May 29, 1919.
Conster Manor,
Leasan,
Sussex.
My dear Stella,
I hope you won’t think it awful cheek of me to write to you, but I’ve been thinking of doing so for a long time—ever since you left, in fact. I felt so very sorry that just after I’d begun to know you again you should go away. You see I’m rather odd-man-out in the family, for though Jenny and I have always been pals, she’s frightfully preoccupied with things just now, and I get back so late and start off again so early next morning that I see very little of people at home. The same fact makes it difficult for me to keep up with the people I knew at school—I can’t have them at Conster, anyway. And at the works—oh, Gee! I can’t think where they come from. Either they’re of quite a bit different class, which I can get on with, though I don’t think I could ever make a friend of it, or else they’re a type of man I’ve never struck before, the kind that’s always talking of horses and girls, and the way he talks it’s rather difficult to tell ’tother from which. So may I—now it’s coming out!—may I write to you now and then? It would make such a difference to me, and you needn’t answer—at least, not so often as I write. I’d never dare ask you this to your face, but I can write things I can’t say. So please let me—it would be such a relief, and I’d be so grateful. I don’t pretend for a minute that it’ll be entertaining for you—I’ll simply be getting things off my chest. You see, I do such a frightful lot of thinking on the way to and from Ashford and you’ve done a lot of thinking too—I’m sure of it—so perhaps you’ll understand my thoughts, though I can tell you some of ’em are precious silly. This letter is a pretty fair specimen of what you’d have to expect, so if you don’t like it, squash me at once, for I’d hate to be a nuisance to you.
I hope you’re still liking the clinic. Your father told us about it last Sunday. I expect he’s given you all the Leasan and Vinehall news. He’ll have told you about Dolly Hurst’s wedding, anyhow. It was a simply terrible affair. I had to go, because they heartlessly chose a Saturday afternoon, and I was nearly stifled with the show. The church reeked of flowers and money and Israelites. In spite of my decided views on the filthiness of lucre, I can’t help thinking it a waste that a rich Gentile should marry a rich Jew when there are plenty of poor Gentiles in the neighbourhood. However, the bridegroom looks a decent fellow, and not so violently a son of Abraham. He had three sisters who were bridesmaids, and all treats, as we say at the shop. Forgive these vulgar musings on a solemn subject, but the occasion provokes them—and anyhow write and tell me if I may write again.
Yours in hope and fear,
Gervase Alard.
June 3.