Letters from Skye
Jessica Brockmole
A sweeping story told in letters, spanning two continents and two world wars, Jessica Brockmole’s atmospheric debut novel captures the indelible ways that people fall in love, and celebrates the power of the written word to stir the heart.
March 1912: Twenty-four-year-old Elspeth Dunn, a published poet, has never seen the world beyond her home on Scotland’s remote Isle of Skye. So she is astonished when her first fan letter arrives, from a college student, David Graham, in far-away America. As the two strike up a correspondence--sharing their favorite books, wildest hopes, and deepest secrets--their exchanges blossom into friendship, and eventually into love. But as World War I engulfs Europe and David volunteers as an ambulance driver on the Western front, Elspeth can only wait for him on Skye, hoping he’ll survive.
June 1940: At the start of World War II, Elspeth’s daughter, Margaret, has fallen for a pilot in the Royal Air Force. Her mother warns her against seeking love in wartime, an admonition Margaret doesn’t understand. Then, after a bomb rocks Elspeth’s house, and letters that were hidden in a wall come raining down, Elspeth disappears. Only a single letter remains as a clue to Elspeth’s whereabouts. As Margaret sets out to discover where her mother has gone, she must also face the truth of what happened to her family long ago.
Jessica Brockmole
LETTERS FROM SKYE
Chapter One
Elspeth
Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.
March 5, 1912
Dear Madam,
I hope you won’t think me forward, but I wanted to write to express my admiration for your book, From an Eagle’s Aerie. I’ll admit, I’m not usually a guy for poetry. More often, I can be found with a dog-eared copy of Huck Finn or something else involving mortal peril and escape. But something in your poems touched me more than anything has in years.
I’ve been in the hospital, and your little book cheered me better than the nurses. Especially the nurse with the mustache like my uncle Phil’s. She’s also touched me more than anything has in years, though in a much less exciting way. Generally I’m pestering the doctors to let me up and about so I can go back to my plotting. Just last week I painted the dean’s horse blue, and I had hoped to bestow the same on his terrier. But with your book in hand, I’m content to stay as long as they keep bringing the orange Jell-O.
Most of your poems are about tramping down life’s fears and climbing that next peak. As you can probably guess, there are few things that shake my nerves (apart from my hirsute nurse and her persistent thermometer). But writing a letter, uninvited, to a published author such as yourself—this feels by far my most daring act.
I am sending this letter to your publisher in London and will cross my fingers that it finds its way to you. And if I can ever repay you for your inspiring poetry—by painting a horse, for example—you only have to say the word.
With much admiration,
David Graham
Isle of Skye
25 March 1912
Dear Mr. Graham,
You should have seen the stir in our tiny post office, everyone gathered to watch me read my first letter from a “fan,” as you Americans would say. I think the poor souls thought no one outside our island had ever laid eyes on my poetry. I don’t know which was more thrilling to them—that someone had indeed read one of my books or that the someone was an American. You’re all outlaws and cowboys, aren’t you?
I myself admit to some surprise that my humble little works have fled as far as America. From an Eagle’s Aerie is one of my more recent books, and I wouldn’t have thought it had time to wing across the ocean yet. However you’ve acquired it, I’m just glad to know I’m not the only one who’s read the blasted thing.
In gratitude,
Elspeth Dunn
Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.
April 10, 1912
Dear Miss Dunn,
I don’t know which made me giddier—to hear that From an Eagle’s Aerie was among your “most recent books” or to get a response at all from such an esteemed poet. Surely you’re too busy counting meter or compiling a list of scintillating synonyms (brilliant, sparkling, dazzling synonyms). Me, I spend my days robbing banks with the James Gang and the other outlaws and cowboys.
I was sent your book by a friend of mine who is up at Oxford. To my shock and dismay, I have not seen your works in print here in the United States. Even a thorough search of my university library turned up nothing. Now that I know you have others lurking on the bookstore shelves, I will have to appeal to my pal to send more.
I was astonished to read that mine was your first “fan” letter. I was sure it would be just one in a stack, which is why I went to such pains to make it fascinating and witty. Perhaps other readers haven’t been as bold (or perhaps as impulsive?) as I.
Regards,
David Graham
P.S. Wherever is the Isle of Skye?
Isle of Skye
1 May 1912
Mr. Graham,
You don’t know where my lovely isle is? Ridiculous! That would be like me saying I’ve never heard of Urbana, Illinois.
My isle is off the northwest coast of Scotland. A wild, pagan, green place of such beauty that I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Enclosed is a picture of Peinchorran, where I live, with my cottage nestled between the hills around the loch. I’ll have you know that, in order to draw this for you, I had to hike around the loch, trudge up the sheep path on the opposite hill, and find a patch of grass not covered by heather or sheep excreta. I’ll expect you to do likewise when you send me a picture of Urbana, Illinois.
Do you lecture in Urbana? Study? I’m afraid I don’t know what it is that Americans do at university.
Elspeth Dunn
P.S. By the way, it’s “Mrs. Dunn.”
Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.
June 17, 1912
Dear Mrs. Dunn (please excuse my presumption!),
You draw as well as write such magnificent poetry? The picture you sent is sublime. Is there nothing you can’t do?
As I can’t draw worth a dime, I’m sending a few picture postcards instead. One is the auditorium at the university; the second is the tower on the library building. Not bad, huh? Illinois is probably as different from the Isle of Skye as a place could be. Not a mountain in sight. Once I leave campus, just corn as far as the eye can see.
I suppose I do what any collegiate American does: study, eat too much pie, torment the dean and his horse. I’m finishing up my studies in natural sciences. My father hopes I’ll enter medical school and join him in his practice one day. I’m not as certain about my future as he seems to be. For now, I’m just trying to make it through my last year of college with my sanity intact!
David Graham
Isle of Skye
11 July 1912
Mr. Graham,
“Is there nothing you can’t do?” you ask. Well, I can’t dance. Or tan leather. Or make barrels or shoot a harpoon. And I’m not particularly good at cooking. Can you believe I burned soup the other day? But I can sing fairly well, shoot a straight shot from a rifle, play the cornet (can’t we all?), and I’m something of an amateur geologist. And, although I couldn’t cook a decent roast lamb if my life depended on it, I make a marvellous Christmas pudding.
Forgive my frankness, but why devote all of your time (and sanity) towards an area of study that doesn’t grip your very soul? If I had had a chance to go to university, I wouldn’t have spent even a moment on a subject that didn’t interest me.
I should love to think I would’ve spent my university days reading poetry, as there’s no better way to pass the time, but after so many years masquerading as a “real poet,” there likely isn�
�t much a professor could teach me now.
No, as unladylike as it sounds, I would have studied geology. My older brother Finlay is always out on the water and brings me rocks smooth from the ocean. I can’t help but wonder where they came from and how they washed up on the Western Isles.
There, now you know my secret wishes! I shall have to take your firstborn child in exchange. Or I suppose I could settle for a secret of your own. If you weren’t studying natural science, what would you be studying? What do you wish you could be doing with your life above all?
Elspeth
Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.
August 12, 1912
Dear Rumpelstiltskin,
If you teach me to play the cornet, I’ll teach you to dance!
I don’t think there is anything unladylike about geology. Why is it that you never escaped your isle for college? If I had lived in a more geologically interesting place than central Illinois, I might have considered a similar field. I’d always hoped to study American literature—Twain, Irving, and the like—but my father refused to pay for me to spend four years “reading stories.”
But what I wish to do above all? That’s an easy question, but the answer is not one I’m willing to admit. I’m afraid you’ll have to accept my firstborn child after all.
David
Isle of Skye
1 September 1912
Mr. Graham,
Well, now my interest is piqued! What is it that you always longed to be as a wee boy? A naval captain? A circus acrobat? A traveling perfume salesman? You must, must tell, or I shall form speculations of my own. I am a poet, after all, and I live amidst people who believe in fairies and ghosts. My imagination is quite fertile.
You asked why I didn’t go to university somewhere off the isle, and I have a confession to make. Now, this is quite embarrassing, mind you.
Let me take a deep breath.
I’ve never been off Skye. My whole life. Really! The reason is… well, I’m afraid of boats. I can’t swim and am afraid to get into the water to even learn. I know you are probably falling from your desk chair, laughing. A person who lives on an island, utterly terrified of the water? But there you have it. Not even the lure of university could convince me to step foot on a boat. Oh, I tried. Really I did! I had actually planned to sit for a scholarship exam. I even had my suitcase all packed. Finlay and I, we were going to give it a go together. But when I eyed that ferry… oh, it just didn’t look seaworthy. It doesn’t seem right that boats float on the water. No amount of whisky could entice me on.
There! Now you have two secrets of mine. You know about my ridiculous aspirations towards geology and my even more ridiculous fear of the water and of boats. Now you surely can feel safe confiding your secret to me. You really can trust me, if for no other reason than there is no one else (apart from the sheep) for me to tell.
Elspeth
P.S. Please stop calling me “Mrs. Dunn.”
Chapter Two
Margaret
The Borders
Tuesday, 4 June 1940
Dearest Mother,
That’s another batch delivered! I swear, there must not be a single child left in all of Edinburgh with all we’ve evacuated to the countryside away from those bombs. These three were better than most; at least they could reliably wipe their own noses.
I have to get this group settled and then I promised Mrs. Sunderland I’d pay a wee visit to her brood in Peebles. Any letters from Paul?
Love and kisses,
Margaret
Edinburgh
8 June 1940
Margaret,
You’re running yourself ragged; you’ve only just come back from Aberdeenshire! Most lasses stay in one place, rolling bandages or building battleships or whatever it is that young women do these days. But there you are, tramping up and down the Scottish countryside like the Pied Piper, with all of those poor children running after. Don’t they know you can’t tell one end of the compass from the other? And that it was only recently you could reliably wipe your own nose?
But, no, dearest, no letters from Paul. Have faith. If there’s one thing you can expect from that boy, it’s a letter. And then about a hundred more.
Stay safe,
Your Mother
Still the Borders
Wednesday, 12 June 1940
Dear Mother,
If my best friend can go flying about Europe with the R.A.F., then whyever can’t I fly about Scotland?
But you haven’t heard from him, have you? Everyone keeps saying the R.A.F. wasn’t at Dunkirk, but Paul said, “I’ll be right back,” and then hasn’t written since. Where else would he have gone? So either he’s out of stamps or he hasn’t come back from France.
But, really, I’m trying not to worry. The little ones, they fret enough away from their mothers; I don’t want to upset them more.
I’m for Peebles in the morning and then on to Edinburgh from there. Have tea and cakes from Mackie’s bakery waiting for me! Else I may just stay on the train until I get to Inverness…
Love and kisses,
Margaret
Edinburgh
15 June 1940
Margaret,
If I knew all it would take to lure you home was a dish of Mackie’s cakes, I would’ve tried it ages ago, sugar ration or no!
Still nothing from Paul. But you can’t depend on the mail in wartime. I don’t remember you worrying so much about him before. Isn’t he just a pen friend?
Mother
Peebles
Monday, 17 June 1940
Mother,
Yes, I’m still here in Peebles. The trains are a muddle and I’ve had a very persistent Annie Sunderland trying to convince me to pop her in my suitcase and bring her along to Edinburgh. When I threaten to paste her feet to the floor, she begs for just one story more. You know her, with those big brown eyes. How can I resist? Of course she misses her mummy, but the family Annie and the boys stay with here are just wonderful. I can bring back a good report to Mrs. Sunderland.
I suppose I should tell you, Paul may be a bit more than a pen friend. At least that’s how he sees it. He fancies he’s in love with me. I think he’s quite ridiculous and I’ve told him so. We’re merely friends. Best friends, to be sure. You remember how we’d always go hiking and bouldering and then share a sandwich. But in love? I didn’t tell you before because I was sure you’d laugh. He is being ridiculous, isn’t he?
I should be home tomorrow or the next, if I have to walk every step of the way from Peebles. Onward!
Love and kisses,
Margaret
POST OFFICE TELEGRAM
18.06.40 PLYMOUTH
MARGARET DUNN, EDINBURGH
MAISIE NO WORRIES I AM SAFE=
SHORT LEAVE IN PLYMOUTH=
THINKING OF YOU=
PAUL+
Mother!
He’s written!
I saw the telegram propped up on the table and I couldn’t wait for you to come home from church. I worried I might miss the train south. I wrapped up all of the cakes. They will be quite a treat for him. I hope you don’t mind.
My suitcase and I are heading right back to Waverley Station. I’ll write to you when I get there.
He’s written.
Margaret
Edinburgh
18 June 1940
Oh, my Margaret,
I know I can never send this letter; it’ll end up on the grate the moment I put words to paper. If you only knew how my heart wrenches to read your note on the table, amidst the crumbs on the empty cake plate. If you knew how it feels to run after someone for a brief snatch of time, how the world stops spinning, just for a moment, when you hold them in your arms, and then starts again so fast that you fall to the ground, dizzy. If you knew how every hello hurts more than a hundred goodbyes. If you knew.
But you don’t. I never told you. You have no secrets from me, but I’ve kept a part of myself locked away, always. A part of me that started scratching at the
wall the day this other war started, that started howling to get out right now, the day you ran off to meet your soldier.
I should have told you, should’ve taught you to steel your heart. Taught you that a letter isn’t always just a letter. Words on the page can drench the soul. If only you knew.
Mother
Chapter Three
Elspeth
Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.
September 21, 1912
Dear Elspeth,
If not “Mrs. Dunn,” what, then? What is it that your friends call you? Ellie? Libby? Elsie? Around here I’m known as “Mort” (don’t ask), but my mother calls me “Davey.”
You’ve never been off Skye? I don’t know why I should find that so unbelievable. I mean, there will always be people with a fear of the sea, and someone who lives so close to the sea would see firsthand how frightening it can be. Have you never even crossed over a bridge?
Okay, do you really want to know my secret? My parents don’t know this, and my friends would bust a gut if they heard. Here goes: If I could be anything in the world, I would be a dancer. A ballet dancer, like Nijinsky. I saw him dance in Paris and it was amazing! Actually, “amazing” doesn’t do it justice. I went every night that I could get a seat, no matter how far from the stage I was. I didn’t know it was possible for a human to jump and twirl as high as he did. And he made it all look so effortless! I’ve never had any lessons, but I’ve always been thought of as a fair dancer. Perhaps the next Nijinsky?
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