Mabel has turned three! Three, can you imagine! You will adore her when you see her. I promise you. Her hair is long enough to put in ribbons now; at her birthday party she wore the purple one you gave her. Do you remember? The one you stole from your mother’s paintbrush jar and wrapped around the posy you brought to me the day we went to London. I know you must. One of the other little girls at the party admired the ribbon and asked for it. Mabel tried to pull it out of her hair and hand it over; she’s that sort, a very loving little girl. To my shame I jumped in and said she couldn’t give it away. I couldn’t have stood that. I offered the other child her choice from my basket of similar trinkets. Please don’t be cross with me or think me selfish. I don’t have much that belongs to us. You do understand, don’t you? I won’t allow Mabel to wear it again. I think I’ll sew it into a cardigan or something; then she can’t lose it or gift it. She would give away everything we have and walk around starkers if she had the chance! I don’t doubt some would say I’m bringing her up soft, but how else should a child be brought up? She kisses me all the time, literally all the time. She hugs me, rubs her cold hands on my back and squirms with delight if I tickle her tummy. She sometimes licks me. I don’t really like this, but she says I’m sweet like an ice, so how can I resist! She frequently demands, ‘Mummy where are my kisses?’ even when we are in a shop or in church, and she won’t be quiet until I kiss her. I wish you were sharing this with me.

When you come home I’ll cover you with kisses. Literally cover you. I’ll kiss you until my lips crack. Come home.

The rationing is pretty gruesome, but in a perverse way I rather like it, I think most women do. We want to share some of the hardship. Madness really, because we’re not easing anything for you, are we? But still, I imagine you can understand the sentiment. Besides, rationing is A GOOD THING, I do know that. Some restaurants and such had been making stacks of money because of course someone can always pay for potted salmon. Disgraceful, when you think that children in Wales and Birmingham were starving! There is constant talk of the black market. I’ve asked Ava about it and she promises she’s had nothing to do with it, although she admitted she’d sell her soul for new stockings and that I oughtn’t to try to stop her. She asked after you in her last letter. She always does. So besides sugar, meat, butter, cheese and margarine are now rationed. We have cards to help everyone keep on track. We had to register at Mr Walker’s. At least what we have is now quite fairly divided. We’re very lucky to be on a farm and not in a city or town. It’s rather wonderful to be self-sufficient. I give what we don’t need to the villagers. I do it willingly, but I confess I do get an extra lift because I imagine how proud you’d be if you saw me doing so. Not only proud of the fact that I’ve actually produced something edible but that I’ve produced enough to share, that sharing it is my first thought. That should appeal to your socialist sensibilities!