Tuesday, 12 April 2016

12th April 1936 - Terrick to Mary

Thanks for your letter, which arrived safely.


LE 12th April 1936

I'll see what can be done about this (!) week-end

My Own Mary,

The first day and a half was such a whirl of busy-ness and settling the clients into the programme that I didn't notice much that you weren't there, but now the thought butts in upon me in my busiest times:  Oh if Mary were here how she would laugh - or: what a good story she would make of that.

When my one disagreeable client is doing her disagreeableness, and I am groping mentally for the diplomatic answers, the idea of your taking her off makes me see how funny she really is.  And when my diplomacy comes off I think: I wish she had seen that.

The journey down went off very well.  It was hard work because there was only one dining-car, but there were only two meals and a few services of tea to serve, and a splendid lot of assistants to help me.

But the stay in Nice itself is not nearly such fun.  I think being away from you is responsible for that in more ways than are immediately obvious.  Last year Paul and I just had a frivolous time.  This year my idea of a good time is so completely connected with you that I don't expect or try to enjoy myself much, except in so far as I enjoy ripping for it's own sake.

I am sitting writing this in the Casino at Monte Carlo.  We are running the trip twice this year instead of once so that this has cut out an evening of writing to you.  But now that I have explained the games to a fair number of people I have left them and have "found out a way".

Today it has rained cats and dogs since early morning, and is still at it (10.45p.m.)  It has messed up one of the fĂȘtes but only an unimportant one.  Tomorrow is the Battle of Flowers so it mustn't rain - besides my clients at the Hotel Everest are complaining of the cold today and the proprietress refuses point blank to put on the central heating.

I am sleeping in a bathroom that only has a window looking out onto a pitch dark passage, so that when I wake up in the morning everything is pitch black and I haven't the foggiest idea until I look at my watch, whether it is day, night or next week.

I have been to the shop where I got your bangle last time but they haven't got anything like it.  It was fashionable at the time.

Dean & Dawson's conductor on the train is normally Raymond Whitcomb's man, and he gave me some useful inside information.  Apparently the Asst. Manager has just given notice because he doesn't get on with Pontin, the Manager.  They are just moving to large offices in Berkeley Square, and business is looking up.  I should probably be wanted for the Foreign Independent Tours Dept. (just what Pontin told me) and my salary - at a guess - would be £5 or £6 to start with.


I must stop writing now because in five minutes we start for home.

The roof of my motor coach has become so saturated with rain all day that it leaks - much to the displeasure of some of the clients.  Fortunately all my Cavallero people are very nice.

Next morning

A free morning before the Battle of Flowers.  The sun is shining gloriously and the party are brightening up again.

This morning I woke up and realised that all I wanted was to get back to London and you as quickly as possible.  I had looked forward to coming here because I enjoyed last Easter, but I omitted from my calculations how much water had flowed under our bridge since then.  I didn't mind being away from you for a week then, but now I mind it as much as I minded being here away from you for eight months in 1933.  I am sitting in the Brice writing this and for a moment three years seem to have rolled back and I am telling you you love me while you are answering that you don't - and saying it in such a way that I am only more certain that you do.

But now it is in many more ways that I miss you.  The little details of the ordinary day demand your presence to be properly enjoyed.  I don't - as I suppose I did in 1933 - wish for you to go out dancing or sight-seeing with, I want you just to sit, stand and walk next to me, my darling friend.

At the Brice there are some people who were with me in 1933.  One of the first things they said to me was to ask whether I was married yet to the girl I wrote letters and postcards to in '33.

I must stop now and do some work.  I wanted to get this letter off to you before but even our evenings have been busy.  I take more part in the organising work than I did last year.

All my eyes and all my heart are for you alone.

Terrick  xxx

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