He thanked Grace for the contents of one of them and promised that the other would, as she had commanded, be kept for opening on Christmas Day. Suddenly, in the middle of a page, his tone – and even his handwriting – changed. Words sprawled over the paper to express a frenzy of emotion. ‘But shall I still be alive on Christmas Day to receive your gifts?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘I have to answer that yes, of course I shall, because often and often I’ve noticed in recent months that death comes to those who half expect it, that it’s the fierceness of a man’s determination to survive which ensures survival. Yet how is it possible to maintain such determination when one is permanently tired and tense, battered by noise and rain and constantly under fire? ‘There’s only one answer, dearest Grace – at least, only one as far as I’m concerned. I must have something – a way of life, a special person – on whom I can centre my hopes and dreams of the future. I need to know that there’s someone who is praying for me and whose happiness is bound up in thoughts of my return one day, just as my own hopes of happiness rest on a life shared with her.
