I’m sorry I haven’t written for ages. The worst news has come. Jack is MIA, maybe captured by the Japs, and this has floored us all. Mum rang to say they had come by the house and told her. Mrs Thompson had to take the phone as Mum couldn’t tell me without falling apart. She’s been in bed all week, in a terrible way, and Dad’s hardly left the pub. They say it was close combat, and our men were hugely outnumbered—trapped really. I have been staying here with them, to help Mum, and they’ve given me the week off work. Oh, Roy, I can’t bear it, to think of him suffering over there, to think maybe you won’t meet him, maybe I won’t see him again. He and I are as close as a brother and sister can be, and there is something so gentle in him. I could tell he wasn’t certain about joining up when he did, but Fred and Dad pressured him, and he probably felt as though he had no choice.

I have been going through his things all day: his shirts which I hid away, his jars of hair pomade, the books and form guides, his scrawled messy writing and his boots. Every pair of boots I see makes me want to cry. That was his job at the farm when he was little, cleaning the boots in the evenings, and he never whinged or carried on about it. He just did it, beautifully, with that sweet smile of his—and I can’t bear to think that I might never see that smile again.

I can’t stand this and I can’t stand to think of losing anyone else. I don’t want you there, Roy, I want you safe in my arms. I want you beside me.

Fred is in bad shape too, he wants to go back more than ever now, but the docs are saying his knee is no good. Mum can’t bear him to leave, which I’ve been trying to tell him, but he just wants revenge. He wants to do something about Jack.

Please, Roy, tell me you’re safe. Tell me you’ll be with me soon. I need something to keep me going, some reason that life is still bearable.

Always yours,

Sarah

Dear Sarah,