tremendously affected by this. I am glad that he had a friend “over there,” as you call it. (Why is that, Mr. Sadler? Are you afraid to name the place?) I’m afraid I have a very contradictory feelingtowards our soldiers. I respect them, of course, and pity them for fighting for so long in such terrible conditions. I am sure that they were terribly brave. But when I think of what they did to my brother, what these same soldiers did to him, well, I’m sure you can understand that at such times my feelings are less than generous.
If I try to explain all this I am not sure that there will be enough ink in the world to hold my thoughts, nor enough paper on which to write them down, and I dare say I would have trouble finding a postman who would deliver a document as long as the one I would need to compose.
The letters—I can’t believe you have them. I think it is very kind that you want to return them to me.
Mr. Sadler, I hope you don’t mind but I don’t think I can come to London at present for personal reasons. I would like to meet you, but does it make any sense for me to say that I should like to meet you here, in streets that I know, in the place where Will and I grew up? Your offer to come here is a generous one. Perhaps I could suggest Tuesday the 16th of this month as a possible day? Or do you work? I expect you do. Everyone must these days, it’s quite extraordinary.
Look, maybe you’d write again and let me know?
Sincerely,
Marian Bancroft
I hoped that I would have a free run of it when I stepped inside the boarding house but David Cantwell was there, placing fresh flowers in two vases that stood on side tables. He flushed a little when he saw me and I could tell that he was embarrassed.
“My mother’s gone out,” he explained. “So I’m left with this job. Woman’s work, isn’t it? Flowers. Makes me look like a pansy.”
He smiled at me and tried to make me complicit in the pun but I ignored his feeble attempt at humour and told him of my intentions.
“I’m just going up to my room,” I said. “Would you rather I left my holdall in your office or can I leave it up there?”
“The office is probably best, sir,” he replied, a little archly now, perhaps disappointed by my unwillingness to treat him as if he were a friend of long standing. “We do have another guest booked in for the room and they’re due in around two o’clock. At what time do you think you’ll be back for it?”
“Not till much later than that,” I said, although why I thought that I did not know. It was possible that my appointment would not last for anything more than ten minutes. “I’ll stop in for it before I catch my train.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, going back to his flowers. I noticed that he was not quite as forthcoming as he had been the night before and, despite the fact that I was not looking for conversation, I couldn’t help but wonder about the reason for it. Perhaps his mother had spoken to him and explained that talking about what had happened out there to someone who had experienced it might not be the kindest thing. Some servicemen lived off their stories, of course, as if they had actually enjoyed the war, but others, myself included, didn’t.
I went upstairs, cleaned my teeth and washed my face, and combing my hair once again in the mirror decided that, although pale, I did not look too terrible. I felt as ready for this appointment as I ever would.
And so, no more than twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting in a pleasant café just off Cattle Market Street, glancing at the clock on the wall as it ticked its way mercilessly towards one o’clock, and the other customers around me. It was a traditional café, I felt, one that had perhaps been passed through a number of generations of the same family. Behindthe counter was a man of about fifty and a girl of my own age—his daughter, I presumed, for she had the look of him. There weren’t too many other customers, no
If I try to explain all this I am not sure that there will be enough ink in the world to hold my thoughts, nor enough paper on which to write them down, and I dare say I would have trouble finding a postman who would deliver a document as long as the one I would need to compose.
The letters—I can’t believe you have them. I think it is very kind that you want to return them to me.
Mr. Sadler, I hope you don’t mind but I don’t think I can come to London at present for personal reasons. I would like to meet you, but does it make any sense for me to say that I should like to meet you here, in streets that I know, in the place where Will and I grew up? Your offer to come here is a generous one. Perhaps I could suggest Tuesday the 16th of this month as a possible day? Or do you work? I expect you do. Everyone must these days, it’s quite extraordinary.
Look, maybe you’d write again and let me know?
Sincerely,
Marian Bancroft
I hoped that I would have a free run of it when I stepped inside the boarding house but David Cantwell was there, placing fresh flowers in two vases that stood on side tables. He flushed a little when he saw me and I could tell that he was embarrassed.
“My mother’s gone out,” he explained. “So I’m left with this job. Woman’s work, isn’t it? Flowers. Makes me look like a pansy.”
He smiled at me and tried to make me complicit in the pun but I ignored his feeble attempt at humour and told him of my intentions.
“I’m just going up to my room,” I said. “Would you rather I left my holdall in your office or can I leave it up there?”
“The office is probably best, sir,” he replied, a little archly now, perhaps disappointed by my unwillingness to treat him as if he were a friend of long standing. “We do have another guest booked in for the room and they’re due in around two o’clock. At what time do you think you’ll be back for it?”
“Not till much later than that,” I said, although why I thought that I did not know. It was possible that my appointment would not last for anything more than ten minutes. “I’ll stop in for it before I catch my train.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, going back to his flowers. I noticed that he was not quite as forthcoming as he had been the night before and, despite the fact that I was not looking for conversation, I couldn’t help but wonder about the reason for it. Perhaps his mother had spoken to him and explained that talking about what had happened out there to someone who had experienced it might not be the kindest thing. Some servicemen lived off their stories, of course, as if they had actually enjoyed the war, but others, myself included, didn’t.
I went upstairs, cleaned my teeth and washed my face, and combing my hair once again in the mirror decided that, although pale, I did not look too terrible. I felt as ready for this appointment as I ever would.
And so, no more than twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting in a pleasant café just off Cattle Market Street, glancing at the clock on the wall as it ticked its way mercilessly towards one o’clock, and the other customers around me. It was a traditional café, I felt, one that had perhaps been passed through a number of generations of the same family. Behindthe counter was a man of about fifty and a girl of my own age—his daughter, I presumed, for she had the look of him. There weren’t too many other customers, no
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