bear to read it. Furthermore, he had begun illustrating his missives with drawings, of herself and Donald (she supposed), naked and with monstrously large private parts. This was quite enough for Tory, and she finally decided that Donald’s letters had to be destroyed immediately. She burnt them in the sitting-room fireplace, with Mrs Head’s overseeing approval. The last two letters she gave to the flames without even opening the envelopes.
The depravity of his later letters made it easier for Tory to reply. She was not only upset by the experience, she was disgusted and angry, and she wrote to Donald immediately.
Dear Donald,
Your letters were delayed in the post and have arrived all at once this past week. I have destroyed them. Please do not write me any more letters like those. If you do so I will destroy all further communication from you without opening it, and will not write to you again.
You have offended me grievously.
Yours sincerely
Tory Pace
After Tory had posted this letter, she considered the fact that if Donald had not gone so far she might, eventually, have thought about how she might comply. But she was truly shocked by the depths to which her husband seemed to have sunk, and she was thus saved the trouble of tackling the problem of writing a dirty letter. Instead she had written what she supposed was the exact opposite – a cold, clinical, remonstrative epistle that could have come from the pen of a bewigged denizen of the Temple Inn. In fact, Tory was rather proud of the letter: she felt she had written something as pointed and as efficient as an arrow. She imagined it nailing any future indecent letters from Donald, pinning them to the floor so that they would never reach her. It would have an effect on Donald, she was sure. He was someone who appreciated words very much, someone who always corrected her when she misused them. He was a self-educated man, and very proud of the fact. It was this, among other considerations of Donald’s character, that made the letters so very puzzling and shocking.
*
More letters came, which had left Germany several weeks before and so would not be an answer to her own. Tentatively Tory opened them and glanced at their contents, in the hope of detecting signs that Donald had mended his attitude. Instead she would see the now familiar graffiti and would not even attempt to read any of the words. The letters went into the fire, like the others. Then, after a gap of about two weeks:
My Dearest Tory,
Once again I have only a little page in which to say so much. Let me tell you how sorry I am for causing you offence. That was never my intention (quite the opposite, actually). But there is something about warfare that affects a man’s spirits in the strangest ways. I did not ask those things of you from mere desire for recreation but out of a strong sense that my survival as a man depends upon it. I cannot describe for you the horrors I have seen, and continue to see. I think my desires for you act in part as an antidote to those horrors. A letter of the kind I describe will lighten so much of my suffering. I am asking you to think again, dearest Tory.
No space left.
Donald
‘Just because he can put it into those long sentences doesn’t make it any less smutty,’ was Mrs Head’s verdict on the letter.
Tory was less sure. She immediately wondered if she was being too harsh on Donald. There was something beautiful about his last letter – for a painter and decorator he really did have an exceptionally sharp and sensitive mind. Well, painting and decorating was a type of art, after all. As Donald himself sometimes said, he shared a profession with Michelangelo, the greatest painter and decorator of them all. Not to mention Giotto. There was something in this letter that worked deeply at Tory’s sense of marital duty – the faintest suspicion that, in ignoring Donald’s request, she was failing in her wifely obligations.
She no longer even heard the bombs falling.
The depravity of his later letters made it easier for Tory to reply. She was not only upset by the experience, she was disgusted and angry, and she wrote to Donald immediately.
Dear Donald,
Your letters were delayed in the post and have arrived all at once this past week. I have destroyed them. Please do not write me any more letters like those. If you do so I will destroy all further communication from you without opening it, and will not write to you again.
You have offended me grievously.
Yours sincerely
Tory Pace
After Tory had posted this letter, she considered the fact that if Donald had not gone so far she might, eventually, have thought about how she might comply. But she was truly shocked by the depths to which her husband seemed to have sunk, and she was thus saved the trouble of tackling the problem of writing a dirty letter. Instead she had written what she supposed was the exact opposite – a cold, clinical, remonstrative epistle that could have come from the pen of a bewigged denizen of the Temple Inn. In fact, Tory was rather proud of the letter: she felt she had written something as pointed and as efficient as an arrow. She imagined it nailing any future indecent letters from Donald, pinning them to the floor so that they would never reach her. It would have an effect on Donald, she was sure. He was someone who appreciated words very much, someone who always corrected her when she misused them. He was a self-educated man, and very proud of the fact. It was this, among other considerations of Donald’s character, that made the letters so very puzzling and shocking.
*
More letters came, which had left Germany several weeks before and so would not be an answer to her own. Tentatively Tory opened them and glanced at their contents, in the hope of detecting signs that Donald had mended his attitude. Instead she would see the now familiar graffiti and would not even attempt to read any of the words. The letters went into the fire, like the others. Then, after a gap of about two weeks:
My Dearest Tory,
Once again I have only a little page in which to say so much. Let me tell you how sorry I am for causing you offence. That was never my intention (quite the opposite, actually). But there is something about warfare that affects a man’s spirits in the strangest ways. I did not ask those things of you from mere desire for recreation but out of a strong sense that my survival as a man depends upon it. I cannot describe for you the horrors I have seen, and continue to see. I think my desires for you act in part as an antidote to those horrors. A letter of the kind I describe will lighten so much of my suffering. I am asking you to think again, dearest Tory.
No space left.
Donald
‘Just because he can put it into those long sentences doesn’t make it any less smutty,’ was Mrs Head’s verdict on the letter.
Tory was less sure. She immediately wondered if she was being too harsh on Donald. There was something beautiful about his last letter – for a painter and decorator he really did have an exceptionally sharp and sensitive mind. Well, painting and decorating was a type of art, after all. As Donald himself sometimes said, he shared a profession with Michelangelo, the greatest painter and decorator of them all. Not to mention Giotto. There was something in this letter that worked deeply at Tory’s sense of marital duty – the faintest suspicion that, in ignoring Donald’s request, she was failing in her wifely obligations.
She no longer even heard the bombs falling.
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