“My dearest one" Benedict Cumberbatch reads Chris Barker’s letter to Bessie Moore

29th of January 1945. My dearest one, I've just heard the news that all the army men who have held POW are to return to their homes. Because of the shipping situation we may not commence to go before the end of February but can probably count on being in England sometime in March. Maybe sooner. It has made me very warm inside. It is terrific. Wonderful. I don't know what to say and I cannot think. The delay is nothing. The decision is everything. I must spend the first days at home. I must consider giving a party somewhere. Above all I must be with you. I must warm you, surround you, love you and be kind to you. I would prefer not to get married but want you to agree on the point. In battle I was afraid. For you. For my mother. For myself. Wait we must. My love and my darling. Let us meet. Let us be. Let us know but do not let us now make any mistakes. How good for us to see each other before I am completely bald. Have some fine little wisps of hair on the top of my head. It's not much good me trying to write about recent experiences now that I know I should be able to tell you everything myself within such a short time. What I have my eye on now is the first letter from you saying that you know I am all right and the next saying you know I am coming to you. Plan a week somewhere not Boscombe or Bournemouth and think of being together. The glory of you. I hope that you will not start buying any clothes if you have any coupons left because you think you must look nice for me. Just carry on as near as possible to normal. I shall tell my family I hope to spend a week away with you somewhere during my leave. My counsel to you is to tell as few people as possible to avoid preening yourself and saying much. That is my advice not anything but that. I hope you understand. I do not ever want it to be anything but our affair. Do not permit any intrusion. I don't know how long leave I shall get. I could get as little as 14 days and I may get as much as a month. I'm wondering how I shall tell you I'm in England. Probably it's still quicker to send a telegram than a letter and I hope to send you one announcing that I am on the same island. I will send another one. I'm soon to get on the London bound train and you can ring Lee Green 0509 when you think I have arrived there. It's a strange thing because I cannot seem to get going and write very freely. All I'm thinking about is I am going home. I am going to see her. It's a fact. A real thing. An impending event like Shrove Tuesday Christmas Day or the Lord Mayor's banquet. You have to be abroad. You have to be hermetically sealed off from your intimates from your home to realise what a gift this going home is. The few letters of yours that I had on me I burned the day previous to our surrender. So no one but myself has read your words. It's a pity that the winter weather will not be kind to us out of doors but it will be nice sitting next to you in the pictures no matter what may be on the screen. It will be grand to know we have each other's support and sympathy. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be together. Really together in the flesh. Not just to know that a letter is all we can send. I love you. Chris.