Jan. 30th, 1945

Dartmouth, Nova Scotia

Dear Hélène,

I hope this is not a cowardly thing to do, writing to you instead of trying to phone. Mrs T. assures me that you neither want to see nor hear from me ever again. However, the real reason for this letter is that you may, if only for curiosity’s sake, read it, whereas the last thing you probably want right now is to hear my voice.

When your car drove away and left me on the curb, I was shocked, at least temporarily, into sobriety. It is the one clear moment I had that evening. I know that I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before, and I’ve never felt more hurt in my life. It was the first time that a friend threw me out of their car. And then out of their home! It was like a kick in the face. I distinctly remember leaning against the wall of the drugstore across the street in complete horror. I imagine I resembled a frightened rat, which, I suppose, I was. I know I took the bottle of rye I had for the dance, and after one drink, threw it away.

What happened after that – in fact, what happened from the time that I was in the hotel long before – is and was very hazy, with only vague recollections here and there. The next day it all seemed a nightmare, but as the day went by, I became, as usual, furious. Until I talked with Christine last night and the boys, Rimmer, Knobby and Shag, who were at the hotel, I had decided that I had been horribly mistreated and had written you off.

When Christine, who, as usual, knew all about it, enlightened me as to what an absolute boor I had been, I realised for the first time the horrible humiliation and hurt I had wished upon you.

I still cannot believe that I did these things, but if you told Christine I did, then I must have. I want you to know that they were done in drunkenness and not meanness or anger. It is beyond all my comprehension how I could be so stupidly drunk as to offer you ten dollars in recompense for a disastrous evening. It doesn’t sound like me, and I have no recollection of doing it, but I knew that I must do something, and I believe it was in my mind that you would be home alone and that I must be near you. All I remember, and this part may be wrong, was Mrs A. coming to the door and saying that I had better go home.

I do not remember anything else about the evening. The boys told me that I arrived back at the hotel in a horrible state of mind and body, with the apparent idea of drinking myself into oblivion, which I did.

They say I had been quite all right when I arrived at the hotel earlier, and I know I was. They had phoned and asked me to bring a case of beer over, which I did. I remember having two drinks of rye, but apparently, I had quite a few more, straight and quick. I hadn’t had a thing to eat all day, only some beer, and the rye really hit me. Shag says that I was fine one moment and out on my head the next. I certainly must have been.

I can offer no excuse, and I know none would be acceptable. I also know that I should withdraw swiftly and quietly from your life.

However, I cannot. I refuse to believe that in the space of a few hours, I have killed all feelings that you could have ever had for me. I’m wrong, I know, in hoping to see you again and enjoy your company, but I do, and very much. I seldom have very much regret for the things I do, but I know that I have never had anything hit me harder than this has. I also know that I have never pleaded to any girl before, but as I write this, I know that is exactly what I’m doing.

If drinking has got me into such a state that I so deeply hurt one I like so much, then it is time that I straighten myself out. If this debacle accomplished nothing else, it has done that. If you could bring yourself to forgive me, Hélène, I promise you that you will never regret it. I shall phone you when I get out. Until then, I remain

hopefully yours

Wilf