Last Christmas in Paris

by Hazel Gaynor

  Paris will have to wait until next year, if it is still standing. I’m sure all will be well and done by then. This war can’t go on much longer.

  Think of me when you slice into that goose. I’ll be imagining it and a fat helping of gravy.

  Happy Christmas, dear girl.

  Sincerely yours,

  Thomas

  Paris

  15th December, 1968

  Paris greets me like an old friend, open-armed and joyous. As our taxi navigates the winding streets, I sit in silence and watch the snow fall from a rose-tinted sky. The city never looked more beautiful.

  After the long journey, I am relieved to see the familiar outline of the apartment building on the rue Saint-Germaine, our Parisian home-away-from-home, our own little corner of France, as she called it.

  When Margaret finally concedes that I am comfortable and warm and not in any immediate danger of taking a tumble from the balcony, she heads out to discover the city for herself. I envy her the delight of seeing it all for the first time—taking a stroll along the Place de la Concorde, discovering the local delicacies, absorbing it all with the exuberance of youth—and yet I am grateful for the solitude her absence gives me; a moment alone with my memories. And what riches they offer.

  I doze for a while, dreaming of walks in the rain in the Jardin du Luxembourg, smiling as she laughs and shakes the damp from her hair. They are pleasant dreams in which I am still a vibrant young man, utterly enchanted by her, and she is still here and not so recently taken from me. It makes waking so unbearable, but wake, I must.

  Too soon, Margaret returns with a thud of the heavy front door, bringing the sharp scent of cold and the aroma of roasted chestnuts inside with her. She chatters on with tremendous excitement about the market stalls and the patisseries, the lights along the Seine, the beauty of it all.

  “Oh, Mr. Harding, how romantic it all is,” she enthuses as she shakes out her polka-dotted headscarf. “No wonder they call it the city of lights. J’adore, Paris!”

  I manage a smile. I know something of the romance of this City of Lights; how it can steal your heart as easily as a glance from the person you adore more than any other in the world.

  Snowflakes pepper the mahogany strands of Margaret’s hair, and dust the shoulders of her coat. Her cheeks glow with that rare kind of excitement one only gets in Paris at this time of year. Her arms are laden with Christmas treats and packages which she lays out on the kitchen table, recounting each of her prizes: wedges of cheese, sugared beignets and almond biscuits, rosewater soaps crafted in the luxuriant French style, and a bundle of holly berries tied with ribbon. But it’s the spiced aroma of vin chaud that sends my senses soaring, and in the flames of the fire I see the woman whose smile could buoy me on the worst of days. There she is, cradling a goblet of warm wine in her hands, her gaze fixed upon mine, her cheeks aglow with life.

  My heart thuds a painful beat. The irregular rhythm of grief.

  “Oh! I almost forgot.” Margaret pulls a letter from her handbag. “This was in the mailbox downstairs. I presume it is from Delphine. You were clever to have her send her response here. You would have missed it in London.”

  Nodding, I take the letter from her, noting Delphine’s familiar handwriting on the envelope. Dear Delphine. I will be so glad to see her again. I open the envelope carefully and unfold the perfumed square of paper inside.

  14th December, 1968

  Dear Tom,

  I am, of course, delighted to hear you are coming to Paris for Christmas, although I must admit, I am a little worried about you making the long journey. I would counsel against it, but I know you won’t change your mind once it is already made up, so I will simply say that I am looking forward to seeing you again.

  I know it will be especially difficult for you to be here this year, but it wouldn’t be the same without you. We will make the best of things and find some of that vin chaud you’re so fond of.

  I will call the apartment in a few days’ time to check you have arrived safely.

  With warmest affection,

  Delphine

  My hands tremble as I fold the page and return it to the envelope. So many distant faces and memories flicker to life, stubborn flames that will not die.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Harding?”

  I nod, and turn to my nurse. “Yes, Margaret. Except my cup appears to be empty. A little more vin chaud, perhaps?” She hesitates. I know the thoughts that cross her mind: What about his medication? Is a little more wine a good idea? “It seems a shame to waste it,” I press.

  She smiles and fills my cup, and her own, before raising hers to mine. “Salut, Monsieur Harding. Joyeux Noël.”

  “Merry Christmas, Margaret.”

  I cradle the warm mug in my hand and leave Margaret to admire her packages as I take the next bundle of letters from the writing table beside me. 1915. She was so meticulous in her organisation. The next year of the war. The next year of our story.

  Before I continue reading, I glance towards the window. Silently, I make a promise to the snow clouds that lace the sky, and wish a Merry Christmas to those I hold most dear in my heart . . .

  PART TWO

  1915

  “If I should die, think only this of me:

  That there’s some corner of a foreign field

  That is for ever England.”

  —Rupert Brooke, “The Soldier”

  From Evie to Thomas

  1st January, 1914 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dear Lieutenant Harding,

  Bonne année! I still can’t get used to your official title. Most unlike the young fool Tom Harding whom I remember shooting at sparrows on the lawn. So much is changing, Tom. I can hardly remember you and Will as rowdy young boys in short trousers, running among the flowerbeds with your peashooters. How could we have possibly known how real those boyhood games would become?

  So, here we are in 1915 and I must wish you a Happy New Year, although I cannot find much to be happy about as war creeps on, and ever closer to home. There was more bombing here—on Christmas Eve, would you believe. We read about it in the papers. Thankfully nobody was injured or killed this time. A rectory gardener was thrown from the tree he was pruning. Poor chap. War felt so distant at first, but not anymore. What if they start to drop bombs on London? Hurry up and finish them off, would you?

  Alice would tell me to be more positive—and she is right. I do hope my letters cheer you and make you smile and remind you of home, and what better time to look ahead than on the first day of a new year. A whole unblemished twelve months stretching out before us like a blank ream of writing paper waiting to be filled. I keep telling Mama to stop looking back on what was or what might have been (she still weeps at the mention of Charlie Gilbert and the marriage proposal he took with him to his soldier’s grave). I remind her constantly that all we can do—what we must do—is look forward to better times, and dancing at The Ritz.

  You are sweet to recall the dress I wore at last year’s Christmas party. I had forgotten it entirely. I wore it again this year, in your honour, although nobody offered me a puff of their cigarette, or their jacket, or told me I looked bewitching beneath the winter moonlight. Do I make you blush, Tom? Had you forgotten how your compliments flowed as easily as the wine?

  I only tease you because I have little else to do.

  In other news, we have an infestation of mice. I hear them scampering behind the skirting boards and the chimney breast. It makes me shudder to hear the scritch scratch of their dreadful little claws. Mills has put traps down and I can tell you there is nothing more unpleasant than the snap and crack they make when they are sprung. It turns my stomach. So much so that I am on the hunt for a good mouser. I’m not especially fond of cats, but anything must be preferable to that dreadful sound. I’ve put a notice in the post office window and eagerly await a reply.

  While I was at the post office, I had a rather interesting conversation with the postmistres
s. She told me that with all the men gone, they are looking for women to assist in the sorting and delivery of the post. Of course Mama won’t hear of my applying for such a position, but I believe I could do the job, and rather well. I have my bicycle after all, and what I wouldn’t give to get out of the house and away from Mama’s continual scrutiny. She says I will never find a husband if I don’t start taking more care in my appearance. With Charlie out of the picture she is on the lookout for a suitable replacement for my future husband. Be careful, Thomas. She may yet set her sights on you as a last resort!

  I hope Christmas was bearable over there. How long we anticipate it and how quickly it passes. We did our best to keep things jolly here, but of course we felt the absence of friends and family around the table and found it hard to fully embrace the festivities. It’s a curious thing, but we try not to talk about the war too much. We have developed a strange sort of code—“I wonder how they are getting on. You know. Over there.” “Any news. You know. From . . . you know.” We don’t say “war.” We don’t say “France” or “Belgium” or “the Germans.” Our words trail off, midsentence, so that I imagine a great hole in the ground where our unspoken thoughts and fears drift around, lost forever. Good riddance to them, I say.

  Honestly Tom, I feel like an unworn dress, hanging limply in the closet, without purpose or shape or form. All I am good for is writing notices for the post office window and worrying about mice. Perhaps I’ll read up on the care and treatment of toes so that I can volunteer as a nurse and join you and Will out there. Anything would be better than pacing the boards here at Poplars. The house is like a morgue. Truly. It is unbearable.

  Did I mention I have the most wonderful surprise for Will when he gets home? I commissioned a portrait of Hamlet and Shylock, and matching miniatures set into a pair of cuff links. They are so beautiful. I was hoping they would be ready for Christmas, but the artist caught a fever and has only just finished them. I’ll keep them here to surprise Will as a welcome home gift.

  Do take care, Lieutenant Harding, and don’t worry. Before you can sing ten rounds of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” you’ll be back to plain old Tom Archibald Harding, sculling that little boat of yours lazily along the Thames towards Teddington Lock or Hampton Court. The herons will stand to attention on the riverbank and salute you for everything you have done for King and country. Such dreams we must cling to with all our might.

  To quote William Blake: “The Land of Dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.”

  All best wishes,

  Evelyn Maria Constance Elliott

  P.S. More socks enclosed. I think I might be improving.

  From Mr. Charles Abshire to Thomas

  2nd January, 1915

  London, England

  Dear Thomas,

  Greetings, my boy. I’m writing on behalf of your father. I don’t wish to alarm you, but he has been rather unwell the last few weeks and is having difficulty in his recovery. I will continue to write for him when he requests, as well as see to things at the London Daily Times when possible. As you know, my duties are numerous already with the keeping of the books, but I will do my best for now. Should your father’s health not improve in another couple of weeks, I may call in your cousin, John Hopper, to assist in running the office. I trust that will be acceptable?

  Please take care in France. We look forward to welcoming you home.

  Sincerely yours,

  Charles Abshire

  From Thomas to Evie

  4th January, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evelyn Maria Constance Elliott,

  Happy New Year, though it sounds as if the newness has already worn off. I heard about the raids. We were outraged here at the Front, though a Frenchman put us in our places quickly enough. He pitched his cigarette butt to the ground and said, “You have a few air raids and you are angry. We lose our homes and families, the beauty of our country, our pride. We lose everything! When this war is over, you will return to a few broken buildings, and we return to desolation. Rien de tout!”

  He’s right. What the French have lost and continue to lose will leave a great chasm. Rebuilding for them may continue the rest of our lifetime. The Frenchman’s tirade happened just before your latest package arrived. I patted the chap on the shoulder and gave him one of the precious pairs of socks you sent (I hope you don’t mind). He smiled ruefully and nodded his thanks. He wears them as gloves. We’re all in this together, as much as one can be.

  Speaking of socks, thank you! Pair after pair of them. I can’t tell you how glad I was to see them. I miss dry feet most of all. I’m lucky, though, being a lieutenant and all. They rotate my position more often than the privates. Poor bastards. I have to admit, I’m plagued with guilt and melancholy when I lose a man. With only around fifty in my command, I feel his absence keenly, and envision the King’s letter arriving on his family’s doorstep, announcing that he’s gone. A wretched business.

  Your brother’s affections for Amandine do not abate. In fact, he seems pretty serious about her. I thought he would move on quickly enough, but hasn’t. You know how he is. One flash of his smile and every girl within ten feet of him swoons at those baby blues. Me, on the other hand? A ginger-haired, barrel-chested giant isn’t what most girls fall for, is it? It’s just my luck to be a replica of my uncle—the most detested man in the family. I got his brains, too, though. That’s something, I suppose.

  You hoped we would cease our fighting for Christmas Day. Well, much to my shock and that of all the other men, my commanding officer called a truce for the day. We crawled out of our holes, the Germans too, and shared a biscuit or two sent from home, or a smoke. Evie, to lay down our arms and shake hands with the Germans like comrades—I can’t describe how incredible it was. Here I was, sharing a few hours with the very men who caused so much damage in the first place. Imagine the trust we had to show, to step into no man’s land unarmed and befriend the enemy, even if only for a little while. Feeling like men again made us all a little giddy.

  The whole evening was pleasant, if one could call Christmas at war such a word. A hard frost killed some of the water, making my post in the mud more bearable. When night fell, I even saw stars and the moon, instead of more soaking rains. And you’ll never believe this when I tell you, but we sang Christmas carols. Imagine it. A pack of filthy soldiers, German and English alike, serenading each other with hymns. All this after General Smith-Dorrien warned us off from fraternising with the enemy. I ask you this: How am I to hate a man when I smell his breakfast cooking each morning, or hear him crying out in anguish only feet away? It was a relief and much-needed reprieve to behave as I would in real life, away from this war.

  Oddly, now I find myself asking, is “real life” what happens back in London? Cars jamming the streets, people rushing about, ladies tending their gardens and buying new hats, men knocking back a fine scotch after a round of billiards at the club. Or is the reality here, harsh and unspeakable? Blood and flesh and all that senseless death. It was especially brutal at .

  I’m sorry, Evie. I shouldn’t speak of it to a lady, but for some reason, you make me want to spill all of my thoughts.

  You say you’re restless and anxious to play some part, but I’d hate to see you here at the Front. It’s dangerous, soul-altering, and anyone who can be shielded from it should be. I want my best friend’s sister as far from it as possible. Why don’t you do some writing? I remember how much you enjoyed poetry. The volume of William Blake was in tatters last time I saw it, well loved. No one quite understood my love of literature as much you, Evie. I’m missing my library tremendously. Will you read enough for the two of us? Perhaps you might send me some reading material as well? There are long hours when we are idle, waiting for orders.

  I’m missing my father, too, if you can believe it. He’s quite ill and doesn’t seem to be recovering in his usual way. I hope it isn’t anything too serious.

  I look forward to your
next letter.

  Sincerely yours,

  Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding

  P.S. Will is going to like the portraits very much. He mentions his horses often enough when we see them go down in battle. Such beautiful animals lost. Poor chap.

  P.P.S. Have a look at the envelope. You’ll see I’ve placed the stamp in a specific place. A lot of the fellows here are using the Language of Stamps when they send letters home. An extra message to decode for fun. Do you know what I’m saying to you?

  From Thomas to his father

  16th January, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),

  I was very sorry to learn of your illness, but you’re a stubborn gentleman and I have no doubt you will soon rally and be in as good of health as ever.

  I was grateful to hear from Abshire, and glad to know he is looking after the estate and the paper while you’re under the weather. Perhaps we should go with his suggestion and bring cousin John on board if you do not rally? I don’t care for the fellow, but he would do a fine job, at least temporarily. We must be running pages around the clock with the world at war. There’s so much to report, although much is censored, I hear. There’s a fellow here by the name of who sends his reports to Fleet Street. He has to smuggle them out, he says. He has been writing from . Do you know of him?

  Rest and recover soon, Father.

  I remain your loving son,

  Thomas

  From Evie to Thomas

  14th February, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dear Tom (I hope it is acceptable to be so informal),

  Firstly, my apologies for not having written in a while. I’ve been suffering with a dreadful head cold and found myself incapable of anything other than bed rest and drinking a dubious restorative broth which Cook assured me would cure the very Devil. To give credit where credit is due, it did the trick.