TBCP

I spotted it in a junk shop in Bridport, a roll-top desk. The man said it was early nineteenth century, and oak. I had wanted one, but they were far too expensive. This one was in a bad condition, the roll-top in several pieces, one leg clumsily mended, scorch marks all down one side. It was going [blank_start]for[blank_end] very little money. I thought I could restore it. It would be a risk, a challenge, but I had to have it. I paid the man and brought it back to my workroom at the back of the garage. I began work on it on Christmas Eve. I removed the roll-top completely and pulled [blank_start]out[blank_end] the drawers. The veneer had lifted almost everywhere — it looked like water damage to me. Both fire and water had clearly taken their [blank_start]toll[blank_end] on this desk. The last drawer was stuck fast. I tried all I could to ease it [blank_start]out[blank_end] gently. In the end I used brute force. I struck it sharply with the side of my fist and the drawer flew open to reveal a shallow space underneath, a secret drawer. There was something in there. I reached in and took out a small black tin box. Sello-taped to the top of it was a piece of lined notepaper, and written on it in shaky handwriting: “Jim’s last letter, received January 25, 1915. To be buried with me when the time comes.” I knew as I did it that it was wrong [blank_start]of[blank_end] me to open the box, but curiosity got the better of my scruples. It usually does. Dearest Connie, I write to you in a much happier frame of mind because something wonderful has just happened that I must tell you about at once. We were all standing [blank_start]to[blank_end] in our trenches yesterday morning, Christmas morning. It was crisp and quiet all about, as beautiful a morning as I’ve ever seen, as cold and [blank_start]frosty[blank_end] as a Christmas morning should be. I should like to [blank_start]be[blank_end] able to tell you that we began it. But the truth, I’m ashamed to say, is that Fritz began it. First someone saw a white flag waving from the trenches opposite. Then they were calling [blank_start]out[blank_end] to us from across no man’s land, “Happy Christmas, Tommy! Happy Christmas!” When we had got [blank_start]over[blank_end] the surprise, some of us shouted back, “Same to you, Fritz! Same to you!” I thought that would be that. We all did. But then suddenly one of them was up there in his grey greatcoat and waving a white flag. “Don’t shoot, lads!” someone shouted. And no one did. Then there was another Fritz up on the parapet, and another. “Keep your heads down,” I told the men, “it’s a trick.” But it wasn’t.