My Dear Bessie

by Chris Barker

  I had better stop in London for the first week. I have suggested to Deb and Jessie that they, Iris, and a very few others be my guests one evening in a convivial atmosphere. I shall have to be pleasant to people like Miss Greggains and Miss Rowe and many acquaintances. I wish the war was over and that I was coming home to you for good. Won’t it be wonderful being together, meeting, getting on the train, eating together, sitting together, being together?

  I am wondering how I shall tell you I am in England. Probably it is still quicker to send a telegram than a letter, and I hope to send you one announcing that I am on the same island. I will send another when I am actually soon to get on the London bound train, and you can ring LEE GREEN 0509 when you think I have arrived there. Tell me how I get to Woolacombe Road, or to your Park Lane house (the number would be sufficient, I shall remember where it is) and I will meet you there, or some other place you may say, as soon as I can. You must bear in mind that I shall be with my brother until we get home. Also, that, having been away from home for so long, my parents will want to see (and have a good case for seeing) a lot of me. I hope that everything will work itself out without any unhappiness to anyone. I shall be in great demand from two or three points and it will be difficult to manage without offence.

  My brother and I had hoped to visit the scene of our capture at Kifissia, not so much to see our late billet as to see whether some personal stuff we secreted in the building earlier when surrender looked likely, was still there. Unfortunately, we hadn’t the time and must say goodbye to the chance, although we have left some instructions with some other signals chaps we know.

  It is a strange thing, but I cannot seem to get going and write very freely. All I am thinking about is ‘I am going home. I am going to see her.’ And I expect you are feeling the same. I may be home in as little as a fortnight. I may be longer – but I cannot be much longer. It is no longer speculation, or hope, possibility. It is a fact, a real thing, an impending event, like Shrove Tuesday, Xmas Day, or the Lord Mayor’s Banquet. You have to be abroad, you have to be hermetically sealed off from your intimates, from your home, to realise what a gift this going-home is. The Army doesn’t worry much about chaps when they have to stop overseas for so long. It is a military machine, not able to spend overmuch time on personal matters.

  The few letters of yours that I had on me, I burnt the day previous to our surrender, so no one but myself has read your words. In the first ten days of our captivity I did not think any soft thoughts about you, all I did was concentrate on trying to tell you I was alright. But when we had a few supplies dropped by aircraft (at great risk to themselves in the misty, snow-bound Greek mountain villages) and we started hoping we might get sent home upon our release, I was always wondering about you, about us. We are on the threshold now, not guessing at a distant date. I am sorry about Abbey Wood, but so glad about you now. I want to touch your body, to know you. It is a pity that the winter weather will not be kind to us out of doors. But it will be nice sitting next to you in the pictures, no matter what may be on the screen. It will be grand to know that we have each other’s support and sympathy. It will be wonderful to go away where no one knows us and be by ourselves.

  I wish I was coming home for good, I wish I was coming home to a peaceful England, with the war over. But, at least, I am coming home, am coming home to you, to your lips, to your breasts, to hold you tight, and make you happy.

  As I expect this letter will arrive home before I do, I am enclosing two photographs, taken at Volos before we had paid 2s. 8d. to a Greek barber for haircut and shave. You will probably recognise me through the hair, although it was a bit of fun deceiving chaps who did not know you without it.

  I, in my turn, was very pleased to get your photo and agree that it was lucky the girl on the right of the snap was obliterated and not you. You might have felt the reverse, but you look young and happy and as though you are smiling for me. Which is a nice thought for me to have. I want to bring your handkerchief back to you. To be away from everyone, everything, to not have to worry about the world, the war, but just to have my face in your bosom, to do what I have said.

  The socks are well knitted. But I am not wearing them yet (if you don’t mind) because I want to save them a while. How you knitted away, for me, for me, for me.

  I can say no more, no less, than that I love you.

  Chris

  Chris (left) and Bert after their release at Volos in January 1945

  1 February 1945

  My Darling,

  This is so wonderful, oh! Gosh! Christopher, I have just received your telegram – how can I tell you how beautiful the world is, contact again with you, contact with life. Oh darling of my heart, I did not realise what a benumbed state I had been reduced to. It took about a quarter of an hour to sink in. I did not whoop or prance but my knees went weak, my tummy turned over, since when I have been grinning happily to myself with a beautiful inward pleasure. FREE, FIT and WELL, such wonderful words, the relief from these last weeks of possible sickness, you Blessed darling. I just haven’t any words, no words Christopher, just all bubbles and tremblings.

  I had been cheering up because as there was no news I felt you just must be a prisoner. But you know how your mind keeps worrying away in circles at all sorts of awful possibilities, well that’s what mine had been doing, and now golly – how I love you! You Dear Delicious Christopher. Ouch. I want to hug you to bits, eat you, come to my arms you bundle of charms. Hurry up mail, I want to hear your voice again, hear you, loving me, wanting me as always. I have not been able to look at your photos or read your letters, much too painful, but I have now, I have now.

  You have been with me in all these bad days. I used to talk to you, inside myself, and I always made you answer that you were alright, and I used to hope that it was the right answer. Am I a silly dope? But I have a few more white hairs. You are there, you are alive. You are in this world with me, we are together, we, we, we, US. Deep breath here! I suspect Deb will hear from your folks and will be phoning me, and I shall have to register surprise, ain’t it gorgeous!

  Darling, I suppose there isn’t any chance of you coming home. I thought there might be a possibility, for Churchill said something about the prisoners coming home – don’t know whether that could mean all of you, or just the sick and wounded. Coo – just supposing. I am getting ambitious, it’s such a lovely idea to play around with. Meanwhile I can manage for a bit, with the knowledge of your safety. Dearie me, things are looking up, though this business of Germany fighting to the last ditch sounds rather appalling. Some silly blighter, an MP too, was asking for indiscriminate bombing of Germany. I should have thought what was happening now was grim enough to satisfy even the most bloodthirsty.

  I feel in that excited state that anything can happen any moment, something is in the air, with all this news from everywhere. I really should say that it’s me that is in the air, bounce, bounce, bounce. I am going to the pictures with Iris tomorrow – golly, I shall have to treat her. It’s so wonderful, you are wonderful, the world is wonderful, everything is wonderful. Please come home, home, home. Please do, darling. Such dreams of our being – Oh My Love.

  I Love You.

  Bessie

  3 February 1945

  Dearest,

  ‘How do I feel?’ – such a large question, sweetheart, oh! Such a large question! So difficult for me to tell you. When I received your telegram, I sat down and wrote immediately but nothing would really come, I was like a sleepwalker suddenly awakened, didn’t know where I was, felt all soft and pappy, tremulous and bubbly inside. And today with your letter, oh Christopher, all this warmth melting inside me, that I somehow want to wrap around you, to make up for all your sufferings of the past weeks, it seems a lifetime. I knew you wouldn’t be warm enough, or have enough to eat, but I didn’t think it would be quite so bad. Oh Chris, I wish I could have a damn good howl, but I can’t, I am all het up and tense, wondering whether you might come home. I try not to think of
it, try not to bank on it, try to be rational, to stop dreaming that it could come true. Each night before I sleep, I fervently say to myself, come home Chris, come home, somehow trying to pull you home. During the early period I literally died, but as time went on and there was no news I gained hope.

  I will write those letters tonight, about coming home, surely it means everybody not just the RAF. It must, must mean everybody, they must not treat you so, such a terrible injustice. Surely they won’t overlook you. I feel like going to 10 Downing Street.

  Rockets – well my sweet pet, I honestly haven’t given them a thought for many weeks. The last bad period I remember was last November when Wilfred was on leave. I can’t recall what has been the position since then. They have been falling, but I am very hazy about the quantity. I woke up to rockets when Iris came back from leave about a week ago. She had been to her sister’s in Sheffield and came back feeling a bit scared at having to face up to them again. Her agitation made me realise what a coma I’d been in – even rockets had left me cold. I suppose our imaginations can only cope with big fears, one at a time. I suppose I shall become rocket conscious again.

  My health is OK now, I had a very bad flu cold about 2 or 3 weeks ago, and had a week off, for which I blame you by the way, talk about depression!!! Poor Iris thought I was going into a decline. Iris and Lil have been watching me like a couple of anxious mothers with their first born.

  I must try and get off a letter to Wilfred sometime, and tell him the news, for he has been very interested in your stay in Greece from the beginning, wanting to hear the soldier’s viewpoint. It seems odd talking about you and Greece calmly, can’t get used to the idea. I liked how you wrote of the ELAS; the bulk of the press are still banging away, trying to bring pressure to bear on the government. Of course, I will bear with you, I understand that you have much to do.

  I Love You.

  Bessie

  5 February 1945

  Dearest,

  I am not sure how we can manage our first meeting. We must talk and talk when first we meet. I have been trying hard to think of a restaurant which would allow us to talk and look at each other in some privacy. You must think for me, as I have been unsuccessful. I want to do so many things at once, but I can see that first I must talk. I am not sleeping at all well now, for the thought of you is upon me, and I cannot lose it.

  Did I tell you that your four photos were amongst those lost at Kifissia? If you have the negatives perhaps we could have another print done. The photo I have of you is a real delight to me, although I wish I had more opportunity to get it out and glance at you. And I keep on thinking and feeling right inside me, ‘Soon, I shall not be just glancing at her photograph.’ Soon I shall be really looking at you, really meeting you, really knowing you.

  Here, the mimosa, carnation and narcissus bloom. But you are in England, and I am coming to you, to claim you and to call you lovely.

  I love you.

  Chris

  6 February 1945

  Darling, Darling, Darling,

  This is what I have been waiting for, your freedom left me dumb and choked up, but now, oh now, I feel released. Oh Christopher, my dear, dear man, it is so, so wonderful. You are coming home. Golly, I shall have to be careful, all this excitement is almost too much for my body. You must be careful too, Darling, all this on top of what you have been through, it is difficult to keep it down, you can’t help the excited twinges in your midriff can you? Do keep well, Angel – I shall have to say that to myself as well. You are coming home, I shall see you, talk to you, be with you, touch you, hold your arm, hold you against my heart, my body. I must pinch myself, is it true? Yes, your LC says so, and I now have such a funny photo of you, with a beard, but you look a little grim, as if you need loving, as if you need tenderness.

  Marriage my sweet, yes I agree, what you wish, I wish. I want you to be happy in this darling, want to make you happy. I make a plea to whatever gods there be to make me greater than myself, so that I can make you as happy as humanly possible, to help you over the bad days, and swing along with you in the good days. Whilst you are afraid, you will not be happy. We must get rid of those fears. I want you to come to me, quite unafraid. We will wait. Anyway it is rather nice to go a-courting, don’t you think? Also confidentially, I too am a little scared – everything in letters appears larger than life size. Like the photograph, it didn’t show the white hairs beneath the black, the decaying teeth, the darkening skin. I think of my nasty characteristics, my ordinariness. Yes, I too feel a little afraid. About what happens on arrival, of course you’ll have to spend the first part at home, I suspect I can get my leave when needed; we only have to sign for the actual summer period, otherwise they are very accommodating.

  Oh dear, dear, dearie me, plan a week somewhere, bonk, up comes my heart, a week somewhere, by the sea, WITH YOU. Where shall we go? Of course I’d choose north Devon – sea, country and air, but March raises the question of weather. Might we go to a largish town? I prefer villages normally, but with you I guess I’ll do what you want. Also I feel that you’ll need looking after, don’t think you should walk around in the rain, not for awhile anyway. Guess I don’t care where, as long as it’s the sea, and you, you, you. Inward clangings and bouncings and I wonder how soon.

  Glad you managed to give them the coffee and cocoa, our Greek friends I mean, to show them that we wish them well, and hope very strongly that they will get the government they want, though perhaps they live too close to poverty to think of governments. Still you’ll soon tell me all about it.

  What luck, being able to see and talk to the TUC delegation, just up your street, it was a wonderful idea. The socks, I hope they fitted. Not having a pattern for my working material, I had to juggle and felt a bit worried about the fitting. Yes, I do feel like you do at the moment, my darling, which is jolly good, in fact not bad, not bad at all!!!! You are coming home, and I am awake.

  I Love You.

  Bessie

  7 February 1945

  My Dearly Beloved,

  How do you feel now, Ducky? I am gradually coming up for air, feel like turning cartwheels and standing on my head. So you are afraid, I wonder what about. I have a few apprehensions floating around, such as the actuality instead of letters. You know I say to myself, ‘Bessie my girl, you’re not so hot’, but I think you may have a similar feeling. I say, how is your digestion? Mine’s awful. I shall be reduced to taking Rennies or something, a wind remover. My tea at this moment is stuck somewhere in the middle of my chest. But despite apprehensions, it’s not depressing me at all – I’ve got dancing feet, my apprehensions are literally giving me the giggles. Christopher is coming home, coming home, tra, la la la.

  ‘Do not let us make any mistakes’ now underlined. You dear old silly, do you really think you can guard against that? Or ensure the future? ‘Plan our time’ – I ask an anxious ‘How?’, because it all depends on you. I shall be with you, what’s done with the time I don’t care, as long as I get sufficient opportunities to cuddle you, and be alone with you. To feel what I have imagined. To know you.

  A week somewhere together is a good beginning, a week somewhere together. Oh isn’t it awful, so near and yet so far. Wilfred comes home on leave on Tuesday, that will help me through a week of it. I hope you don’t have too long a wait in Italy, and please don’t be ill. You have had such a bad time, and all this excitement, please be careful. Your experiences were a bit of a shock, I hadn’t realised that there was any fighting, or that your captivity was quite so bad. The press for a change hadn’t overdone the situation, it had given the impression of an exchange lasting for a few minutes and then surrender, and a prisoner who had been rescued before the end of the hostilities was quoted as saying that he had been well treated.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, and I can’t think.’ Yes, it does get you like that, it’s just too much to say. The plea for me to write tons and tons and tons hit me hard. You weren’t to know that you had flattened me out. We had
both had a bad time, it takes time to recover, seems like a bad dream now doesn’t it? The brightness on the horizon is beginning to glow vibrantly, thoughts of the future make me palpitate with expectancy. If I could only squash you to me, just squash you to me – umph. I adore you with my very bones, my hairs, my everything. Love me, go on loving me.

  I wish we could have a weather forecast. Rain is something that can’t be ignored, even by lovers, it’s so wet and uncomfortable. Anyway we shall see. I can’t help wishing that you won’t get these letters, that you’ll be on your way, that the time to wait is that short, because my impatience is getting pretty bad. Being able to write like we have has been a wonderful thing, but it has always remained only the beginning, the contact for our future and a beginning must change to something else.

  What do you think of the war news? Don’t like getting too optimistic, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to come home to stay? Oh you must, must, must.

  I bet Ridgeway Drive is a very joyful place, two sons coming home, crikey. I bet your mother felt slightly flattened out at first, but she’ll be bouncing now.

  I Love You.

  Bessie

  Interlude: Chris and Bessie meet at last. Their time together was a success, although the very fact of meeting would subtly change the nature of their correspondence in the future. Chris spent about three weeks in England, and the couple shared five days alone – in Bournemouth. We do not have precise details of how they occupied their time, but must piece together snippets of information from the letters that followed.

  The Barker parents and sons reunited at home in February 1945: Herbert, Chris, Amy and Bert