by Chris Barker
By the way I have a typewriter, Underwood (cost me £14 14s. in 1938). Would you like to have it, if so I’ll try and think out a scheme. I could get £25 for it any day I think, but it is more useful than money and is just lying about useless at home.
I am glad you like the second-hand bookshop idea.
I am sorry about your gumboils. I should leave your private (acquisitive) Dentist and pay at least one visit to the Dental Hospital at Leicester Square, which is concerned with saving teeth, not making money through extractions and dentures. Don’t have your teeth out before you need do, and without seeing the Dental Hospital. They are good people. I shall make some lighter remarks in a later letter. The enclosed photos (most grim) show some of my teeth fairly well. I lost two on my right, upper, through private dentists. You do want me to tell you, here, that I love you though you be molar-less? I do!
I give you my glad sympathy at your efforts to abate the smoke nuisance. You are a good girl, Bessie. We are now getting 50 Players/Gold Flake weekly out here. Pity I cannot send mine to you.
I must again say I don’t want you to think of me as a superior. Of course I kid myself I have a sharper perception of some (maybe unimportant) things than most others. But you are better than me at French, Algebra, Arithmetic, and I am confused (and remaining so) about Morse and Electricity and Magnetism.
I love you.
Chris
12 June 1944
Dearest,
It is a little bit pathetic for you to tell me I am ‘such a lover’, when all I have been able to do is put on paper a few sentences conveying what I mean, but not, surely, the force with which I mean it. You have been wonderful in gathering my intentions, you will be wonderful administering to my needs. Please never forget that I have needs, and that you are my greatest.
It is not much good me trying to tell you that I shall not flirt with hundreds of others. Events will show you.
But for goodness’ sake, go steady on the near-occult. Do not trust your ordinary brain to deal with extra-super ordinary things. I became interested in Spiritualism years ago, but after I had read a book (I think it was Valley of the Mists by Conan Doyle) that made my head whirl with thought and possible happenings, in no spirit of mock-humility, I decided it was a subject which I had better leave alone. My brain was, I thought, too ordinary.
You ask me if I want you to be a modern woman par excellence, and you ‘rather hope I am the least bit old-fashioned’. Well, I am sufficiently old-fashioned not to want you to work after marriage. I want your main job to be looking after me. But, as I have said earlier, I do not want you to go house-mad. I want you to take an interest in other things, and if necessary, join up with people like yourself who may be similarly interested. I have seen (theoretically!) a woman stop being useful to the world upon marriage. I want you to develop, say, something that the circumstances of your working life have prevented you following. I can therefore be, not the bloke who bangs the Harem gate shut, but the one who gives you the chance to do something (quite accidentally); obviously I am marrying you because I am selfish, not because I think a little leisure may make you another Van Gogh.
Don’t rush to the photographer, there’s a good girl. I shall be very glad to have the snap of ‘The Author at Age 20’ – as, my love, one day I shall be very happy to have you.
You amuse me when you say you don’t think managing money is my strong point. (I haven’t got any strong points except those you make.) I expect you will find me a horrible old skinflint, but I hope you’ll agree to have pocket-money, as I shall have it, and that should enable you to be at least independent in little things. In any case, you will be doing the housekeeping, and I shall assist only at your invitation.
If anyone in the Ministry of Labour asks you what your war-work is, you can show them my dark-frowned photo, and you can tell them your trouble with me is only just starting.
I’ve never really asked you, have I – Will you marry me, Bessie (for better or for worse)? There are no good reasons, but the only excuse I can offer is that I will love you always, my fashion. Reply by ordinary LC won’t you?
Thank you, Bessie, for telling me you want to be at my mercy. One day let us hope you will be, and then we shall really meet. You make me feel a little drunk when you place yourself at my command. I so much want to caress you, to lie with you and commune. You do not wonder at my wish to rummage when it is your lovely body that I seek? Do not mistake the depth and the age of my desire to enter you. I want to kiss your breasts till they flame, I want to squeeze them till my roving hands move on to your buttock and hips. I want to mould your loins with my hands and kiss you again and again. I want you to receive my homage, my love, and then I want to come into lovely you myself.
Chris
14 June 1944
My dear Bessie,
Yes, I got those corduroy trousers a few months after the war started, and long before everyone adopted them. When I got them home, my Mother said, ‘You silly young ass, only artists wear them!’ She was approximately correct. They are grand trousers, though, and wonderful material. I am glad about your non-puritan thoughts based on their contents. I already feel accustomed to your bedroom, and I hope you will increasingly know within you that I am thinking of you there. I don’t altogether swallow the explanation for the sag in the spring bed, but we will try and make it worse, shall we?
Do not let the emphasis on the physical make you think for a moment that I under-rate your mentality and intelligence. So prepare for me as though I was an ordinary person, not the Agha Khan.
Yes, my Mother will be a bit of a nuisance to her prospective daughter-in-law. Not because she is mine, but because in-laws are nuisances. But I shall be able to help you where necessary and when the time comes. My attitude in similar circs. would be ‘Blow the lot of them’. I am not over-fond of relations myself.
You say ‘I am so much in your hands’. Would that you were, my dear. I am afraid of losing you. I am so glad the Yank turned out a bit of a wet blanket. I shall try hard to keep you. Forgive me for my constant thought of your flesh. Your body is always before me, and I find my own crying for union, companionship. These gifts which you wonderfully bestow on me are the greatest I could ask.
I can now commence to tell you about my leave. It could have been so much better had you been there: as it was, my brother’s pretty constant attendance was a great nuisance. I could have wept sometimes. I had all sorts of great hopes about buying something in Alex., but in the event, I had to admit defeat. Cloth was tremendously dear, and its despatch under the eagle eye of Herbert, impossible. So I am afraid that all you will get in a couple of months’ time will be a kind of leather shopping bag, with zip fastener. You’ve probably got half-a-dozen, or maybe you wouldn’t be seen dead with one. But perhaps it isn’t a shopping bag. You must tell me what it is when you get it! Anyhow, it’s leather and should be OK for soling your shoes. Next time, please tell me what you’d like, and (if I can get rid of Bert for a little while) I’ll try hard to be perspicacious. What is your shoe size please?
Please have a thought of me.
My love.
Chris
16 June 1944
Dear Bessie,
I am now starting my account of the visit to Alexandria.
In Alex. you can get what you want if you like to pay for it. Two chaps in our party had nights out which cost them £3 apiece each time. They assured me it was well worth it. Almost anywhere you go, little boys, old men, or the women themselves will say ‘Want a woman?’ ‘Want a —?’ ‘Hello dearie.’ I must say that I shudder somewhat at the thought. A boy about 6 in one street invites you to buy a preventative, with as much loud enthusiasm and as little discretion as the chap who sells newspapers at Oxford Circus. Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Well of Loneliness and other items are on sale everywhere, but although they are advertised as unexpurgated, judging by the disappointment of a chap in the train who had bought one, they are pretty much like tracts.
&nbs
p; Street entertainers are more numerous and original than our own, there are never any singers or bands only. Monkeys and dogs jump through hoops at their masters’ behest. One man has a couple of long batons, which burn at the end. He pretends to swallow them, but only puts them in his mouth, where they go out. A ‘good’ one is, he swallows paraffin (I mean puts it in his mouth), then expels it into the air, putting a match to it. Done quickly, it seems that he is breathing fire … Then he lays back on a great nail-studded board, while his mates dance on him, after which dancing barefoot on a bag of glass is child’s play. All this to the accompaniment of drum-banging and other noises.
One of my nicest afternoons was watching cricket, on matting-wicket surrounded by a fair amount of pleasant looking grass. We had tea as we watched. I had a macaroon.
On the last night I was able to leave the barracks, and spend an hour with ‘Mohamed Hassan Ali’ at one of the Clubs. He gave an ‘Hour of Magic’, and picked on me to be his stooge. For half-an-hour, at first rather embarrassed, I was his assistant, up on the stage. I threw dice, burned £1 notes, tore up playing cards, tied knots in rope, tried to extricate hoops, picked eggs from my pockets. The queerest thing of the lot was when he said to me, ‘Say, come out McTavish’ and told me to put my hand down my shirt. From my sweaty breasts came a dear little chick. He told me three more names, and I extricated three more. A bit of hard luck for the chicks, but Egyptians are very cruel to animals, and not much less vicious to their fellows.
With you as my companion, anything would be wonderful. This would have been wonderful too.
Love,
Chris
Chris in Alexandria, 1944
3
Into the Blouse
17 June 1944
My lovely Bessie,
What do you think about us starting to number our letters? It is a good check-up, a missing number is easily spotted. I shall not commence it unless you wish it. I don’t want you to think this is pedantry, but I think we will find it useful. Don’t say ‘Yes’ if you think it is just a silly idea of mine. We number our letters home. Have reached No. 56 this year so far.
I am sorry that the actual start of the Second Front should be such a real stab for your consciousness, and then again, I am not. I want you to be aware of the terrible things that are happening, yet I want to shelter you from their consequences or prevent you looking too closely. Look at my Mother’s jumbled-up homeliness: ‘… your usual two letters haven’t arrived this week. I suppose this invasion is causing the delay, the day before and all night there seems planes about, woke your Dad up, they are going over in hundreds today as well. I hope you were able to get some good shows in and pictures, I shall not go this week, don’t seem right somehow not knowing that poor old Charlie may be lying dead somewhere, it is a worry …’ (and later she again mentions Charlie (my brother-in-law, a sailor), and her thankfulness that we are not involved).
This war, at close quarters, is very bad, but the historians will record it as just another war. Perspective is invaluable. Seek it, be thankful you are not making all the sacrifices, and do all you can for those who are.
I love you.
Chris
29 June 1944
Dear Bessie,
I thank you for the ‘Yes, yes, yes’ acceptance, the honour that you have done me, and the confidence you have reposed in me. I promise to do all that I can, at all times, to forward our union, to work for your happiness and to care for your interests. I shall try hard not to be wilful, unheedful, thoughtless, I shall try to be considerate, kind and helpful, and where I fail I shall ask and expect your forgiveness. I think we can be very happy, and I hope we shall always try.
I hope the flying bombs have been a good way from you. My mother is usually very good, but she doesn’t write very happily at present. I think it is the ‘uncanny’ part of the thing which is worrying her although that is actually its weak point. All we can hope is that their range is very limited and that progress in France will steal their launching bases.
Don’t ever think this feeling between us is ordinary. Always regard it as something big, real, living.
I love you.
Chris
2 July 1944
Dear Bessie,
I am hoping to get at least one letter card from you tomorrow, but will say a few words now. Actually, there is a lot I have to tell you. First there is the autobarkergraphical tale to be told in outline, and then I wanted to tell you about events since I left England in some detail.
My Dad really grew up without any idea of home life. Until he met my Mother he hadn’t any sympathy or kindness shown him. His father was a drunken wretch, his mother died at his birth, having had (it is said) nineteen previous children. He spent some of his time in the workhouse, ran away a number of times, had a really hard life which ‘made a man of him’, but also prevented him acquiring some of the gentler habits which ‘Home’ does induce.
When I think of ‘us’, I look forward to our Home atmosphere, which doesn’t depend on the material things or whether one has Hot and Cold in the bathroom. It depends upon our love, flowing between us, uniting us.
3 July 1944. A smack in the eye for me today, nothing from you. I am wondering about these pilotless planes. I hope you go in the shelter, and do not try and be ‘brave’ by going to bed.
4 July 1944. No mail today. I do hope you are OK. I know you must be seriously disturbed at least. It doesn’t matter about me getting letters, but it does matter about your safety. I trust you will remain safe.
I have never seen a break of seven days between your letters before, although I am beginning to know the terror of these new bombs and the greater job you must have in finding conditions enabling you to write.
I am very sorry for you, I am very proud of you. If bombs constitute your life nowadays, well give me bombs in your LCs as you give them in your conversation to Iris Page. And then, don’t start worrying about my ‘morale’, don’t keep on writing because you think I must have letters. Write my name etc on the outside of the LC, and tell me you love me, inside, and I shall find that eminently satisfactory. Send me a scratch telling me you are safe, don’t trouble yourself with sounding the aitches.*
I do not regard you as lazy, and that is what counts. If you are lazy, I shall shake you up as far as I can. (My brother’s wife left London a week before war was declared. Bert and I went to his second floor flat to clear up for him, and close the place down. An ordinary sized bath had been left by her, half full with all the (used) crockery they had – weeks of undone ‘washing-up’. I took (I don’t remember exactly) over 20 milk bottles down to the front doorstep.) I could not countenance the skimping of household tasks, and I don’t suppose even you would try to frighten me with assertions that you’ll never do them.
I love you.
Chris
9 July 1944
Dear Bessie,
There are more fleas about here than previously, probably because the weather is a little hotter, but by no means as bad as it was this time last year. We have a pinky sort of powder which really smells nasty, and is not liked by fleas, etc. I had been losing a good bit of sleep through these aggravating midgets, three and four a night deciding to bore into me, so that I determined to really shake them. I smothered my three blankets with the powder and put a lot inside the sleeping sheet. I had been in bed for about ten minutes when I started burning like anything in my tender parts. Phew! I had to get out of bed and start rubbing furiously with soap and water. I finally got the burning to stop, and tied a clean handkerchief round that part.
I do not think I will say a lot in reply to your comments; I had better say that now the body acts during sleep, and that I have no wish to consciously assist. I am appreciative of your soothing words and your calm assessments. I do not know whether you do fully understand what a massive weight this particular ignorance has been, but you appear to do so. Sometimes I feel I must burst. I want very badly to burst into you. Perhaps it is a pity that I am
not meek and mild in my feelings, because as it is I feel I want to crush you and press myself into you until we are both breathless. ‘Breathless’ – am I not already breathless at the thought of your beauty, that awaits me, that you have told me is mine. The wonder of you, the miracle of this our understanding, is a really breathtaking affair.
Pleased you liked the Alex. stuff. I did not intend you to think that most of the chaps on leave or stationed there got their fun in not-so-pleasant ways. The great majority are good chaps. Understand that I am a humbug, but I shall try hard not to humbug you, I shall try to present myself to you as I am because I do not need to pretend to have the brain of an Einstein or the body of a Fred Astaire, to capture you. Here I am, be-spectacled, bald headed, often bemused – and Hey Presto! there are you, nevertheless all for me. It gives me a grand feeling. I think you will understand that my physical thoughts about you are not very restrained, that they are rather violent and terrific. I like to think you do not mind.
I love you.
Chris
12 July 1944
Dear Bessie,
I heard on the news that the flying bombs left London alone last night. I hope you made the most of it, and got a good night’s rest for once in a while. Do you go in the shelter at night and what kind of a shelter have you got? What happens in the daytime, do you just carry on working? There are so many people to whom this war has brought disaster and distress. One of the chaps in my Section has just learned that one of his brothers has been killed in France. He has another brother there also.
There is something like the cry of a child for its mother in the way my inside cries for you, and then again there is not, there is the just as strong instinct of mating, for in our roundabout fashion, that is what we have come to the threshold of – mating.