Letters From an Unknown Woman Read Online Free PDF

tears, the simple, contradictory honesty of her little girl’s letter, so painstakingly rendered in clumsy pencil. But this evening she felt Albertina’s sentiments acutely as her own. She couldn’t think of anything to write. The bombing of the butcher’s shop was not something that she thought they would like to hear about, although perhaps it would do them good, occasionally, to be reminded of why they’d been evacuated in the first place. She played over to herself the words that were actually struggling for expression: ‘ Mrs Head and I had the most gorgeous roast dinner this evening. The only problem was that we couldn’t be sure the meat was not human, perhaps even a portion of Mr Dando’s leg, which made it rather difficult to enjoy …’
    She emerged from the sitting room an hour later, defeated and nauseous, and sat in the armchair opposite her mother at the fireplace. Her mother was, unusually, reading the paper that Tory had brought home that evening. Mrs Head did very little reading, even of newspapers. She was a woman who liked to be always doing things, and she didn’t regard reading as an activity. Somewhat reluctantly, Tory picked up her knitting. She was in the middle of making a stripy bobble hat for Albertina, but it wasn’t going well. Tory was not a natural knitter, unlike her mother, and she’d several times already had to unravel the thing and start again. Knitting within visual range of her mother was always a risk since it invited commentary.
    But this evening Mrs Head seemed unusually quiet. The pair of them sat there in a silence interrupted only by the curious noises their respective digestive systems gave, alimentary howls and cat-calls, as that evening’s meal was, apparently with some difficulty, processed. It was as though two forest animals were calling to each other in the dark, little yelps and shrieks from Mrs Head’s intestines answered by gorilla-yodels and perversely masculine grumbles from Tory’s petite insides. Suddenly a new voice was added, as Mrs Head spoke.
    ‘There we are,’ she said, turning the pages of the newspaper to face her daughter. ‘What did I tell you?’ She pointed to a news item that described the safe return home of several prisoners of war after a daring escape from a German camp. ‘I expect Donald is at this very moment digging some sort of tunnel, like those fellows did.’
    ‘Donald is dead, Mother. I would be wearing mourning if it was available on rationing.’
    ‘Quite right that it isn’t,’ said Mrs Head, who hadn’t worn black when her Arthur had died, even though it had happened long before clothing coupons came in. ‘It’s extravagant, illogical and unchristian. Why should you want to draw attention to yourself and demand sympathy? But that ignores the main fact that your husband, as we’re all sure, apart from you for some unknown reason, is not dead.’
    Tory didn’t speak, but struggled with a stitch instead.
    ‘Why do you insist on believing this nonsense, Tory? I think it’s criminal. You’ve even convinced the children when there isn’t a shred of evidence—’
    ‘It’s been six months, Mother,’ her daughter snapped, ‘six months since he was declared missing in action …’
    ‘But it can take a long time before news comes through. That’s what the letter said. It can take months …’ But even she had to concede, privately, that the chances of Donald being alive were small. The losses in North Africa had been heavy, and the Germans had shown little mercy. She wished it was otherwise, since she dreaded the thought of her daughter becoming a widow – it was a role she cherished for herself alone. At the same time she couldn’t help secretly (or so she hoped) nursing feelings of blazing selfrighteousness and supreme vindication when her son-in-law was declared missing in action after only three months in the Army. She wondered why on earth anyone, let alone those who should have known better, would think