He’s a barrel of a man—drinks whisky, eats beef, takes cream. Large moustaches. Wears fur. Has a darling wife named Edith, the size of a sparrow, who is always rearranging books on shelves and smiling. I like her. I like him, I think. He has gusto. They are very good with Owen. Let me put him on the floor while I talk, without getting agitated about him touching things. They love books it seems, but they’re not so precious about them that a small child is a threat. So I have been going in to their bookshop regularly and talking poetry with them. Very different conversations to the ones I have with Parish. There’s lots of laughter, and usually a sherry bottle passed around, and occasionally the little bell on the door will tinkle and some poor interloper will come in actually wanting to browse and buy and will be utterly discomposed by the sight of us, lounging on the floor with our shoes off, using the bookshelves to prop our ashtrays and drinks on. (The painter John Brack popped in last week! That sobered us up.) Anyway, in one particularly animated conversation, I got to telling them about my own poetry. (I can’t seem to help myself from spilling the beans.) So, as above: poems will get slipped under their door. All I have to lose is a convenient, peaceable bookshop relationship. I should read the newspapers more anyway …

Will let you know the outcome, if there is one. In the meantime, send my love to Frank.

x Veda

† † †

25 MARCH 1962

Dear Tilde,

Well, the child talks! We have fourteen words now counted: opsicle (popsicle), toast, mamma, dadda, engine, ball, dog, milk (pronounced ‘moolk’), banana, chip, car, book, rooster, and, unaccountably, cucumber!

Phew for that! He is and will be turning into a real person, it seems. I must say, I was starting to wonder … He will come to the word ‘no’ pretty soon, I imagine, and I will be thinking back wistfully to the days of gibberish. His father is gratified that nearly half his words are foodstuffs. For my part, I am particularly proud of the word ‘cucumber’ which he utters with great delicacy and refinement: ‘Too-tumber!’

Owen has coped well enough with Ornella while I have been helping out at La Coccinella. I will do it only another week or so and then Jo will be properly on his feet and charming and seating guests and popping corks and folding napkins himself. He thinks I ought to be home, and he’s no doubt right. In fact, I don’t really know why he needed me in the first place—except that wives provide a sort of stabilising influence, attest to their husband’s respectability etc. Anyway, it’s been tiring for me who must be up at the crack of dawn dandling a baby and making infant-friendly stodge for breakfast.