Dear Pamela,
I hope that you will keep this letter after you have read it so that you can read it again because I have some very important things to say to you. You’re very young and you may not quite understand them now. But if you crumple up this letter and throw it on the fire, or make a boat out of it, that’ll be the end of it, and when you’re twelve or sixteen or eighteen you might wish you still had it so that you could go over it and understand it better.
Pamela, do you remember our blackout adventure? You were seven, I think, and we went to Waltham to buy you a pair of shoes. I was silly and disorganized that day so we didn’t get to Waltham until half-past four, and when we came out of Lack’s it was after sunset and the whole town was pitch dark. And we set off carefully over the street towards the bus stop, but when we got to the other side it wasn’t there! Do you remember? The bus stop I’d known all my life, that I thought I could find blindfolded? – Well! We shuffled up and down and round and round, stretching our arms out and peering like a couple of bats. I didn’t tell you at the time, but I didn’t have the faintest idea where we were. And then we saw the nurses – we spotted their white caps in the gloom. They were new to Waltham and they didn’t know our bus stop, but they said they’d just come out of the tea house. I realized we’d gone much further than I thought. So we crept back along the pavement until quite suddenly you said, ‘Ellen!’ and there it was. You’d bumped into the pole, quite gently thank goodness. And the bus came, and we went back to Upton.
Pamela, you and I, we’ve been on a sort of big blackout adventure. The war came, and it set you wandering off your path in life. You lost Mummy in the air raid and you were brought to Upton. Nobody knew who you were and you had no one to look after you. So I took you to my house. I didn’t know you were coming – it was all a huge surprise – and I didn’t quite know what to do with you in the beginning, I must say! But I felt my way along, do you see? And so did you, and we held hands tightly all the while. But now you have found your way again. After all this adventuring you’ve found your father and a whole family of cousins who all love you.
Of course we shall miss each other for a while. Blackout companions become very close. But life will be so much better when peace comes, Pamela, I promise you. You can’t remember what it was like before the war, I don’t suppose. But there’ll be so much to do and enjoy. Games and toys in the shops, and ice cream and bananas, and trips to the seaside. I daresay you’ll find your aunt and uncle and cousins a little strange at first. But remember how quickly you and I got used to each other. In no time at all you’ll be firm friends with them, just like you and I have been, because they love you.
Here is a kiss from me, darling. X.
Ellen
18th March 1944
Dear Mrs Parr,
I’m writing to tell you that Pamela has arrived safely in Ireland. Please be assured she recovered from her great storm of grief at leaving you and her eyes were not only dry by the time she reached London but round and inquisitive. She was the perfect train companion and greeted the nanny, a Mrs Cross, with a polite handshake and the words ‘I do hope you shan’t be’! The voyage was marred by seasickness – the Irish Sea is seldom merciful – and they had another long train journey once in Ireland but when she reached my sister’s house she was only a little travel-stained and very sleepy.
I wish once more to express my gratitude at your kindness to my daughter during this great crisis in her young life. I couldn’t have asked for better ‘foster parents’, if you’ll excuse the term, than yourself and Mr Parr. My pain at not being with her when her mother died is considerably assuaged by the knowledge that you were both offering her such comfort, especially during those dark days at the beginning of the war which tested everyone’s nerves so sorely. She’s a lovely child, rather more solemn than myself or Hester at the same age, but that is wholly to be expected. She is also far better behaved.
In short, I owe you a debt I can never repay. Please take this letter as an acknowledgement of that fact.
Yours sincerely,
Aubrey Lovell
18th March 1944
DEAR ELLEN
I shall NOT call you DEAR. You are NOT DEAR. Why are you telling me this RUBBISH about the blackout? I’m so sad I’ve TORN UP your LETTER.
I HATE YOU AND DADDY AND I HAVE KICKED HIM.
PAMELA
PS The letter is in little bits in the RABBIT’S CAGE. Because it is fit only for RABBIT BEDS.
25th March 1944
Darling girl,
Of course you’re angry. I don’t blame you at all. I can see you in my mind’s eye, glaring at me like you did when you were very small. I wish I could do something to help. Darling, don’t kick your daddy. It’s not his fault that you’re feeling sad. He’s trying to do what is best for you. Why don’t you tell me a little about your new home in Ireland? It seems that your cousins have a rabbit. That’s nice, at least, isn’t it?
Ellen X
31st March 1944
Dear Ellen
Nothing is nice.
Pamela
2nd April 1944
Dear Ellen
When I get into bed at night Aunt Hester gives me a nightdress with a string round the bottom so that I can pull it tight and sleep in a sort of bag. She gave me a little mirror that folded in half but I didn’t want it.
We aren’t in the war here. Instead we’re in the Emergency so there’s hardly any butter or sugar just like at home. But we do have meat. I don’t know why.
I miss you Ellen.
Pamela X
9th April 1944
Dearest Pamela,
I’m so glad to hear that your nightdress is keeping you warm and that you’ve got plenty of meat. You see? I knew there’d be some nice things about Ireland. Perhaps you can tell me a little bit about your cousins?
I miss you too, darling. Of course we miss each other.
But we must put our best feet forward!
Ellen XX
16th April 1944
Dear Ellen
Today I went with my girl cousins out to the sheep-fields to a place where the sheep leave tufty bits of wool on the wire fence, and we pulled it off and collected a bag of it. We’re going to stuff cushions with it. Doll’s cushions I mean.
There. That’s about my cousins.
There’s a map of England and Ireland in Uncle Jack’s study. He gets furious if we go in there but I do it all the same. Because I can see Southampton on the map and I know that if I put my fingertip on Southampton the top of my nail is about on Upton even though it isn’t written there. So at least a tiny bit of my fingernail is in Upton.
Ellen I’ve tried to like it here for WEEKS AND WEEKS. But I don’t. I don’t care about the sheep-fields or the wool or the doll’s cushions. Every day I go to the gate on the lane and I try and see you coming up on the bike, pedalling round and round with your bun coming out in the wind. And you call PAMELA PAMELA MY DARLING. And you say IT’S ALL BEEN A MISTAKE AND I’M COMING TO TAKE YOU HOME. But you never ever come!!
Pamela XXX XXXX XXXXX
1st May 1944
Dear Ellen
Why don’t you write BACK TO ME? Have you FORGOTTEN all about me???
Pamela XXX
4th May 1944
Ellen I don’t think you LOVE ME ANY MORE. If you DID you would WRITE to me telling me you will come and get me and take me HOME. I don’t want to be here and I don’t care if these people are my uncle and aunt and cousins. I don’t know them and I don’t WANT to know them. I don’t even know Daddy. I thought I liked him but then he turned out to be FOUL and CRUEL because he took me away from you.
I thought you LOVED ME.
Pamela XX
11th May 1944
Pamela
I love you above all things. But I can’t come and get you. Firstly, nobody is allowed to come to Ireland because of the war. Secondly, even if I could come, it would be wrong. You may not care about your family yet, but you need to be with them now. My sweetheart, hold on. Their house doesn’t feel like home for you now, but I promise you it will. This is your new life, my love.
Ellen XXX
19th May 1944