Work is fine but we don’t get out much up here, and anyway there’s not much to get out to. Just the pub inhabited by ancient hobgoblins who speak in an incomprehensible tongue and drink beer so watered down that the description ‘pale ale’ has never been more appropriate. I’ve taken to whisky, following my father’s example.

In these remote, pale-skinned parts they’ve never seen anyone like me before. The children dare each other to run up and touch me, to see if I’m real, and then dash away giggling. They must think I’m some evil wizard or something. For a while I took to telling them my dark skin gives me special powers and I could make their wishes come true. But that backfired when a little lad made me promise to bring his daddy home safe.

My special powers are now producing sweets from behind my ears. It’s safer that way, and just as popular. I pity any other brown people arriving here in future – I’m a hard act to follow.

We are well away from the fray, which leaves me with a conflict of feelings: guilt that I am not doing something more active to fight the Hun, and relief that I don’t have to endure the misery of barracks life, parade grounds and the rest. Can you imagine me, trying to march, when I can barely tell my right from my left? I’d be a disaster as a soldier.

My only real discomfort in this war is the food here, which is worse than awful. My goodness, how I miss your carrot cake. But more than that, Kath, I miss you, and our conversations. Getting to know you has helped me recover from losing Johnnie, and I’m quite miserable now we’ve been parted.

Please write back, c/o the post office number at the top of this letter.

Your friend,

Vic

November 1939

Dear Vic,

Thank you for your letter. Don’t worry, we are perfectly safe, although the war came pretty close to home when a ship got hit by a mine in Harwich Harbour and more than fifty poor sailors died. Apart from that, nothing exciting is happening here, except for people digging up the parks to plant vegetables. The beaches are off limits, covered with barbed wire and mined, apparently. Pill boxes seem to spring up like mushrooms. They’ve even blown up part of my beloved pier. It’s horrible. I hate this war already.

We have a young Cockney woman with her two-month-old baby billeted with us after being evacuated from London. She’s perfectly nice but the baby cries all night which is making everyone tired and tetchy! She’s sad, of course, because she misses her family and her husband is away in France. Yesterday when we read the news of the latest defeat she said, ‘I wonder what kind of world I’m bringing this lad into.’ At least we only have ourselves to worry about.