Scud attacks have been steady since the war started, but don’t worry because they are an inaccurate weapon and the good news is there’s no sign of gas yet. Because I haven’t much work to do, I feel like a fly on the wall watching the nightmare unfold. I would honestly donate a major organ just to be busier right now. Despite working for the General, we at HQ only discovered that the war had started at the same time as the rest of the world – when Fox News showed footage of the first US missiles being fired into Iraq. I’m not sure how I thought I’d hear news of the start, maybe I thought the general would come out and fire a starting pistol? Almost immediately the first US missile was launched against Baghdad, the scud alarm went off and we were ordered to jump into trenches. We were already kitted up in our chemical suits and I wish I’d taken more notice of the defecation and canister changing drills now. Surprisingly though, when the alarm sounded for the first time, I felt an immense sense of resigned inevitability wash over me. We piled into the trench like sardines and I now regret my complacency regarding the digging of trench – how naïve I was and what a bloody fool.
I’ll never forget that first time in the trench. The soldier to my right was shaking violently – it was impossible to know the age or gender of the soldier because the body was covered in an NBC suit, over-boots, latex gloves and a respirator. I took the person’s left gloved hand in my right one and we kept our hands held tight, hidden under my leg. We sat there for about ten minutes and waited for the all-clear. When he took off his respirator, I saw that the poor lad couldn’t have been a day older than twenty. We have jumped into trenches many times today and it’s a day tinged with nothing but sadness and news of losses, but we’ve got through it. We gather around the bird table several times per day and each brigade, including the Marines and the Paras, brief the general via radio link. I still give the met brief first. Listening to how the brigades and marines are advancing, I have to admit, is fascinating. This is the blackest period of my life, and yet since the war began I feel utterly invigorated. Is it wrong to feel so alive?
Love, Polly
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Mr and Mrs Day
Date: 23 March
Hi, Mum and Dad
Just a quick note to say that I’m safe and not to worry. I’ll phone as soon as I can. Love you.
Your, Polly xx
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Polly
Date: 24 March
Hi, Pol
I haven’t had any letters from you for a little while so I’m just going to keep on writing in the hope that my e-blueys are still being printed off for you. Anything I can think of to write in this letter seems rather banal considering your situation, and I’m not really sure what to write other than news from the home front, so I’ll do that and hope it keeps your spirits up.
The main news to report is that Isabella is here and is bunked up with me at the cottage. I wasn’t sure if we would get along. You must admit, it’s a bit weird having a celebrity chef rock up on your doorstep. It seems that celebrities have exactly the same habits and insecurities as the rest of us, so I told her, ‘Mi casa es tu casa’, and she was happy to crack on. My only house rule is that I’m prepared to share absolutely everything except my Bic razor. She readily agreed to my condition, so I’ve put her in charge of the chickens. She loves the café and I can tell she’s trying not to take over, but I don’t mind. OK, I do a bit. Anya would call it karma.
Isabella couldn’t have come to a better place for a little peace from the rigors of celebrity status, but you should see the faces of our customers when they walk through the door to be greeted by the lady off the telly! Anya and Ishmael are possibly the last two people on the planet to care about her celebrity status, and ‘the noisy family’ are far too hippy-happy-clappy to notice a famous chef moving into their manor. I’ll admit, though, in the darkest recesses of my soul, I’m hoping word will get out that Isabella is here. I dream of doubling our customer throughput from ten to twenty customers per day. But as our numbers depend entirely upon how many people Hector can squeeze into his little boat, we will always be exclusive.
Despite our little shenanigans, I don’t want you to think that we’re not keeping up to date with the war. We’ve decided to listen to the news just once every day – I’m afraid it’s just too stressful to listen any more than that. But our thoughts are with you, always.
Stay safe, beautiful lady.
Love, Ag
P.S. A lady called Stella Valentine came in yesterday – isn’t that just the best name ever! I’m going to nick it for a book – or even better, a pseudonym.
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Aggie
Date: 26 March
Hi, Aggie
I’m following your lead by taking a moment to enjoy a little peace and quiet at twilight, sitting at the map table and drinking a cup of tea, writing letters.
Night times seem busier in terms of the operational tempo than during the day, which means the scud alarm goes off regularly in the early hours. The bird table briefings have increased in number and intensified, and we all hold our breath in the hope that more UK losses won’t be reported, but each day and, especially, each night, unfortunately brings the inevitable news - more losses. Do you think it’s too late to find God? If not, where should I look and, given the circumstances, shouldn’t God find me?
The tempo has ramped up for Gethyn, and I haven’t seen him much since the war started. He sits by the radio in the US Marine tent waiting to dispatch assets, and has gone into operational doctor mode. He is suddenly the most serious, single-minded operator I’ve ever known. Fuck, scud alarm’s just gone off. Must go.
I’m back. It landed a mile or so away. Anyway, must have a look at the weather and phone round the brigades, see what they need from me.
Take care, love Pol
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Mrs Day
Date: 27 March
Hi, Mum
I’m sat on the sand outside our sleeping tent taking in some sun for twenty minutes. To the right of me a bunch of US Marines are playing the card game, Uno. This seems to be the wrong game, somehow. Shouldn’t Americans be playing poker and drinking whiskey?
We’re on the move again tonight, edging ever closer. I see the importance of my job now. The weather really matters in a war. I gave the air liaison staff a separate briefing a couple of days ago and the reality of war hit home all the more. I had to wait to brief them and listened as they got caught up in securing air support for the Commandos who were in trouble with an Iraqi tank brigade. Three American F18s, four AV8Bs and two A10s later, the marines were out of trouble. I don’t want to even begin to imagine the twisted carnage that that kind of fire power left behind.
Thanks for sending the knickers and baby wipes, by the way, and all the sweets and magazines, too. It’s all keeping me going. Thanks a million, Mum.
Love you,
Polly x
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Oliver, via Mrs Cartwright
Date: 27 March
Dear, Oliver
Thank you so much for your letter. It’s lovely to know people at home are thinking of us. I’ve got plenty of time to write to you because when I’m not working on a weather forecast there isn’t anything much else to do, except eat and sleep, so we all write lots of letters. I’ll try to answer your questions:
It’s mid-afternoon here in Iraq and you are right, it is hot in the desert during the day. We try to stay in the shelter of the tents as much as possible and keep physical activity down to a minimum so that we don’t suffer from heatstroke. It’s a nice temperature at night now that it’s early spring, although it wasn’t when I arrived. In January and February it was freezing at night but by July it will be so hot it will be very difficult to sleep, and working outside during the day will be almost impossible. Helicopters may have to stop flying during the
day as it will be far too hot.
Yes, I have a gun. It’s a pistol. I haven’t fired my pistol during the war and I hope I never will. In fact, I only fired it a few times in my life. I’m not a real soldier, I’m a weather forecaster. I’m here because I’m in the Royal Navy Reserve Forces and I was asked to come and work with the army headquarters staff.
Sand gets everywhere and it is all that you can feel and see and taste. I wear a scarf around my head and face to keep the sand away from my mouth and nose and hair.
You are not going to be bombed. Saddam Hussein cannot bomb the UK. British children are safe.
I’m neither sad nor happy to be here. I’m nothing, if you can understand that. I’m very sad about the war, though. I was lonely until I found a friend. He’s called Gethyn and I would be lost without him.
I will get a medal.
I can’t tell you for certain why we’re at war. I’m not sure even the General knows. All I can say is that our Prime Minister sent us here and we have to trust that he would only choose to do so if he had a very good reason.
That’s my questions answered, perhaps you could answer some questions for me: How did you feel when the school burnt down? Do you mind travelling by bus to your temporary school? Do you think they should rebuild the school in Midhope? My dad wants it to be rebuilt. He’s asked for my opinion, but I would like your advice on this.
Thanks again for writing and for praying for me. I hope you write again. Ask any questions you like.
Best wishes,
Polly
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr and Mrs Day
To: Polly
Date: 27 March
Dear Babe
The village is enjoying a bit of a ceasefire at the moment. Although maybe I’m not hearing any news because everybody I bump into is walking on eggshells around me because they know you’re away with the army. Mind you, it’ll only take one misplaced comment in the shop or the petrol station and they’ll all be at loggerheads again. Mammy and the dog are both doing well. Mammy said to tell you that we’re not planning to open up the caravan at Easter like we normally do - Whitby can wait until we know you’re safe. We want to be at home during the fighting just in case you manage to phone, and the signal on my mobile is dodgy at the coast.
Aunty Joan sends her love. Her knee is doing much better now, but she’s a long way off going back to line dancing at the Legion. The jammy bugger has managed to wangle a disability sticker for her car. They’ll hand them out to anybody with a bit of a limp these days!
Did you get the silver bangle I sent? Did I mention it’s Victorian? I’m still trying to get access onto the field at Holmfirth. I’ll find that pot of gold yet love and then you’ll never have to do this bloody awful job again.
Love ya babe.
MumnDad x
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Aggie
Date: 27 March
Dear, Aggie
I’m now officially in Iraq. Crossing the border was bizarre. Some Iraqis waved (mainly children) which felt odd considering the hard-fought battles the forward line of troops have faced, but there are pockets of resistance everywhere and no-one is safe. I’m excessively tired having only had four hours sleep in the last forty-eight and I’m frightened again and suddenly constantly on edge. Sorry, but that’s all the energy I have to write tonight.
Love, Polly
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Gethyn
Date: 28 March
Hi, Gethyn
What a hateful situation you find yourself in. My ranting to you about the vagaries of romantic fiction seem inconsequential now and I feel guilty that my life has not been disadvantaged in any real way by the war. Perhaps if we had to endure food rationing or had doodlebugs landing in our laps, we might have a greater realisation of what is going on. I can’t help but feel that as a nation we are far too comfortably-off to be at war – shouldn’t I be unable to bake due to a shortage of butter? Ishmael tells me that events in Iraq unfold on our TV screens twenty-four hours a day, but the cottage I’m living in doesn’t have a TV, so I’m not able to be a war voyeur, thank God.
I popped round to see Polly’s parents before I came to Appledart. I took a Victoria sponge (you can’t go wrong with a Victoria sponge). They were both pale, behind the smiles. I was given the obligatory cup of tea, but it’s clear they will both be holding their breath for a while, so it’s not surprising they are pale – after all, it’s impossible to be ruddy of cheek if you are short of breath. Polly’s Mum had the same kind of distance in her eyes I remember from childhood. But listen to me! I need to buck up and send you some first class sarcasm. I know, I’ll enclose a couple of my books - that will give you a laugh.
Yours aye, Aggie
P.S. To show solidarity for your plight, for the rest of the war I’ll wear a rough tweed skirt and draw a line up the back of both my legs each day with eyeliner as fake stockings. Enduring cold legs in the Highlands is the least I can do for the war effort.
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Polly
Date: 29 March
Hi, Pol.
How’s the war going? Can you believe you’re in a situation where I’m even asking you this?
The news from here is that I’m now playing agony aunt to Isabella. Her initial euphoria has worn off and the realisation of her situation has hit her. I hadn’t realised she was in such an emotional mess. She keeps crying and it’s driving me nuts. Yesterday, I wrapped her up in ten layers of warm clothing, made up a picnic - a flask of coffee, cheese and chili-jam sandwiches and a couple of slices of lemon drizzle (one of my recipes- ha!) - walked her along the beach and, once I’d heard the whole sorry story, she fell into my arms and wailed like a banshee. Then she ate more cake (I think she was a little curious as to how I got the sponge especially zingy) and eventually she sighed a massive sigh and smiled. ‘Well, Isabella,’ I said, ‘if you will insist on acting like a doormat, what can a man do but walk all over you? And you need to stop crying too, or you’ll have to have some serious work done on your face before your next stint on the telly …’ – that seemed to sort her out!
She’s had a shitty couple of years, bless her. Of course, a man is involved. One of her daughters is causing her all kinds of grief, too. But not to worry, because I sense Anya is working on Isabella surreptitiously. She’s been talking to her (generally) about emotional ownership and taking control of one’s own thoughts and actions, in other words, get a grip missus. Ishmael keeps out of it all and disappears off as soon as the topic of conversation turns to men.
But - oh my God - Isabella can bake! It’s like watching an alchemist. Even Anya is impressed. I’ve noticed that Isabella tastes everything – every ingredient - as she adds it, but then never eats much of anything once she’s baked it. Surely this is self-harm? Her savoury snacks are little morsels of heaven, which is a nightmare. I’m already the size of a house, but with Isabella baking up a storm, I’m going to be the size of two houses by the time I leave here.
That’s all for now. Send some warm sunshine our way.
Take care. Thinking of you always.
Ag
Bluey
From: Polly
To: Mrs Day (via the Post Office)
Date: 28 March
Hi, Mum
I thought I’d better let you know that I’m now in Iraq. But again, try not to worry, I’m about three kilometres back from the front line. I’ve adopted a ‘them and us’ mentality now that the bullets are flying. After all, if I was to walk out of this tent and wander into Iraq, I would be captured or shot, so whatever my thoughts might have been about the futility of the war before it started, those thoughts are irrelevant now. Survival is the key. We’ve stopped wearing chemical protection kit in HQ and we operate on risk because it looks like Saddam has neither the will nor the means to gas us. When the scud alarm sounds we no longer jump straight into trenches, but
wait to see where the computer predicts the scud is going to land. If close by, we hit the trenches (it’s rarely close by). I’m being completely honest with you in the hope it will show you not to worry. Yes I’m in a war zone, but under the onslaught of American hardware, I doubt the Iraqis would have the energy or ability to attack our Head Quarters, so all is fine. Say hello to Aunty Joan, and a big hug for the dog and Dad.
Love you, Polly x
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Gethyn
Date: 29 March
Dear, Gethyn
Thought I’d write again as soon as I could, just to show you’re in my thoughts. How are you? I know it’s an obvious thing to say, but I do very much hope that you are safe.
The latest from me is that I seem to I have found my niche. Running the café is fabulous and I seem to have more energy than I’ve had in years. All my victims (did I say victims, I meant customers) have to walk quite a way to get here (hence the metaphorical concept of reaching ‘the end of the road’).
The thing about finally reaching the end of the road, either metaphorically or in actuality, is that a person really does work up a tremendous appetite en route, and, thankfully, are very hungry by the time they stumble through the door – such a clever concept! I always point their noses in the direction of the savoury specials board and the cakes on the counter while I’m helping to peel off their waterproof clothing, and we make sure the aroma as they walk in is a mixture of home baking and peat fires – perfect! The weather has been particularly cruel this week and so visitor numbers have been down. Only the rock-hard, stalwart walkers, or those poor souls who are in dire need of Anya, are prepared to cope with the icy winds whistling over from Skye. But I do love to see their ruddy faces light up as they fall through the door.
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