A couple of days later the welcome blue post dropped onto the mat again after Sam had arrived home from a stressful day at school. Parents’ evening was coming up and there was a lot of paperwork to see to before she was ready. She had spent half the afternoon trying to get the classroom in order, but what with Jimmy’s gluing calamity and Rochelle, the new girl in class, in a state over wetting herself on her first day in school it was a bit of an uphill struggle. It was almost five o’clock before she got home. As soon as she took off her bike helmet she saw it there. It was lying on the dresser, just inside the kitchen door. Sam smiled. She hurried inside and grabbed the letter, calling out a greeting to her mum as she swept in and out again and off up to her room. She ignored the whimpering of Humphrey at the bottom of the stairs, wanting to be carried up, and raced up the stairs to open the letter. It was long.
Dear Sam,
Happy Birthday!
I hope you have a wonderful day. It was so good to hear from you. Life here is pretty basic. I seem to spend half my time out and about getting covered in mud and dirt and the other half trying to wash it off again. Why is there never a Hotpoint around when you need one? I tell you, you wouldn’t want to sing in our showers – you wouldn’t reach the end of the first chorus and the water would have run out. Although I have no objection to you trying if you should feel so inclined.
What do we do out here? Well much of our task these days is diplomacy. We still have to patrol contentious areas like schools and clinics and keep roads clear for safe access, but more and more there is a limit on what we can actually do and more emphasis on assisting the local forces. Which I guess is how it will have to be if we are ever going to get out of here, but it’s a little frustrating for the men. There has been far less contact with the Taliban than the last time I was out here, which has its pros and cons. At least in a face-to-face fight you know who your enemy is.
Try not to worry; we don’t have it too bad out here. We have a laugh when we can. Anyway, enough seriousness. Back to those peculiar foibles of yours!!! I’m shocked. I thought you were a normal girl!?!
I promise never ever to mention the middle name (although I fail to see why it’s so bad?) and in compensation for this spectacular show of faith I will also admit to one thing the guys must never, EVER find out about me: I am a big fan of bird watching. There, I’ve said it, I’m a twitcher, but if you speak a word of this to anyone else, I will have to shoot you!
So, bagpipes, huh? We’ll get back to that one later.
Sam turned over the page.
Okay… the Sellotape… I was badly traumatised as a child by a mother who wrapped every exciting present I ever had with rolls and rolls of Sellotape, leaving not a single edge to help me in my quest to get to the prize beneath. I’m still having counselling about that one. As for middle names? No. Not one that can be mentioned.
Write soon, with photos.
Andy
Sam picked up the photos that had dropped out of the letter. She looked at them. The first one was of Andy with the lads standing in T-shirts and combats, posing in front of a mud wall and the other was of Andy by himself. Sam gazed at the photo. Yes, that’s what he looked like. He was gorgeous. Why hadn’t she noticed before? He was lean, his arms were well muscled, his hair was dark, almost black and his eyes were…she couldn’t tell what colour, and he had a kind smile. She gently stroked the picture and bit her bottom lip. He reminded her a little of someone, but she couldn’t think who.
Sam placed the photo at the back of her desk, facing her and looked at the other. She flipped it over. ‘The lads,’ it said. Underneath, in small writing, Andy had written the names of all the soldiers in the picture. ‘Spike, Miller, Harding, Lofty, Zippo, Baker, Evans and Me. And the one in the background unaware he was being photographed is Lt Durbin’. Sam looked closely and noticed the tiny figure at the back that looked like he was picking his nose. She laughed and placed the second picture alongside the first.
She wrote straight back.
Dear Andy,
I was so sad to hear about your tragic childhood. I hope the therapy is doing some good. Sorry to disappoint on the ‘normal’ front, but at least we will always have Marmite! As for our feathered friends? Your secret is safe with me.
I am enclosing photos of two of my best friends. Kate is the blonde one. She is also 24. She’s bubbly and always popular with the boys. Chloe is the one with dark hair. She’s 21 and the more reserved of the two, although the photos may suggest otherwise. The point is they are currently without boyfriends and were wondering if there were any nice single guys out there who would like to write to them. Oh yes, and Kate requested someone with big muscles. I’m sorry, you can’t take her anywhere. Do you think you could help?
Surely any middle name you could come up with couldn’t be worse than mine? I’m intrigued. What are we talking about here? Bartholomew? Alfred? Lesley?
Thank you for your photos. They are up on my desk, looking at me as I write.
What are the children like out there? Are they very different from over here?
What do you miss when you are away?
Write soon,
Love, Sam
Sam looked at the ending: Love Sam. Should she have put that? Was that too much? He might just see it as friendly. She drummed her fingers on the desk. Her stomach tightened and she folded up the letter and walked it down to the post box already anxious about the reply.
Andy was out on patrol. They had been given the task of maintaining a presence at the local bazaar. He walked along the street, alert and vigilant. The enemy, he knew, could be anywhere and anyone. The sun shone down without mercy. Despite this, he felt like this was a good day. The local people seemed relaxed and happy. Children smiled and waved as traders went about their business. Days were not always like this. Some days Andy had been out patrolling the same ground and muted faces had stared back, afraid. Children looked on in silence and people hid away. These were the days when anything could happen. In Afghanistan, people who looked scared always had good reason.
A small group of boys kicking something that looked like a dried up old fruit started to walk along beside him. Andy smiled at them. The patrol stopped and Andy shook their hands, still very much aware of what was going on around him. He got the order to move off again and signalled to his team. One of the boys kicked the makeshift ball out into his path by mistake, and Andy deftly back-heeled it to them as he passed, winking as he did. It was the little things like this that made his day.
Back safe in the compound when the patrol was over and everyone was at ease, Andy was handed his mail. His face struggled hard not to give away his delight, as he removed himself to a shady corner and carefully opened his letter.
He read, too quickly. He should not be so rushed. He read again, word by beautiful word. She had written some more about herself and Andy needed to know. He needed to know everything about her. He remembered little from before. They hadn’t spent much time talking about the past, only the present, their holiday and what they were going to do in the future. He looked at the photos. You stupid girl, he thought fondly to himself. I didn’t want pictures of your mates, I wanted them of you.
He rummaged around in his things for the means to reply.