The words are typed.Bess Harvey.
This is...I can't put it any other way, because the thrumming of my heart and the goosebumps on my arms say it loud enough...
Electrifying.
"So they throw away the first letter, then see the video of me reading it and decide to, what, anonymously donate the next one so it can also be made public on TikTok?"
Mistral shrugs. "Maybe the first letter was always meant to be discovered."
"In a rubbish bin? That doesn't make any sense to me. And why the change of heart?" I hold up the envelope and peer at my name as if it can tell me.
She leans towards me, her eyes large. "That's what adds to the mystery of the whole thing. Maybe you're actually meant to uncover it."
I mean. I kind of hope she's right.
No. I absolutely hope she's right. I want there to be something big in this. I want this to be a rabbit hole moment and I'm about to tumble down it, like Alice when she ventured through the looking glass. If someone has decided to bring the world's attention, or at the very least, several million TikTok viewers' attention to the love letters between a soldier and his sweetheart, theremust besomething big about it. Surely.
"You should video it now," says Mistral. "While the discovery's fresh."
I pull my phone out of my back pocket. "Where's Ed?"
Mistral’s eyes flick to the rear of the library and back to me again, and her smile droops towards a grimace. "Oh, out in the back-office dungeon in a strategic meeting that's hopefully very long and is definitely very boring." She ushers me to the table I sat at last time. "Let’s get this out there as quickly as possible, yes? Get the camera ready."
I get the camera ready. Propping it against a book, I hit the record icon.
"Hello my fellow true romantics. I have another letter, but something curious has happened. The first letter was discarded in a bin. This one was placed inside a book –” I hold it up to the camera. “– and inserted between pages with a chapter on finding exotic species, which may or may not mean anything. But what isreallyintriguing is that the letter is inside an envelope with my name on it.” I hold it up to the camera. “So the question is, why does someone want me to receive these letters? Are they a fan of the channel and want me to demonstrate best practice to our unromantic male friends out there? I think, maybe, I won't know for sure until I know who's sent this to me, and perhaps, to find that out, I need to work out who wrote the letters and to whom."
I know comments will help the algorithm boost the video, so I might as well put them to good use. "I may not be able to do this without your help, so post your ideas in the comments. Right, shall we see what the letter says?"
Pulling it out of the envelope, I open the thin pages carefully. The writing is slightly different, like the soldier used another pen – thinner or thicker, maybe – which altered his grip on it.
The number in the top right-hand corner is18.
"My darling B,
Both your 15 and 16 arrived Sunday night – a veritable downpour in this parched piece of earth – too late for daylight or our brief allowance of candlelight.
The moon can be dangerous. It makes a day of the night and extends the killing hours of the German bombers. But not this night. This night had a reprieve that allowed the romance of that brilliant orb to return and I read and reread your letters by the light of it, and after crawling into the blankets lay for hours rolling my emotions over and over in my heart and my head. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep.
The sporting page got quite a lot of attention the next day. All those tantalising kisses! Those of us who miss out on a letter from a wife or girlfriend beg those that do for the 'sporting page'. Let me tell you, there were quite a few lonely eyes casting longing looks on your kisses.
Oh, B – the things you say and mean and do to me.
I keep tracing the lines of your words, running my finger over the letters, each stroke of your pen. I can't help myself. I need you so much, my sweetheart, and if I can just feel you in those words, see you in my mind's eye writing them, I can imagine you're with me. I even allow myself to fancy I'm touching you, sliding my fingertip over your skin.
But enough of that. It doesn't do to dwell in that place for too long.
A few days ago we were camped in a bleak part of the desert and were struck by a dust storm. It came at us in a wall of brown fury, hundreds of feet high. Even in the tent the dust was choking and it was very dark, as if the light had been sucked out of the air. I would be very happy never to see another.
Now we are by the sea near –censored –and the air is heavy with the scent of orange blossom. It's easy to forget what we've just come from. The ocean is as blue as I've ever seen it – the colour of your extraordinary eyes. How I miss feeling the weight and heat of your gaze, of my heart stuttering when you look at me the way you do.
There's no helping it, my darling. My love for you has grown into a terrible thing of frantic yearning and longing that has made the last year seem an age. And yet that final night we had together is as fresh in my mind as if it had been yesterday. I'll cherish the utter joy of your touch until the day arrives when I come back for you.
I don't know how long we'll be apart, but I do know that I love you.
No distance, no desert, no war could ever change that."
I look at my phone. It wavers through the film of tears threatening to spill over my eyelashes. "Ahhh, this man." I place my hand over my heart. "Icould fall in love with him." A laugh, verging on a giggle bubbles up in my throat. "Lads, there is so much to aspire to. Start here. Don't be afraid of your emotions. Women, we deserve the effort of a love letter, or something just as expressive. Something crafted, something that has taken thought and time to create. Don't expect anything less. Anything less is not worth your time."
