I walked some more, and ended up in Hyde Park, down by the Serpentine, which is a sort of pond where Londoners go boating and throw bread at ducks that look like mad tramps. I caught sight of my reflection in the water, which was, as it always is, a frightful pea-green colour, and it was such a shock to see that I was myself. Uniform and all. One is always oneself. Up until that point, even with everything that had happened, I realised that I had still been seeing it all as a bit of a joke, something I’d been going along with, but which wasn’t really anything to do with me. I’d been an actor playing Tom Collyer. But all that fell away in one uncomfortable moment. Straight afterwards I felt … well, I felt an enormous sense of relief, as you feel when you pull the cord of your parachute and the silk hisses out and opens with a great, final whump. All the work is done. All you have to do is drift. I could have gone another way, been like Johnny and Michael, painting scenery – I could have done it quite easily. I don’t blame them at all. They’re being true to themselves. But I chose this. I have to be honest, Zoë: I chose to be Lieutenant Collyer, and I suppose that means I thought it was more important than being a painter, even though I couldn’t admit it to myself. Now I have, and I can just get on with the business of soldiering. Perhaps that’s where the relief comes from. I hope you don’t think I’ve gone mad with all this cod psychoanalysis. You’ll have to cure me. I’m not sure that anyone else can.

There’s more to write but I have to go. We lift – such an elegant way to describe being crammed into a plane – at an ungodly hour tomorrow and I have to get back to my unit. More later.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Algiers, 10th January 1943

My dearest Zoë,