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spookycookie · 7 months

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Letters From Home - Chapter One

Pairing: Tom Bennet x f!reader

WC: ~2600 words

TWs/Warnings: Strong language, adult themes

Summary: The first letter from Tom Bennet arrives, and you desperately try to compose a reply.

masterlist │ preview │ chapter one

The days pass just like they did before the war, and you spend most of them like most women do these days: you wake up, you knit on the bus, you work, you knit on the bus home, you have supper, you knit, and you go to bed. Sunday mornings are for knitting in church, and Tuesday evenings are for knitting at the library, but little else changes.

It’s on one of those Tuesday evenings that you find the letter. When you’ve unlocked the door and stepped inside, you find the usual pile of letters by the door and lean down to pick them up. There’s one from your mother, two bills, and… one you don’t recognize. The written words are messy and you hurry inside, throwing your handbag and the rest of the post on the table.

Surely, there is only one reason a stranger and your mother would write at the same time. You don’t bother looking for your letter opener, only rip one side of the envelope open and tug out the paper within. You can hardly breathe, when you flip the sheer paper over and read it.

Good day, ma’am

I hope this letter finds you well. You did say I could write, so here I am. My name’s Tom, and if the date on your letter is correct, I’m twenty three this month. Been fighting since ´39 and your package was the first I ever received. Got a letter from my sister once, but she only told me to bugger off already. That was in training.

Your tense shoulders drop somewhat. If it’s not about your brother being killed or hurt… At first, you’re certain the letter must’ve been sent wrong, but when you have another look, the envelope says both your name and your address. Then, when you continue to read, it finally clicks.

The pullover fits perfectly and the socks have come to good use. Both pairs. Haven’t used the hat much yet, but it muffles the sound of my bunkmates snoring. Think you’ve earned your George Cross.

Swear the lollies you sent are from the same store my mother frequented when I was a child. Been hard to keep them to myself, though. Men are greedy bastards, aren’t they?

I can’t tell you much about what we do or where we are. Captain’s orders. I can, however, ask you how you are. We get news from home ever so often, and we heard about the recent bombings. I hope you’re alright. I’d miss your knitting if you’re not.

I swear I’m not only writing to thank you for the socks, I also write because I fully expect another pair.

Cheers,

Tom

P.S. I’m joking about the socks. I do want to thank you, but I don’t actually expect another pair. Had to add this bit, my superior thought I was being too harsh on you.

You stare at the page. The handwriting is messy and there’s holes where the pen has pierced it, but it’s here and that’s somehow enough. A warm feeling settles inside your chest, and for a moment you think of nothing but this Tom that is half a world away, fighting a war, and has still found time to write to you.

You find that you have a million questions. You want to ask if the socks fit, and if the George Cross really is what you think it is, and if he likes the perfume, and if he likes the candy. You want to ask him if his rations involve any decent chocolate or cigarettes, because all the good ones are impossible to get a hold of here, at home.

Even though there’s a million things you should be doing, you leave the rest of the post and your handbag on the kitchen table to look for some nice paper. For a moment, you consider using a sheer, pink one you found in a bookstore before the war, but think better of it. Surely, the thin paper will only be damaged and perhaps even unreadable. You settle for the same thick, white paper you used last time. Armed with paper and your favorite pen, you sit down to write.

The morning comes too quickly. Your body aches after a hard day’s work and no sleep, yet the paper in front of you lies empty. You have tried all night, and you’ve even balled up two letters and thrown them on the floor. In the back of your head, you hear your mother lecture you for it, but you justify it by telling yourself they’re toys for the stray cat that you feed.

Everything needs to be rationed. Stop trying to make it work. Just write.

It’s easier said than done. You have no idea what to tell the bloke or how to cheer him up. According to his letter, you’re both fairly close in age, which means it should be easier, but it’s not. All you can think of is the way your father’s face changes when there’s a loud sound or on especially cold and dark evenings.

Some part of you doesn't want to write back. If you do, there’s just another person for you to worry about. You had been certain there would be no response, and now that it’s here, you wish you had never asked for one. Tom Bennett is a person to care for, one that you cannot fit into your already busy schedule.

At the same time, you don’t have the heart not to. You would hate to leave him waiting, wanting, needing a distraction from home that'll never come. If only you had realized how much of a responsibility it would feel like when you sent that first letter…

Before you can continue, you hear the distant alarm clock from your bedroom. You rise on legs that throb with a dull pain and decide to leave the letter for tonight. It’ll occupy your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what, and you have to get ready for work.

Once you’re dressed and ready to leave, you have one last look at the empty paper and suddenly remember the letter from your mother. You grab it, together with your usual knitting, and head for the bus.

Doris, one of your friends from school, waits for you at the bus station. She smiles when she sees you, waves with one hand and tugs you into an embrace the second you come close enough. A small chuckle leaves you, and you hug her back.

“You look terrible”, Doris says, and as soon as she pulls back, she sticks her thumb in her mouth, sucks for a moment, then leans in to furiously scrub at the day-old makeup on your face. Desperately, you try to duck away from her, but she’s quicker. Before she can even think to pull at your hair, the bus has stopped next to you.

Both of you hop on, pay for your tickets and sit in the far back. She looks through her handbag, mutters something about how she can never find anything, and pulls out her makeup bag. She clicks her makeup mirror open and hands it to you.

“I couldn’t sleep”, you confess. “I…”

Doris interrupts.

“Is it your brother?”

You have to bite back a laugh.

“No”, you reply. “Are you still sweet on him?”

Doris has the decency to look puzzled at the question, and immediately turns away. She doesn’t have to reply for you to know the answer, but you don’t press further. You find it rather sweet, in truth, but you don’t say that, either. You and Doris have known each other since you were both in nappies, and Doris has had a thing for your brother since the two of you were old enough to know what that meant.

By the time you’ve touched up your makeup and saved your hair from complete disaster, Doris has picked up her own knitting. Her handbag stands between the two of you and you easily slide the makeup bag and mirror back.

The ward is near empty, and for once you can work in relative peace. The radio is on, but you can’t make out any of the mumblings from the other side of the room. It’s better that way, you reckon, because you don’t have to hear the most recent news from whatever battlefield the reporters have had a misfortune to hear from today. You think it cruel, to leave the radio on when the wounded men in the beds have just barely escaped that hell with their lives, but have gotten one too many slaps on the wrist by the doctor to say anything.

Doris and two of the other nurses have taken most of the men to the courtyard. You’d like to imagine that the doctor has joined them, to keep an eye on the progress of the wounded soldiers learning to walk or talk anew, but you’re almost certain he has locked himself in the office to read or listen to his own radio. That, too, makes your blood boil, but you can’t do without a job.

Sure, there’s always the factories… but you’re almost entirely certain the men will want their jobs back when they return and have recovered, and you’ll need a job just as bad when the war is over as you do now.

By the time you have changed half the beds in the ward, one of the two soldiers that has been left inside calls for you.

“Nurse”, he calls, not unkindly, and even lets you finish the bed you’re working on. You only leave him waiting for a few minutes before you come closer.

It’s a horrid sight. The man can’t be much older than you are, but he looks older. The dark bags under his eyes, the sharp lines and cuts of his face, the worn look he always wears, his glassy eyes… You’re suddenly thankful for the thick gauze that is wrapped around both of his hands, which had been little but mangled pieces of flesh when he was first brought to the hospital.

“Albert”, you greet, with what you hope is soft confidence. “I thought Doris took you outside.”

He laughs, and you’re thankful for it. It’s a rare sound here, and it does perk you up somewhat.

“I don’t think Doris likes me much”, he says, but even this is kind. His smile is tight, but you can’t tell if it’s because of the pain he must be in or because he knows that even Doris thinks he looks scary. “I hope you don’t feel the same. Would you sit with me for a moment?”

“I could never dislike you, Albert”, you promise, and carefully sit on the edge of his bed. He scoots over as much as he can and one arm extends to the nightstand. Someone has left him paper and a pen, and you immediately reach for it.

“For my mother”, he explains, and you’re sure he’s about to explain that he can’t write, even though you already know that much. You had, after all, seen both what was left of his hands and the mess of his body when he was brought in.

So much for trying to escape the war for a week, you think, and shudder at the thought of how home isn’t even safe anymore.

“Let’s write”, you interrupt him, as kindly as possible, and settle the paper against the nightstand to be able to write. “For your mother?”

Albert nods.

“Yes. Tell her that I was hurt in London, during my leave. She will know what it means, I am sure. Granny is well, I was in a pub when it happened.”

He trails off and lets you write, and the silence is only interrupted by the awful blaring of the radio. You wonder what kind of cheap crap it must be, then feel awful for even thinking such a thing. Perhaps, just this once, it is not a fault of the doctor, but of the war.

“Despite it all, I am well. The doctor is a bit of a bellend, but the nurses are lovely, and the prosthetics have improved greatly since father lost his leg in the first war.”

You have to bite your bottom lip not to laugh, but you think Albert notices the smile on your lips regardless. His voice doesn’t sound quite as grave when he continues.

“With any luck, I’ll be back home soon. I don’t think I’ll be much help to the war effort with only two fingers, but someone has to be the Tin Man for spring break. I don’t see why that couldn’t be me.”

This time a small laugh escapes before you can even try to suppress it. Albert seems almost as pleased by that as you were with his laugh earlier.

“One of the nicer nurses is writing for me”, he says, and you quickly scribble it down. “It’s the reason it doesn’t look right. I hope you’re well, mom. I miss you, and I miss Leslie. I’ve attached two pounds, I hope it’s enough to treat her to some chocolate. Most love, your Betty.”

You sign the letter in silence. Another moment of silence follows, and you wonder if you should write something else. Perhaps you could add a small paragraph, with the medical details, and the progress he has already made. You realize how ridiculous it is when Albert grabs for the envelope and somehow manages to get a hold of it, despite the thick gauze.

He tells you the address and you write it as neatly as you can.

“Would you perhaps post it for me?” he asks, and for the first time today you hear some sort of doubt in his voice. He hesitates, and continues in a much quieter voice. “I don’t trust the receptionist not to take the money in the envelope.”

The shock must be evident on your face, because he immediately leans closer to the nightstand to open the drawer. He struggles, grimaces, then manages to open it enough for you to see the wallet within.

“I’ll pay you for it.”

You quickly shake your head.

“You don’t have to pay me”, you hurry to say, but you reach out for the wallet and take it. It feels wrong to open it, but you do and pull out the two pounds he had told his mother of, before you fold it over once and tuck it away in the envelope. Then, you close it. “I’ll do it. I have a letter of my own to post, anyway.”

Your little break from changing the sheets have reminded you of both the letter from your mother, and the letter from the Tom that had gotten your knitted garments. You leave the envelope on the nightstand for now.

“I’ll be back for it before the day is over”, you promise, and very gently squeeze one of Albert’s upper arms. “Now, I, unfortunately, have to keep working.”

Albert laughs again, when you stand and help him to settle in the middle of the bed again. Before you leave, you help him drink some water from the glass that stands by the envelope. Just as you turn around, you’re reminded of something.

“Actually, Albert”, you say, and turn back around to have a look at him. “What did you want to hear from home? When you were fighting?”

Albert’s lips tug up in a rare grin that reaches his eyes, and he pats the edge of the bed where you had just been sitting.

#to read

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