say?’
Frank looked at the neat, well-rounded script.
‘He has – had – a girlfriend,’ said Patrick. ‘We’ll have to send them back with his things.
Wondered if you could give me a hand with that.’
They walked through the huts to Tony’s, which he shared with five others. The cloud had thickened and there was a fretful, inconstant breeze. The windsock alternately stiffened and sagged and the usual airfield activities – planes and all manner of things were endlessly moved, anchored, hidden, worked on, moved again – seemed
piecemeal and subdued.
‘Not something we normally do, I know,’ continued Patrick. ‘Clerks in the station commander’s office see to it. Miserable job. But I know his people,
you see. Wouldn’t want anything to go to them they wouldn’t want, nothing upsetting. Bad enough losing him but then to find – well, you
never know what, something in his stuff they’d rather not have known about – makes it even worse. Affects the way they
remember him.’ He held up a folded canvas bag. ‘Got this from the station office. I have to make a list and you have to witness it, if you wouldn’t mind.
Best get it over with while the others are still in the mess.’
The hut, with its narrow iron bedsteads, plain table, standard lockers, hangers for uniforms and cylindrical coke stove, was identical to Frank’s: clean, efficient, cheerless.
Tony’s bed was at the far end. Gingerly at first, they emptied his bedside drawer, then his locker, then the pockets of his clothes. Next they took
his pyjamas from the bed and stripped it. Everything belonging to the RAF they stacked at one end of the bed, everything personal at the other.
His uniforms and kit would be returned to stores, his possessions sent to his next of kin. They worked slowly,
with none of the impersonal briskness of the clerks, who were used to it. It felt unpardonably intrusive, almost illicit. They separated the personal into two piles, the smaller comprising things they decided not to return, or were
unsure about: non-issue underclothes, an opened packet of contraceptives with one remaining, a magazine of women modelling
underwear, a dozen or so opened letters in the same feminine hand as the one they had, an RAF notebook in
which were pencilled a number of incomplete poems, or perhaps versions of the same poem.
Patrick leafed through it. ‘Didn’t know he wrote poetry. Did you?’
‘No. I didn’t know him well.’
‘His father does, or did. Published, I think. Question is, would he have wanted his parents to see them?’
‘Depends what they’re like, I guess.’
Patrick shook his head over the pages, without looking up. ‘Pretty much the sort of thing most
of us would do if we allowed ourselves to lapse into verse. Sincerely felt, no doubt, but sincerity is never enough, is it?
Sadly.’ He held out the book. ‘Want a look?’
‘I never read poetry.’
‘Don’t like it?’
‘Can’t read slowly enough.’
Patrick closed the book with a smile and put it on the NOK pile, along with photos, pen, cash, address book, wallet, cheque book, ties,
shirts and socks. ‘I think they should see it. They’d probably want to. They may not know he wrote and for them sincerity is probably more than enough,
poor folk. But these are more of a problem.’ He held up the love-letters. ‘Awful thing is, I half want to read them. If I didn’t at all I’d be happy to flick through them and check there’s
nothing too upsetting for his parents. But because I have a prurient interest in seeing what it’s like for other
people, I’m reluctant. Such an intrusion.’ He smiled.
Frank, who had never sent or received a love-letter, was equally reluctant and probably more curious. It touched on his other secret, his virginity.
‘Shouldn’t we just send them back to his girlfriend, along with today’s?’
‘Still have to look inside to get the address. But if that’s all we do, I suppose it’s all
Frank looked at the neat, well-rounded script.
‘He has – had – a girlfriend,’ said Patrick. ‘We’ll have to send them back with his things.
Wondered if you could give me a hand with that.’
They walked through the huts to Tony’s, which he shared with five others. The cloud had thickened and there was a fretful, inconstant breeze. The windsock alternately stiffened and sagged and the usual airfield activities – planes and all manner of things were endlessly moved, anchored, hidden, worked on, moved again – seemed
piecemeal and subdued.
‘Not something we normally do, I know,’ continued Patrick. ‘Clerks in the station commander’s office see to it. Miserable job. But I know his people,
you see. Wouldn’t want anything to go to them they wouldn’t want, nothing upsetting. Bad enough losing him but then to find – well, you
never know what, something in his stuff they’d rather not have known about – makes it even worse. Affects the way they
remember him.’ He held up a folded canvas bag. ‘Got this from the station office. I have to make a list and you have to witness it, if you wouldn’t mind.
Best get it over with while the others are still in the mess.’
The hut, with its narrow iron bedsteads, plain table, standard lockers, hangers for uniforms and cylindrical coke stove, was identical to Frank’s: clean, efficient, cheerless.
Tony’s bed was at the far end. Gingerly at first, they emptied his bedside drawer, then his locker, then the pockets of his clothes. Next they took
his pyjamas from the bed and stripped it. Everything belonging to the RAF they stacked at one end of the bed, everything personal at the other.
His uniforms and kit would be returned to stores, his possessions sent to his next of kin. They worked slowly,
with none of the impersonal briskness of the clerks, who were used to it. It felt unpardonably intrusive, almost illicit. They separated the personal into two piles, the smaller comprising things they decided not to return, or were
unsure about: non-issue underclothes, an opened packet of contraceptives with one remaining, a magazine of women modelling
underwear, a dozen or so opened letters in the same feminine hand as the one they had, an RAF notebook in
which were pencilled a number of incomplete poems, or perhaps versions of the same poem.
Patrick leafed through it. ‘Didn’t know he wrote poetry. Did you?’
‘No. I didn’t know him well.’
‘His father does, or did. Published, I think. Question is, would he have wanted his parents to see them?’
‘Depends what they’re like, I guess.’
Patrick shook his head over the pages, without looking up. ‘Pretty much the sort of thing most
of us would do if we allowed ourselves to lapse into verse. Sincerely felt, no doubt, but sincerity is never enough, is it?
Sadly.’ He held out the book. ‘Want a look?’
‘I never read poetry.’
‘Don’t like it?’
‘Can’t read slowly enough.’
Patrick closed the book with a smile and put it on the NOK pile, along with photos, pen, cash, address book, wallet, cheque book, ties,
shirts and socks. ‘I think they should see it. They’d probably want to. They may not know he wrote and for them sincerity is probably more than enough,
poor folk. But these are more of a problem.’ He held up the love-letters. ‘Awful thing is, I half want to read them. If I didn’t at all I’d be happy to flick through them and check there’s
nothing too upsetting for his parents. But because I have a prurient interest in seeing what it’s like for other
people, I’m reluctant. Such an intrusion.’ He smiled.
Frank, who had never sent or received a love-letter, was equally reluctant and probably more curious. It touched on his other secret, his virginity.
‘Shouldn’t we just send them back to his girlfriend, along with today’s?’
‘Still have to look inside to get the address. But if that’s all we do, I suppose it’s all
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