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July 9, 1942
Dear Avis,
Writing you from Boston so you’ll have my new address. It’s a good thing we’ll be at sea for days at a time—this place isn’t so much a home as a few pieces of mismatched furniture under a leaky roof. The downside to that is, it’ll be hard for me to write regularly (no steady hours like the bank), but I’ll do my best.
We’ll start our training tomorrow. Some British fellows, retired from their civilian coastal patrol, got roped intothe job. Teaching us how to use the radio, what to report or look for, that sort of thing.
I’ve got to jot down a bit about the crew they’ve assigned me to. We met yesterday, and I’m telling you, a radio melodrama couldn’t assemble such a group of quirky characters. One, Lester, must be about seventy and claims he got sailing know-how from evading the feds while supplying speakeasies up and down the coast in the ’20s. Stephen is the son of a millionaire home from college for the summer, with plenty of yachting experience. Then there are others whose names I can’t remember yet—fellow with a limp from a football injury, a college man twenty pounds heavier than what the army will allow, a born sailor with a bolt in his wrist from an operation when he was a kid. Even Lt. Rufus Bud Smith, the leader of the whole patrol and the editor ofYachting Magazine, was turned down by the navy for his poor eyesight.
Some might think we’re a ragtag lot, but as soon as I fell in with them, I knew I was in the right place. They’re itching to do something as badly as I am.
They showed us the boat we’ll be crewing too. It used to be a ninety-seven-foot schooner called theGypsy Queen. Nice name, isn’t it? Well, wave farewell to it, because now we’reCGR-3028, our glossy wooden hull painted dull gray. Our cargo? A few Great War machine guns, depth charges, a listening device, and eight men ready to sink those wolf packs.
We’ll be shipping off with the paint only barely dry after our training. I can’t wait.
One more thing: the night we went dancing, I think we both said some things we regretted, and I’m sorry for that. Please don’t be mad for keeps, Avis.
Let me know how all goes in Derby, but remember thatI won’t get any mail until my onshore days. Fire Muster’s coming up, if I recall. If you go, eat an ice cream cone or two for me, without worrying about nonsense like spoiling your figure. On celebratory days, none of that counts, and that’s science.
Yours, ready for action,
Russell
Notes from the Blackout Book Club—July 11, 1942
Taken by Avis Montgomery, Head Librarian and Book Club Secretary
Members in attendance: the Regulars, plus Earl and Madeline Bell, Arley Lokken, Carol Ann Hoper, Danny Maloney, Diana Follett, and Mrs. Whitson (whom I simply can’t call Muriel like she asked me to)
Book under discussion:Pygmalionby George Bernard Shaw
Back to taking notes myself this week, as it gives me something to do, and I don’t feel much like sharing, since I only read a few pages into the second act. Thankfully, there are so many members now that others can carry the conversation. Hopefully, no one notices that I’m quieter than normal.
Ginny jumped right in by calling Henry Higgins a “blustering, self-important pig” and seemed about to add something stronger before Miss Cavendish interrupted with a meaningful look at Rosa. Mr. Bell argued that Higgins was just lacking in social graces. Freddy said he tended to agree, at which point Ginny turned on him, reading examples of the worst of Higgins’s dialogue at top volume. He quickly backed down. Others chimed in on all sides, some deploring the professor’s treatment of poor Eliza, others blaming his insecurity or reading kindness in between the lines.
Delphie wanted to know if it was actually possible for someone to change their way of speaking so entirely (“not that I would ever want to,” she added, heavy on the French accent). It was widely agreed that no one actually knew muchabout linguistics, but it sounded realistic, and anyway it made for a good story.
Discussion moved to Mr. Doolittle’s description of being one of the “undeserving poor” and his views on charity, which Miss Cavendish found appalling. The book club tends to skirt around discussions of finances or politics—but Mrs. Bell admitted that her family had once been so hard up that their only toys had been boats made out of flattened tin cans, so she found Eliza’s character especially compelling. I grew up in this town, and I never would have guessed. It’s amazing, what you don’t know about people you’ve known all your life.
There was much controversy about the play’s ending, which of course, I didn’t get to. I still can’t tell exactly what happened, but I know what didn’t: Higgins and Eliza don’t fall in love or marry. Ginny stoutly maintained that was perfect and redeemed the whole play, see aforementioned comment about Higgins being a pig. Mr. Maloney said he never understood why books and movies always show couples who argue constantly and ought to hate each other, then suddenly realize they’re madly in love. (“It wasn’t that way at all with my Lottie and me,” he added, getting a sentimental look in his eyes which I thought was quite sweet.)
Several of the other women, preferring more traditional happy endings, felt disappointed since they’d thought all along the play was a romance. Mr. Bell decreed that you could, if you used your imagination, decide the pair got together after the curtain fell, to which Martina said, with uncharacteristic firmness, that Eliza had too much self-respect for that. Everyone seemed so surprised that she actually contradicted someone that the debate died there.
Ending aside, most members enjoyed the play and its sense of humor. The Bells were quite pleased to have suggested it.
Mrs. Whitson suggested a book set in coastal Maine,TheCountry of the Pointed Firs, that she’d read in college and found “full of local color.” That sounded fine to me, so it was settled.
Too tired to write more notes in detail today. Didn’t sleep well last night—the bed feels so empty without Russell. Only three months. It will get easier, won’t it?
twenty-one
GINNY
JULY 11
If you dunked them in tea and got them all sopped up and soggy, Avis’s scones weren’t so bad, Ginny decided, taking another bite. That and if you bit around the burnt parts.
Eating another was her solemn duty on account of there was a whole heap left after folks realized Avis’s baking had failed them for the first time. Wouldn’t do to make the poor woman feel bad.
