Page 92 of Last Letter Home
I trust that your mother and sister are both well. I assure you that I am in good health and full of hope for the future – our future!
I remain yours,
Paul xxxx
He read this over, altered the second ‘hope’ in the third line to ‘imagine’, breathed a brief prayer as he folded it into the envelope and licked the stamp. If he didn’t hear back over the following few days then he’d have to think about what to do next. As far as he knew, the Baileys still didn’t have a telephone.
On his way to meet Harry he dropped the letter into a postbox that leaned like the Tower of Pisa from a cratered pavement.
It was early afternoon, three days later, that he returned to the hotel from the labour exchange, where he’d spent a fruitless morning queuing only to be treated with rudeness by the matronly woman behind the desk when he reached the front of the queue. He knocked softly and opened the door of their room, to find that Harry was still sound asleep and snoring, and the room smelled rancid. Paul regarded him morosely, but then everything for him was coloured by the dismal fact that though he asked downstairs on every possible occasion if there were any letters or telephone messages, he had not heard back from Sarah.
His bed gave a monstrous creak as he sat down on it, which caused Harry to stir. He blinked in the dim daylight, then noticed Paul and pushed himself up to sitting with a groan.
‘Wha’ time is it?’ Harry’s forehead, Paul saw, gleamed with moisture.
‘Two.’
‘Have you been out?’
‘Yes. No luck. As soon as they see my papers . . .’
‘Cretins.’
‘No, I understand. It’s to be expected.’
‘You’re a better man than I am, Hartmann.’
‘No, I’m not. Listen, Harry. Last night, well. You can’t carry on like this. You’ve got to go home. Your folks will be wondering what’s happened to you.’
‘They won’t.’ This said in a distant voice.
‘Haven’t you informed them you’re back?’ Paul, who had no family now, was shocked.
Harry muttered some excuse, then rubbed his nape with a shaky hand and yawned loudly. He eased himself out of bed, pulled on his trousers, dislodged a ragged towel from the end of his bed and shambled off to the bathroom. In his absence Paul lifted open the window and stood in the welcome draught of fresh air listening to the sounds of the city and thinking of all the reasons why Sarah would not have answered his letter. One, maybe she hadn’t received it. She was away possibly. Or ill. Or . . . No, he’d have heard if it had been that. Two, she had received it but she didn’t want . . . Hell, his mind didn’t wish to go there either. He sighed sadly and turned back to survey the room. It was a horrible place, he hated it and the proprietress hated him, he could tell from her refusal to meet his eye now when he spoke to her. The sooner he moved, the better, but he didn’t dare yet in case Sarah tried to contact him. And then there was Harry.
If he stopped being obsessed with his own concerns for long enough, then he had to admit that he was worried about Harry. They’d both taken their fill of drink over the last few days. He’d followed Harry from a bar in the servicemen’s club to pub to dance palace and nightclub in his friend’s restless quest to lose himself in noisy crowds and alcohol.
Last night, he distinctly remembered sitting glumly on a bar stool in a club downstairs in Piccadilly watching Harry, tight as a butcher’s boy, count precious notes out onto the counter to buy whiskies for a load of squaddies and their girls whom he’d never met before in his life, and who would undoubtedly melt away once their benefactor’s money ran out. Paul had lost his patience before it got to that point, though, seizing Harry by the collar and marching him out. The walk home in the cool night air should have sobered him up, but he’d been too far gone for that and Paul had ended up half carrying him back to the hotel.
Harry returned from the bathroom, looking slightly the less worse for wear. Rather than hang around while he dressed, Paul took up his hat. ‘I’ll see you at the place on the corner,’ he remarked, referring to the greasy spoon they’d eaten in regularly, and left.
In the café, he ordered fish and chips and when it arrived he ate it slowly, but by the time his plate was empty Harry still hadn’t appeared, so he paid the bill and returned to the hotel. There was no one on the desk in the hall when he passed, but he was too concerned about Harry to think of ringing the bell again to ask if there was any post for him, so he took the stairs two at a time and tried the door. It opened, and he was relieved to see Harry there just sitting on the bed. He’d dressed and combed his hair and held his hat in his hand. He glanced up at Paul’s entrance and said gravely, ‘You’re right, of course. I’ve decided to go home.’
‘I’m glad,’ Paul said, surprised but relieved at the same time. As he watched Harry slowly pack, he came to a decision. ‘Would you take a letter for me?’
‘Is it for Sarah? Yes, of course.’ They hadn’t discussed the matter at all, but then they didn’t need to. Harry knew how much Paul’s mind dwelled on her.
‘I want to be sure it reaches her. If you have a chance to go to Flint Cottage and give it to her yourself . . . into her own hand, then at least I’ll know . . .’
Harry nodded, so Paul took a fresh piece of paper, thought for a moment, then quickly scribbled a few lines on it. He sealed it in an envelope. Harry rose and took it and slipped it into his inside pocket.
They smoked a final cigarette together and spoke desultorily of this and that. It was hard to part after so long a time they’d spent together, so many hardships shared, so often that each had helped the other.
‘I will see you again?’ Paul said, but when he glanced up he was surprised to see that Harry’s eyes shone bright with unshed tears.
‘Of course, old man, of course,’ Harry said. They shook hands very firmly and clapped each other on the back.
‘Convey my regards to . . . everyone,’ Paul said and Harry nodded, pressing his lips together firmly.
