23rd April

April 23rd 1961


Alan dear,

I’m in a hell of a mess, I really am.  I’m sorry I can’t write the usual chatty letter.  I don’t think my mind could concentrate on it.  I suppose you have begun to guess what is coming next.

Michael has asked me to stop writing to you.  His exact words were, that he liked me, he wanted to take me out but he felt as if he was just filling in time and didn’t want to play second fiddle to anyone.  Well, Alan dear.  That is my problem.  What is my answer?

I’d like to keep going out with him.  He is very good company and I’ve really enjoyed myself since I met him.

I thought everything would work out so well if I kept everything open and above board and told Michael about you and you about Michael but, well, it isn’t such an easy game to play.

It is so hard to put anything down on paper.  I want to tell you just how I feel about things but I can’t find the right words.  Whatever I say to you about Michael will make me out a liar when you start thinking about what I said to you before you went out to that blasted island.

I truly don’t know what to do.  It seems a definite choice between staying in night after night writing letters or going out dancing and enjoying myself.  That I should just tell him I have stopped writing has even crossed my mind but I couldn’t do that.  It isn’t fair to anyone. Him, you or me.

I still don’t think I am explaining myself very well.  Why the hell couldn’t I have met you when you came out of the RAF.  It would have saved so much trouble.

I have said I have loved you Alan dear and believe me, I don’t lie over a thing like that, I really meant it then.  But the whole cause of the problem is, does it still stand?  As you know, I had my doubts before I ever met Michael and I’m glad now that I told you of my feelings when I did.  It may seem as though I am contradicting myself but I think I’d like to be married to you Alan.   But not before I’ve enjoyed myself enough to settle down and seven months is a long time to wait until then.

I don’t think I can understand anything of this myself, not even my own train of thoughts.  Why people can’t just be friends without wanting sole rights, I don’t know.

Boy, could I do with some sound advice now.  The few girls I’ve mentioned it to have become quite indignant for my sake and reckon Michael’s got a damned cheek to mention it at all.  But then, they don’t know the whole story. They think we are just writing on a pen-friend basis.

I haven’t told my parents what Michael said but dad almost ignores him when he comes in and we have been having a series of ‘little talks’ recently which usually end up with, ‘I don’t care which one you go out with but stop stringing both of them along.’  Mum is all for you.  In fact she told my aunt Saturday that ‘he must be the one, you could see it in their eyes.’  Was it that obvious?

I don’t know what I’ve written and I’m not going to read it back through fear of changing my mind and not posting it.  The whole thing has got to be settled and having explained the position and my feelings as best I can, I’m leaving it to you Alan, I’m afraid.

We’ve noticed before that we can understand each other’s thoughts.  I hope you can understand my feelings as well.  This is the nearest to a genuine Aunt Mary column you’ll ever get.



Letters from Maureen Week 17: 23rd April - 2nd May 1961

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