The horrors endured by the armed forces during the second world war are well documented. But less is known about the suffering of the women and children they left behind. As the 80th anniversary of D-day approaches, a recently discovered box of letters gives fresh insight into what it was like for those at home, waiting for news.
The Manchester Guardian journalist Gerard Fay was called up to fight in the summer of 1940. He joined the army as an ordinary soldier and trained all over the UK while his wife, a former teacher called Alice or “Loll” (short for Lollipop), remained in the north of England. There began a fascinating correspondence between the couple, recording Gerard’s commission in the South Wales Borderers (SWB), which led to his service on D-day on 6 June 1944, and Alice’s life on the home front raising two children. Stephen (the five-year-old in the letters) grew up to become a journalist and author – and father of Matthew, my husband.
The letters begin in spring 1944, when Gerard returns from leave to prepare to fight in Europe. Alice lives in a ramshackle rented cottage near Oldham, with Stephen, five, and Elizabeth, two. She writes of her endeavours to feed and clothe her family during rationing, her pride in her husband and, as his letters cease around D-day, of her fears and loneliness.
Christchurch,
Hants
Dear Loll,
Here’s my new address. I got here late yesterday after a record journey of 31 hours!
This is a satellite town of Bournemouth. I live in a civilian billet – no bath to myself, in fact no bath at all and what is more unusual no light except candles. But nice people, rather self-conscious about their house not being like the ones down the road.
If there is any time today I might walk around Bournemouth. I’m still going to be very busy though possibly not quite as bad as at Inveraray where we worked till 7 or 8 each night and had no time off at weekends.
It’s a pity this place is in the prohibited area or you might have been able to come for a few days – perhaps we shall move again to a place you can come to.
Everybody seems to have chosen just this moment to get married and I’m left at my wits’ end trying to calm down furious bridegrooms who have had the banns called and can’t get leave. One has reached considerable lyricism in explaining to the divisional commander that his fiancee is pregnant and had better be married soon.
Love Ger
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Tuesday
Dear Ger,
A civilian billet should be a nice change for you. Are you sleeping in sheets? And do you still want me to make you a sleeping bag?
Inveraray must have been quite like my life if you worked till 7 or 8 and no time off at weekends. I have appointed Elizabeth my housemaid at 2d a week. She tidies – mostly after Stephen – his shoes into the corner and pyjamas upstairs. Stephen, not to be outdone, threatens to be what he calls houseman.
We saw rocket guns firing and, outside the Cunard office, Steve spent about 5 mins studying a peace-time ship. He now reads things outside like “Railway Hotel”, “Exit”. He reads in bed in the mornings. He does his duty first! This week he’s “practising” being clean. And I am practising being unconcerned in any event.
Lots of love Alice
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Wednesday
Dear Ger,
I do wish you were here to help me with Steve. He keeps telling lies and dirtying his pants though he knows I’ll be vexed. Then he’s sorry and volunteers to promise he won’t do it again. The latest wile is putting on a most angelic expression and saying soulfully “yes mummy” or “no mummy”. It cuts no ice with me.
Elizabeth and I went to Royton today and I got some fish. We were home late, so I’ve cooked it for breakfast tomorrow.
Lots of love Alice
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Army Post Office,
England
Dear Loll,
New address again. I imagine it will be the permanent address from now on.
We had one egg in Scotland and so far we’ve had one here.
Yes I knew I had moths in my swimsuit. They were in a most inconvenient place too – when I swam in Redcar I had to wear it back to front.
I am tired of my job and thinking of resigning from the army only I don’t know what I would do to pass the time. Perhaps you could help with suggestions?
Love Ger
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As D-day approaches, Gerard writes:
You mustn’t worry about having to wait a long time for letters. It means either that I am too busy to write or that the letter is delayed. Sooner or later it will be due to the fact that I’ve gone away and you’ll know that by getting a printed card from me telling you, that “I am well/I am not well/ I have been admitted to hospital/ I have been slightly/seriously wounded/I am dead – cross out whichever not applicable”.
My own impression is that if all goes well, I might be home on leave about October. Sooner or later you’ll have to tell Stephen that.
Once we get going across the water you’ll be surprised at how quickly we finish it. For once we’re going to attack with all the odds on our side and with better equipment than the Germans. So you can tell Steve that Daddy will be back when he has finished urgent business in Germany.
The only spare time occupation I can find which doesn’t involve having any spare time is growing a moustache. I’ll shave it off before you see me again – unless it is very successful.
Lots of love,
Ger
The next six letters are all from Alice.
Tuesday 6 June 44
Last night I was half awake all night and at 8 o’clock I knew I was right that something was on. They didn’t say about the landings at 8, just the bombing and airborne. Then at about 9.30 the BBC orchestra was interrupted for the alert to Europe and then there was news of how the invasion boys had lived for the last few days, and now they’re playing [Sir Arthur] Bliss – Things to Come.
The BBC are enterprising: they have reporters in landing craft, paratrooper planes, in the camps and they’re giving broadcasts on the spot.
In a way I’d like to be out in the world talking to people on D-day. I’m glad to hear everything the radio hands out. I’m thankful I have the set. I got it just in time.
I certainly hope your weather is better than ours. I’m with you all the way my darling.
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Thursday 8 June 44
I had four letters from you this am including two with money in. I felt very rich. I could buy a war-price hat if I wanted.
I loved the news this evening that said the people of Bayeux embraced the soldiers and garlanded them with roses and carnations and brought out wine. I do hope you were in on it. Steve liked the bit about the French boys wearing British badges in their caps.
It’s touching how people are coming to see me this week, determined to give me no time to brood. Olive [Alice’s best friend] and Teddy [her son] came, followed by Ma. Olive brought a lovely scarlet frock for Elizabeth with white horseshoes on, and Ma brought slippers for Steve. Elizabeth screamed to have his parcel. She is a madam.
When there’s anything we can’t do – eg opening tins, Elizabeth says: “Daddy will do it when he comes.”
Au revoir my pet. I’m not really lonely, though I wish you were here.
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Friday 9 June 44
I keep thinking of you Ger wondering where you are and how you are. But I’m resigned to not hearing for some time and determined to accept no news as good news. I’ve realised for the first time, the real significance of that phrase.
I think of the war on the larger scale as well as involving you. In fact it is most absorbing and exciting as you are doing well. Having decided that you had to fight against fascism, you are doing it in a big way, and that gives me cause to be proud.
It is good for me to think of when you are back again. I know how marvellous it will be for me, how delighted the children will be and how good for them it will be having a father at home. And it’s quite true too, that I have a very happy and successful marriage to remember, whatever happens. Though I am often very frightened for you, I have faith in your return.
As far as I’m concerned you can be drunk for a week when it’s over. I shall probably join you.
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Sunday 11 June 44
I’m still wondering where you are. There’s a film called Eve of Battle which is an account of the rehearsal for invasion. I hope it will be on at the Tatler this week. I shall give Elizabeth sweets in case she’s bored.
Olive brought a most unflattering Express picture of a man on a beach which she said was like you. She came last night and drank your health in the nice sherry and ate steak pie and chipped potatoes for supper.
Today I cracked a teapot so I shall have to buy another. Utility probably.
The radio says the post is now working both ways so I’m hoping to hear from you soon.
You are doing remarkably well and I hear Monty [Gen Montgomery] was congratulating you today. There was a map of N. France and a bit of Germany in today’s Observer.
I’m thinking of you all the time sweet.
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Monday 19 June 44
It was just as wonderful as I expected when your first letter came. So I was right in my original hunch that you had gone on D-day. I asked Steve what he thought about you being in France and he says he thinks you must be a very brave fighter, but when you come home he is going to challenge you to find out for himself. Also (usual boy’s question) he wants to know how many Germans you have killed.
I will get some duty-free cigarettes sent to you now I have your official address.
Lydia [the cat] has been away for three days but reappeared this morning. Just as well, for there was a mouse in one of Elizabeth’s drawers.
Elizabeth wants to know if you went to France on a bus.
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Sunday 2 July 44
I wonder what you are doing tonight. I would love to have a glimpse of you. You know what I’m doing – sitting by the fire, sewing box by the chair and mended socks on the arm. Soon I shall be in bed drinking Ovaltine.
I still have my hair “up” in a better style but I intend to get it cut and permed. It will be about three months before she can do it. So I’d better hurry and make the appointment or it won’t be done before October.
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In fact, Alice is to see Gerard sooner than she thinks. On 8 July during fighting in Normandy, Gerard is shot in the leg; the bullet hits his sciatic nerve and almost kills him. When the postman arrives on Alice’s doorstep with the telegram, her initial horror is tempered by the fact that the postman has read the message and quickly reassures her that her husband is alive.
Back in England, Gerard spends several months in hospital in Wakefield. After Alice’s first visit, she writes:
When Steve was in bed he started his prayers. The prayer for you usually runs: “God bless Daddy and bring him safe home” but tonight he said “God bless Daddy – pause – and make him better.” Momma had a lump in her throat.
It was so lovely to see you Ger. It’s like a first instalment of a renewal of life for me, because at the back of my mind was always the thought that I might have to go on without you, and I wouldn’t call that life.
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Gerard is discharged from the army in the autumn of 1944. He returns to his job at the Guardian where he rises to become London editor in 1955. He also writes three nonfiction books. In Passenger to London, published in 1961 by Hutchinson, he describes his D-day.
“So the time went on, and suddenly it came to be June 1944 … somebody said to me from the darkness in the shattered greenhouse of a mansion near Eaux-sur-Avre: ‘If you live to be a hundred you’ll never forget you went through this day.’ The prospects of living to be a hundred or even of living to be thirty-one next birthday seemed hardly worth thinking of on the night of June 6th, three miles outside Bayeux.”
Dear Loll: A Wartime Marriage in Letters – 1940 by Rosanna Greenstreet and Matthew Fay, the first in a series of Gerard and Alice’s collected letters, has just been self-published in paperback and as an ebook
