Dear Dorrie,
MEMORY is a wonderful gift. Today I was thinking of you, remembering our first meeting. It was September 1939; trees were turning russet, leaves falling. We were back at school after the holidays; you were the new girl, I was the redhead. We shared a desk and our friendship began.
Everyone was talking about the possibility of war but for us, in Belfast, it seemed far away. Sadly though, it became a reality. At first we thought it exciting being issued with identity cards, ration books and gas masks. During the blackout, the shout of the warden — “Put out that light!” — became familiar and shelters on our streets became part of our daily lives. Ugly black barrage balloons hung from the sky where nightly the searchlights scanned.
But while these worldly events were taking place, we were caught up in our own day-to-day. In school you were a great support — do you remember the day in cookery class when the scrambled eggs fell into the sink? I watched in horror as you scooped it up in your hands, squeezed it out and spread it on the toast which you then proceeded to eat. Then there was our little escapade sneaking into town after a hockey match to sample the new iced water that was given free with chips in Woolworth’s cafe. Food rationing had swiftly lost its novelty — we craved the small of a real orange and the joy to be had in peeling it.
As time moved on, the shadow of war hung over our young lives. Through the air raids over the city, the subsequent funerals and bombsites, we learnt the hard cost of the fight. So when the American forces arrived in their smart uniform, they brought new life to the city and got a great welcome. You met GI Joe and your world turned upside down. Leaving Belfast, you became a GI bride, and then our correspondence began, with photos of the wedding and tales of your new life. Your letters were full of excitement — walking in Central Park, shopping in Macy’s and making new friends. Every St Patrick’s Day, I sent the little green box of shamrock and at Christmas, an Irish calendar, to remind you of home.
Despite the distance between us, and the different paths we’d taken, we continued to write. Our friendship endured through our marriages, the deaths of our husbands, the growth of our families from children to grandchildren to great grandchildren. Our letters spanned more than 70 years, and so came the inevitable “return to sender” marked envelope on my last Christmas card. I wish I had thanked you sooner for the gift of our friendship. For the happiness we gave each other, and the memories created, through simple pleasures as young women and later through long-distance sharing of our lives. Trawling through my mind to write to you now, I’m reminded of the fun we had and the sheer pleasure of knowing the vibrant, loving person that was you.
In the words of that wartime sweetheart, Vera Lynn, (pictured) I can but hope that “We’ll meet again some sunny day”. I wish. Your ‘Forever Friend’, Frances Frances McGivern Raheny, Dublin 5