Early in 2001 my sister, Susan and I were working on the task of clearing our mother's house. Our father, Stan, had died in 1989, just a month short of his 70th birthday. Our mother, Grace, had now declined with dementia to the point where there was no alternative but for her to go into a care home. Susan and I needed to empty the house prior to it being sold. We opened the wardrobe. Most of the clothes had gone, either with Mum when she moved into the home, or to the charity shop. There, in the bottom of the wardrobe was a large old cardboard box. We pulled out the box, put it on the bed and opened it up. Inside we found hundreds of letters, in random piles, in our parents' handwriting or typed on an old manual typewriter. They were the letters our parents wrote to each other between February, 1942, when they met, and April, 1946, when our father was demobbed at the end of the Second World War. Susan took them home with her an...
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