Sam found her mum in the living room, with the biscuit barrel open and a hot cup of tea waiting on the little table beside the settee. Sam walked over to her mother and handed her the letter. “What do you make of this?” she asked and took a seat by the cup of tea.
Mrs Litton’s brow furrowed in concern. She put down her cup of tea, reached for her glasses and started to read.
Dear Sam,
I know you will have been expecting a letter from Dean. Please do not concern yourself, he is quite well, but he has been moved with a small team of men to a rather remote checkpoint and therefore will unfortunately be unable to send or receive post for the duration of his time here. I know this must be hard for you and I wondered if you would care to write to me instead. I can keep you informed about how things are for us out here and maybe you would feel more connected in that way.
I will, of course, understand if you would rather not, but on my part, I would be honoured if you would write to me. It is always good to hear from home and how things are going back there. And to hear the song of a nightingale would be a cool relief in the blistering heat of an Afghan day.
Yours faithfully,
Andy Garrington
Mrs Litton looked down at the address on the back of the envelope. “Sergeant?” she said. She lay the letter down in her lap and looked at Sam. She took a deep breath and said nothing.
“I know,” Sam said. She had no idea what to think, or even how to feel. On the one hand she felt abandoned, foisted off onto the next available soldier as if one was just as good as the next. On the other hand, did that mean that Dean was in far more danger? He couldn’t write to her at all? Sam racked her brain for an explanation. Keeping in touch had never been Dean’s forte, it was true, but…
It occurred to her then that she may have just been dumped. Was this how soldiers did it? Passed you on to the next guy? How was she meant to feel about that? She liked Dean: he was charming and handsome and he made her laugh- but he was very unpredictable and definitely not reliable. But she did like him, a lot. If she’d known some of the other wives and girlfriends at the barracks, or The Patch, as they called it, she might be able to get some answers, but Dean never took her there, not once. Army life was still a foreign language to her. At least she could be pretty sure whatever he was doing, he wasn’t cheating on her.
“Do you know this Andy Garrington?” her mum asked.
“Sort of. I met him a couple of times with Dean.”
“What sort of chap is he? Is he nice?”
“Mum!”
“Not like that. I mean kind, considerate, that sort of thing, or was he, you know, laddish?”
“No, he seemed nice, quite quiet. Do you think he’s dumping me?”
“Who, Andy?”
“No, Dean.”
“I don’t think you could say that, not without something more… direct. But it’s strange, I’ll give you that. What are you going to do?”
Sam walked over and took back the letter. She shook her head. “I don’t know. It feels wrong to write to someone else, like I’m being unfaithful or something.”
“Yes, I can see that, but maybe it doesn’t have to be like that. This chap… Andy might not have anyone else to write to. You two could be like pen pals.”
“But what would I say to him?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Talk to him about your day, what the weather is doing, just pretend he’s another girl. It probably doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s the receiving of a letter, when somebody’s taken the time to write to you, that’s the special bit, not what they’ve actually written.”
“Mm, maybe.” Sam could see the sense in this, but it still felt very odd.
“Sleep on it. You don’t have to decide right now.”
Sam thanked her mum and went back upstairs, grabbing a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the biscuit barrel on the way. She still had plenty to do before school the next day.
That night Sam lay in bed thinking about the letter. If Dean had been sent to a remote outpost, why hadn’t he sent word before he left, or called? She tossed and turned on this matter for an hour or more and in the early hours of the morning found herself at her desk. It was cold in the night. The heating had long since gone off and Sam wrapped her fluffy dressing gown around her and hugged her knees up to her chest. She had a pile of forces’ blueys in her desk drawer just waiting for an excuse to be used. She picked one out and began to write.
Dear Andy,
I am not sure how to respond to your request, but thank you for thinking of me and taking the time to write. It seems strange to be writing to someone I barely know. I don’t even know what to say. What could I tell you that you might be interested in? I’m afraid that us writing would never really work, but keep safe and thank you again.
Sam.
The next day she posted it and then worried that she had done the wrong thing. She had assumed it was all over but just under a week later Sam received a second envelope.
Dear Sam,
Thank you so much for writing back. I know you feel uneasy about this and I can understand that. I am glad, though, that you did. We know little about each other, it is true, but are we not all strangers when first we meet? As for what to say? Say anything. Just to hear a kind voice and to know that somebody is thinking about you matters so much out here. Tell me about your day. Tell me about things you like doing and things you don’t. Tell me about yourself and soon we will no longer be strangers. Shall I go first?
My name is Andy Garrington. I am 28 and a sergeant in B Company, 9 Rifles. I am not married and have no kids. I was born in Surrey, where my parents still live. I studied English at Bristol University, before joining the lower ranks of the army at 22, much to my father’s disappointment – he would have had me in officer training – but there we had to disagree.
Likes? – Fish and chips/ rock-climbing/ marmite/ kayaking/ loyalty and the colour red.
Dislikes? – Horoscopes/ dishonesty/ Facebook/ moaners/ gherkins and Sellotape.
So there you have it. Now you know everything there is to know about me. I doubt you have any bizarre idiosyncrasies that could compete with mine. You’re probably far more together and self-assured.
Yours,
Andy
Sam felt a quiver of excitement ripple through her, like a schoolgirl with a new boyfriend, a new boyfriend she couldn’t tell anyone about. She reminded herself that he was not actually her boyfriend, merely a pen pal that she was writing to while she waited to hear where she stood with Dean. She pulled out a fresh bluey from her drawer and poised over it for a minute, deciding what to say, and then she put pen to paper.
Dear Andy,
Thank you for your letter. It certainly made me smile. So you think I have no little foibles of my own, do you? Well, you’re in for a surprise. After this you may well decide to go and join Dean at his remote check post just to escape. I hope you’re sitting comfortably, because this may take some time!
You know my name – Samantha Litton – but the secret I have been burdened with all my life is a hideous middle name (Gayle!!!) Tell a soul and I will have you shot! This must never be referred to again. It’s an old family name and I hate it. I am 24 years old, 25 next week and as you probably know, a teacher. I teach six to seven year