CAny OU Read THis?
It’s only been two months though, Elsa. I’m sure you’re perfectly well-faring as it stands, even without your beloved paperboy. You’ll be soon finding better companions anyway—how old are you now, ninety-three? Will we spend the rest of our old age in singularity? I’ve seen bushels upon handfuls of quite stunning Belgian women, but none of them are quite as gorgeous as Enric. Unfortunate, or I would have won our race and been married first.
But i digress—I should think that neither of us mind spinster status all that badly. I’m sure you can find some manner of way to occupy yourself in town—try the creek, the flowers there are lovely. But please do be careful not to drown.
I’m flattered, that you think of me enough to leave out pastries.
And a little sad, that I won’t be able to eat them. I am so hungry! But thank you, Miss Reinhardt.
Take care of yourself, Elsa. Catching a cold won’t do for the springtime. Have you been drinking enough liquid? (Water, not alcohol. I know you visit Lorra’s storage room when you don’t have anything to do. Please find a better hobby). I admit though, I have to admit, I knew they’d censor the letters, I just didn’t know that was so important.
I’m going to be stationed in:
France France France France France France France France France France France France France France.
I wonder if the man censoring my letters will blot that out too. Do you think they blot out naughty words? I’ll try that next time. I can write novels like yours.
But in other mentions, there is no worse punishment than bad food. Last night, my lunch consisted of:
**
SANDWICH. IT WAS ICKY. WATER. THERE WAS NO TEA!
I wonder if my country is worth stale scones.
By-the-by, Elsa, I think my penmanship is fantastic, although admittedly, I’ve never written more than the brief financial statement and essays on “My favorite food”. I think I shall start writing more messily from now on, just because it annoys you!
In other news, i don’t think that I’ll be remaining with Alden for much longer. he seems to be showing more affinity as the seafaring type, so I’ll assume that he’ll be a part of the navy instead.
**
STUPIDFACE HAS A VERY THICK NECK. I HAVE NEVER SEEN HIM SMILE.
This, by the way, is my new commanding officer. I don’t like him very much, because he calls me lazy and makes me wake up at five in the morning. I call him Stupidface, since I’m always too sleepy and hungry to remember his name. His hair reminds me a little bit of sheep wool. He also bleats like one, and I so I don’t like sheep very much anymore either. I think he’s alright when he’s asleep, though.
I think you’re quite correct about the address changing. I’m not sure when your next letter will reach me, but I’m looking forward to reading it. Please take care of your health!
Love,
Noel.
Postscript: Maybe.
April 14th, 1916
Darling Dearest Cheryl,
Your letter arrived yesterday morning, at the peak of dawn— about time, too, for a while, I was quite sure you had forgotten about us! Lorra kept telling me that you had gone off with a thousand beautiful Belgian women with ruby lips and cornflower eyes, or something ridiculous of that ilk. Do not fret, nonetheless, I reminded her that you only go after women over thirty.
My birthday today was a quiet affair, the afternoon of which was mostly spent composing this letter, if truth be told. Town is awfully dull with all of you off to the front. I must say, it felt very odd, to say the least, as I have not gone through a single birthday in roughly fifteen years without one paperboy’s shining lethargic face at my door! It felt almost subdued, not particularly helped along by the fact that I absent-mindedly put out scones on the table this morning, completely forgetting that no criminals would be tumbling off the window seat to eat them. I am fairly sure that I fed half of them to Tolstoy, but I was rather in a daze of some kind. Possibly ill.
Something was blotted out in your letter, and I did not waste much thought on it, until Father warned us about the censorship of letters. Do try not to say anything about your location or other military information that would go against Britain in the hands of the enemy. I would call you an idiot, but that is bad form in affectionate correspondence, so I shan’t waste precious ink on it, you idiot. While you are at it, kindly take care not to break the hearts of any Frenchwomen, Lorra says that they are fickle. I suppose nobody would know better than she would.
Your analytical skills are unrivalled; Alden speaks nothing of adventures or women in his letters. I would put money on creative conjectures, except that money is getting rather short! Terrible food is but a small price to pay for your country, but even so, I will go see the post office about sending packages overseas (how long does it take for scones to go stale…?)
By the by, Cheryl, your penmanship is appalling. I daresay you are in a hurry, but at least attempt to make your writing comprehendible, I have not the time to decipher your scrawl.
I await your next letter, where the address will possibly change, so that I may write you again. I do hope they forward letters, should you all move on by the time this has sent.
Best wishes,
Elsa Reinhardt
P.S.: I just realized that I am now thirty-one (not eighty-five, thank you). Does this perhaps mean that I fall into your preferred demographic of women now?
It’s almost your birthday! How old will you be, eighty-seven?
To a Dear Miss Reinhardt,
I know you’ve told me to write, but it’s uncanny that once I’ve put pen to paper, the words stop coming. It’s very hard to think of you! But if it does make you feel any better, I do think of you, sometimes, when I’m not hungry. How are you?
Sometimes I think of you and I feel less hungry, because the dresses you wear don’t look all that delicious. Except for that purple one you’re so fond of, it makes me think of a grape. I wish I could have a raisin scone right now.
They haven’t told us quite yet where we’re being stationed. As you said, I saw Alden today (and my, did he pretend he didn’t know me—he seemed quite occupied with telling of his adventures and several women to the other soldiers, both of which I assumed were creative conjectures), and he’s seemed quite well.
Actually, I’ve just asked the man next to me where he thinks we’re going, and he says he’s heard rumors of northern France—fancy that, perhaps I’ll see Enric’s fourteenth cousin twice removed (I’m sure he has one, his family situation is strange). He also told me that he wishes he’d been married—apparently, married men are scot-free of such rubbish as conscription—although you’d disagree with the word “rubbish”, I’m sure! Perhaps I should’ve gotten married or worked on a farm instead. Army food is horrible.
I’ve never had someone to write a letter to, other than Emmie, who usually burns them after she’s read them (“Th’ bloody hell, Noel, we live righ’ next t’ each other!”). Here, I will draw you what I had for dinner today instead, I think that’ll be far more interesting:
***
A PLATE OF DOG DUNG AND SOME WATER, THERE WAS NO TEA!
Love,
Noel.
