. I am once more on my ownio in the drawing room. Pa is sleeping in the study, I believe.

Well, my angel, I don’t think that anything much has happened since yesterday’s letter.

After I had posted your letter Moué and I, with Prince walked over the links to Shell Bay – chiefly for Prince’s benefit. (He is giving me fits with his sticky out elbows, and I doubt whether he’ll even improve.) Actually we walked farther over so that we came out on the bay beyond Shell Bay. A dirty little stream impeded our path to the actual beach, and in trying get over it, one of my feet went right under the filthy sand-cum-mud and my sadal and sock got filthy. So we retraced our steps a bit, and went to our old haunt.

Daphne arrived OK, and is looking very well. So far, she seems to be enjoying herself, though I am looking forward to John’s arrival when I shall be sure she is.

She, Marjory, Adéle and I were in bathing this morning, and it was very cold at first, but not too bad after a bit. The water was very calm, which is better in a way as it doesn’t take the breath out of one so much – but I think its chillier. I don’t think I shall bathe so many more times now. It is too much of an agony.

Granny and Mum are going up to Glasgow tomorrow; so Granny is getting her own way as usual. She obviously wanted Mum to go with her, and has hinted for long enough. Mum is staying the night at Southwold, and returning on Friday. Marjory is probably going up to Edinburgh on Friday to see the tennis (Budge, Vines etc) with Bill, and has been asked to stay the night with Bill’s people. So she is somewhat flattered!

I do wish I’d had a letter today. I’ve no questions to answer, no comments to make. I’m so spoilt with you usually writing so often. I am reduced to talking about the weather. “It’s turned out nice again” though most of the morning was dull. How is it in Colne?

What do you think of Germany’s pact with Russia. Of all the inconsistent nations, Germany takes the cake. I’m glad to see that Japan’s annoyed. Please don’t let there be a war, darling. I love you too much to let you do anything but play at fighting. Write to the big bugs and say “Miss Kathleen won’t let me fight so there can’t be any war.” And all will be well.

I have my first golf lesson tomorrow. I can’t see myself managing to have many in the short time that’s left, honey. Oh to be athletic; though I’m not so keen on muscular women. Besides I’m sure you’d rather have me a little femininely weak than all strong and masculine. You’d surely rather have me wilting in your arms occasionally, than have me forever knocking you about. Of course, I do that now; but think how much worse it would be with a good deal more strength behind me.

That’s all nonsense I suppose.

Whooppee! A letter. Pause while I peruse it…

Pardon me keeping you waiting. Very nice letter, but with one English mistake which I, as your sweetheart, beg you to forgive me for correcting. I believe it is what is called a split infinitive (which, by the by, I’can’t spell, you can always beat me there!) “… So perhaps I hadn’t better try and do both.” Correct: “So perhaps I had better not try and do both.” “I better hadn’t” is also incorrect. You aint hurt are you dear?

I think that the reason your letter is late is that you had Nr Elie on it, and it must have gone to Elie first. Nr Elie is crossed out in pencil.

I think Marj behaved herself very well when Bill was here, as the boy is very careful, and proper. Adele is full of beans, and helps to keep the atmosphere cheery. Thank goodness she is staying till the end of the month.

It was queer you mentioning that if you mobilized I should have to fly home. I think I said in yesterdays letter that I should want to fly home to you.

Please darling, don’t burst with love, while I’m away. I should hate to arrive home to a burst sweetheart. Don’t burst with overeating either.

So you were eating melon yesterday, too. We ate the Dundee one at lunch, and it was beautifully juicy. I hope we have another before we go home.

Adéle and Marj are in the room now. I have just been over to kiss Adéle as Marj has been commenting on her nose. She looked a bit hurt, so I thought a Kathleen Eadie kiss would cheer her up. If you were here, I should certainly kiss you – a plomber(*)!

A week tomorrow the great Eadie returns so get the flags washed in good time. You’d better send them to Hawden(*) Laundry tomorrow. (Mum used to call our napkins flags, and I’m afraid I always think of it) Well, I must pip. Kiss and hug yourself from me. All my love precious, Kathleen.

Numbered 107. Postmarked Kilconquhar Fife 6pm illegible 39
addressed to R. Helme, Esq., 34 Albert Road, Colne, Lancs

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife.

21^st Aug

My darling Ronald,

How your letters cheer me. I waken and say to myself, “Now I’ll soon be reading my letter from Ronnie”, and that cheers me up, and soon I have read it, and that cheers me up more.

The news of your conversation with Mrs Hartley amused me no end. She sure says what’s in her head without pausing to consider. If she said anything like that to me, I should be completely stumped! I told Mum and she was highly tickled. Anyway, she’s not atall malicious, so I don’t care a hang. Besides, I do love you , and we will be engaged someday not too far away, so she’s only a little previous.

Daddy knew about the Lothersdale house. Someone in Cowling told him.

We have seen Pam and Mr Foulds off this morning, so things will feel rather flat, as Bill has gone too now. Daddy will feel very unsupported, and usually a bit difficult to amuse after Mr Foulds has left.

Daphne arrives this evening, so goodness only knows what we will do with her until John comes on the twenty-eighth. Well, she’ll just have to put up with doing the things we do.

Darling, I could do with you here so badly. Especially with all this talk of war again Oh honey, if anything happens I want to come right home to you. It will be terrible, terrible. I love you so much, and I don’t want to let you go – ever. Why can’t we just run away and hide somewhere in the hills, where there’s peace for ever. Let’s sail away where no one else goes, and start a population of dear people who never fight, never quarrel.

And yet I know that if war did come, you’d go – I’d have to let you go : and it would be terrible. More terrible even than I can imagine now. And if you died I’d have to die too, because there’d be nothing for me to stay on for.

But surely it isn’t going to happen, because somehow I know there is going to be a Donald and a Michael, and a little girl whose name I don’t know.

I hope you will not think I am growing too sentimental, and looking too far ahead, because I am saying what is in my heart at this minute. You see, I am so sure of our love now. And inspite of the piano crashing and Adéle singing behind me, I have to say what I feel.

Whenever Daddy speaks of Danzig, a lump rises in my throat, and I want to run to you and burrow my head against you – and I can’t. I love you.

… To return to every day facts, yesterday was a miserable day. In the afternoon, the Walkers came as expected, and they went away about half-past six. Bill went shortly after them. In the evening ‘the girls’ and Dad and Uncle Stan went to the local picture house cum town hall, to see “Three Comrades” which I liked very, very much, but oh dear, it was so sad. Dad and Uncle Stan found it too sentimental, but the others all liked it. Have you seen it? Not with me, anyway. Robert Taylor, I thought, was excellent, and whatever anyone says, he can act, and his love making is beautiful. So convincing. Even when he isn’t with Barbara Stanwyck. In fact, he is much better with Margaret Sullivan. Unfortunately, the audience, in holiday spirits, would make kissing noises during the close ups, which spoilt it.

It’s quite a nice wee picture house (It’s time I started a new paragraph) with no upstairs. We only just managed to get in, and couldn’t sit together. Uncle Stan and I were right on the back row, but had a good view. The speaking was rather too quiet.

Moué has just got her photos, but she wants to send them to Joy first. They are not bad considering the sausage had the camera set at time exposure, or something equally clever. They haven’t been well printed either. But the one of us is quite good, and the one of you with Y’Al, Mr Foulds and Prince is very good. You look very sweet on it. Perhaps it would be better to wait till I get home before I let you see them – yes? Only a week on Thursday.

Oh sweetheart, can you wait? I can just. Harrogate Show begins early, honey, so you’ll have to have the morning off. Judging starts at eleven, so we’ll have to set off in good time. Moué wants to come too, so that’ll be you, Moué and me. I hope Shales(*) will be able to take us, and Dad will have to drive himself to Joyce Knights’ wedding!

I love you, I love you, I love you. This morning I am filled with a motherly desire to clasp your head against me, and to kiss your hair.

I don’t know what’s happened to me. I must be in love!

Yours for keeps, Kay P.S. I love you.
P.P.S. Do you love me?
P.P.P.S. Of course you do.

Numbered 106. Postmarked Kilconquhar Fife 6pm date eligible
addressed to R. Helme Esq, 34, Albert Road, Colne, Lancs

The Manse, Kilconquhar, Fife

20^th August

My darling Ronald,

I feel like Lady Hamilton writing to Nelson. Do you know, I have only just finished that book!

It was lovely to hear your dear voice on the ‘phone last night, and I went to bed feeling all nice and warm inside. I cuddled myself, and thought of my dear fat Ronnie – with his nails all bitten… I’m surprised at you, my boy. Fancy letting them grow so nicely, and then biting them all off at one go. Well, you’ll simply have to grow them again. Just think if I bit my nails every time we were parted.

Today started very badly. Great sheets of rain – the worst we’ve had here; but it is dry and fresh now, though not sunny.

Fancy Colin Hill being a father. I wonder what sort of a father he’ll make. Not bad, I suppose. I’d rather have him as a father than a husband, certainly. What a shame it’s a girl. There are so many women on the Duckworth side.

I have past on the news of Harry Layfield to Marjory, who seems very interested, and insisted on telling Bill herself. Amazing.

As for the piece of news that you love me. Well, it’s nothing short of miraculous. Just fancy anyone loving me – Me of all people being loved by you, my angel! It’s wonderful.

Bill goes home this afternoon; and his stay has been very short. Marj and he spent the day motoring to Braemar. They enjoyed it very much, and say the scenery was lovely. They saw the flag flying from Balmoral, but they didn’t see any member of the Royal Family. Daddy and Mr Foulds were at Crief and district, and they , too, enjoyed themselves.

Actually, I suppose I’m repeating myself as you will have had this in my yesterdays letter. Still, honey, perhaps you won’t mind.

Honey, I can’t get over our little talk on the ‘phone. Although your voice was so small and far away, I felt you were ever so near to me. Thank Heavens for the telephone. Thank Heavens for my Ronald – my own dearest, darling Ronald. Thank Heavens for life and love, thank Heaven and the Broughtons for the twenty eighth of December 1936. It was 1936.

Mr and Mrs Walker are coming over here for tea this afternoon, so we shall have to behave well, which is becoming difficult. Poor Ma has got something to live up to. Mrs Walker, I think, is expecting someone with wings and a halo. She says she has heard so much about Mum from Laurie!

Fancy you going and shooting for someone else. You’re a naughty boy. But I’d rather have that than someone else shooting for you. Most degrading!

It’s queer to think that the football season has started again. It doesn’t seem long since it finished. Alas, the Summer is passing, Ronnie, and winters’ frozen hand will soon be painting the world with ice and snow, (and my poor nose will be aglow!)

Will you love me in December as you do in May. Why of course, you will, you will, you will – no you won’t, you’ll love me more. “When you are old, and grey and full of sleep –“ Oh darling, I’ll love you still.

I could bumble on like this forever, but you have a bus to catch, and I must have some paper for tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that… And, honey, a week on Thursday, I shall be coming home.

Goodbye for now darling. Kisses, cuddles, and caresses, Kay