Letters From an Unknown Woman by Gerard Woodward Page B

At night her thoughts were with Donald and his terrible letters, trying to imagine the circumstances that could have wrought such changes in the man. What must he have seen and suffered to open up such stark and base longings? And who was she, from the relative comfort and security of blitzed London where, although the raids continued nightly, she had yet to see a dead body (unless, of course, the pork Mrs Head had found turned out to be what they most feared), who was she to deny a battle-worn prisoner of the Nazi regime the right to a moment of written lovemaking? It would only be doing what she would normally do as a wife but by post instead.
    It was just that, before, Donald had never made much of a fuss about the thing. He performed the deed (always his word for it) perhaps once a month, using a prophylactic that Tory had never seen but which she could smell (it smelt of erasers and olive oil) and occasionally hear as a snapping sound before and after use. The whole business seemed to go on above Tory’s head, with Donald up there, silent and sweating, grinding back and forth, trying to make the bed shake as little as possible, and always in the dark. It was not a wholly unpleasant experience and, in a curious way, Tory had come to miss it in the months since Donald had left. Behind the abrasive, sharp-boned, rough texture of the event, there was something warm and comforting.
    As for writing a letter that would substitute for the act itself (if that was what was expected), she was at a complete loss. As a mother of three children she did not lack experience, but when it came to finding the words, her pen seemed to freeze in her hand and all the warmth drained out of those remembered moments. She began to think of their lovemaking as something taking place in a landscape of snow, two motionless bodies locked beneath a frosty counterpane, icicles hanging from the headboard …
*
    A letter had come from the children, or from Tom at least, a couple of weeks after she had written to them with news of their father. It was a letter she liked to read and reread.
Dearest Mama,
In reference to your letter of 21 March 1941, we have some important information we would like you to give to Daddy. These are escape plans. The best one is No. 1, a tunnel, but since we do not know the layout or soil type of Daddy’s prison, we have got some other escape plans. No. 2 is the human catapult. This is Paulette’s plan. A catapult, like the ones the Romans used in sieges, could be constructed, and the escaper (with parachute) could be fired over the fence or wall. The parachute could be made from hankies. This would be best done at night. No. 3 is Albertina’s plan, which is a bit silly but I have put it in anyway because she cried. She said Daddy should start a trampolining class, and have all the prisoners practising on trampolines next to the fence or wall. Then, when the signal is given, they could jump over. The trampolines could be made from hankies.
    Please pass these plans on to Daddy as soon as you can, but don’t say we thought of them in case they go wrong.
Yours sincerely,
Tom
    The enclosed plans were very detailed, with diagrams, measurements, weight ratios and trajectories. The siege catapult had been carefully drawn, with a dotted, arcing line showing the path through the air to be taken by Donald (represented by a matchstick figure in mid-flight). Tom seemed to have inherited Donald’s practical sense and artistic skills – the diagrams had the same sureness of line as Donald’s pornographic cartoons, she was slightly perturbed to realize. She thought she would forward this letter to her husband to remind him of how much he still figured in the minds of his children. If only he would mention them once in his letters.
    There was something about Tom’s letter that inspired her. It was her children who had seen immediately what Donald needed – escape – but why hadn’t she? She read through Tom’s letter on the