Elspeth
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
September 4, 1913
Dear Sue,
At long last, I am gainfully employed! I’ve got myself a job teaching biology and chemistry at a private school right here in Chicago. Lara says that, before the term is out, all of the girls will be in love with me and all of the boys will want to be my pals.
I don’t have a good answer as to why some areas of study are designated as “feminine.” You’re right, we are moving into more-enlightened times, but are still far from there. With more co-educational universities, a woman can go to college and study what she pleases. She can even go ahead and find a “radical” new job, working as a scientist or an academic. But it is still assumed—even expected—that she will give it all up when she becomes a mother. Pedagogy and Equality are always trumped by Maternity.
Now, I will give you that women seem to be much better at raising children than men are. Lord knows, my father would’ve made a mess-up of the thing if he had been in charge. But children grow up, move away. Why shouldn’t a woman be able to pursue a career later in life?
You make a good point, though, Sue. I hope for a wife who has more-interesting things to talk about than roasting chickens. Someone who reads the same things as I do and wonders about the same questions. Or even someone who thinks the exact opposite but doesn’t mind lively debate and loves me just the same.
David
Isle of Skye
30 September 1913
David,
What, my dear boy, leads you to think that women are better at raising children? It sounds as though your niece adores you, so you must be doing something right with the child. Don’t you have confidence in your ability to raise children, to care for them longer than it takes to tell a fairy story?
Elspeth
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
October 17, 1913
Dear Sue,
Well, wouldn’t you agree women have something innate, something that allows them to be mothers? I’m not quite sure what it is. Women are much more selfless than men. They have patience and a generous spirit. A woman could get all of the degrees in home economics she wishes, but even without having been to college, she can still run a household and become a mother.
David
Isle of Skye
31 October 1913
David,
Your letters have gone from merely rankling to downright infuriating. No innate quality makes us wives or mothers or homemakers. Are we born with something internal to make us good at cooking or darning socks? Do you think the Great Almighty had the foresight to know what would be required of the housewife of the twentieth century and reserve a special part of the brain for pie-making? Because, I tell you, I am proficient at none of those. No cooking, no pie-making, and certainly no darning of socks. Perhaps I was born with only half a brain, with something vital missing. Is that what you are suggesting?
You say that women, especially mothers, must be selfless. They aren’t born with this, yet it is still expected of them. No one begrudges a man his pint after a day’s work or the chance to put his feet up in front of the fire or even the opportunity just to sit with the newspaper in the mornings. But if a mother wants to take an hour off for a walk, a quiet mug of tea, or (heaven forbid!) a visit to a friend’s, there would be an outcry. Mothers aren’t supposed to want to be away from their children. They are supposed to be completely selfless. A good mother would never eat the last slice of cake.
I’m not sure that I want children. I can’t be that selfless. If I had a bairn clinging to my legs, I wouldn’t be able to go on my jaunts through the mountains. I wouldn’t be able to sit for hours staring at the waves, writing poetry. I wouldn’t be able to get by with cooking only sausages and Christmas pudding. I couldn’t stay up late, watching the stars move across the sky, or wake up early to walk the hills until the sun explodes over the horizon. You can’t tell me that I could still have all of that with children in tow. And I could certainly never give up that last slice of cake.
Independence makes a woman greedy.
Elspeth
Chapter Six
Margaret
Edinburgh
Friday, 19 July 1940
Dear Paul,
She’s gone.
The morning after the bomb fell, I went back to the house, intending to patch things up. All night, I couldn’t sleep a wink, thinking about how we argued and how she pushed me away after those letters came tumbling out of the wall. My stomach was in knots.
But when I got up to the flat, it was empty. The wainscoting still gaped open, but every last letter was gone. And both of my suitcases.
My mother, who has never been away from the house for longer than a few hours, has packed up and left. And I have no idea where she’s gone.
I went to the neighbours’. I checked in the library. I walked around Holyrood Park three times. I even stopped in St. Mary’s Cathedral, thinking it not out of the realm of possibility that she was in her usual pew with the suitcases of letters. But no one had seen her. I went to Waverley Station, thinking surely she hadn’t boarded a train, that she was just sitting on a bench, trying to work up the courage to board. No. She wasn’t there.
So here I am, back in the empty house, not knowing if I should be worried or not. If she wants to take a little holiday, she’s certainly entitled. She can take care of herself. But the way she looked last night, Paul. Her eyes, they were haunted. She looked defeated sprawled out there on the floor. I may not know where she is, but I know she’s not on a jaunt to the seaside. Wherever she’s gone, she’s chasing something. Memories, regrets, her past. I’m not sure.
What I do know, though, is that it involves a letter from an American to someone named Sue. I always did like following a good mystery. Shall I?
Affectionately,
Margaret
21 July 1940
Maisie dear,
I hope this reaches you before you set out in search of adventure. You always did long to be a detective. Remember the time we crawled all over the Meadows at twilight, in search of the Hound of the Baskervilles? We were such kids then.
I do wish I had a bit of adventure myself. I’m still grounded until my wrist is all mended. So, instead of being off flying, I’m back lurking around the airfield. Can I be your Watson?
I hope, though, that your proposed detecting takes you safely out of Edinburgh. Granny never said a word about air raids in the city. Though, knowing her, she stood on the steps, shaking her fist at the Jerrys as they flew over. Now that I know there are real bombs falling right there where we used to play rounders, I hope you go elsewhere.
Perhaps your mam had the same thought. Don’t worry about her, Maisie. She’s as tough as my gran. She’ll be just fine.
Be safe, my sweet lass.
Yours,
Paul
Edinburgh
Wednesday, 24 July 1940
Dear Paul,
I thought, if anyone I know could shed some light on Mother’s “first volume,” my cousin Emily could. She’s known Mother longer than I have. I took that single yellowed letter to her house and, in between loads of washing at the steamie, she told me all she knew. Which, really, isn’t much.
She remembers staying with Mother during the last war. Aunt Chrissie sent the children from the city to keep them safe after a Zeppelin attack. Even then there were evacuations. In their case, all the way up to the Isle of Skye.
I still can’t believe that my mother, who’s never walked beyond the edge of Edinburgh, once lived up in the Western Isles! It’s no secret—she’s told me stories of growing up, of skipping down the braes in search of fairy folk—but, nonetheless, I’ve always thought of her as an Edinburgher through and through. But she spent her girlhood there. Not so strange she should have a letter from Skye.
There was some bit of scandal with a girl and our two uncles. Perhaps the girl was called Sue? Emily couldn’t remember. And I can’t write t
o my gran to ask, as she only reads and writes in Gaelic. Emily suggested I write to our uncle Finlay, who stays in Glasgow.
I knew my mother had three brothers (two after Emily’s da died), but she’s never said much about them. Just that Alasdair was the smart one, Willie the cheeky one, and Finlay the one who lost something and never came back. About that, Mother never would explain further. Only that one day Finlay had more anger than he could keep inside and he left.
Emily never would’ve known Finlay was in the city at all—no one knew where he’d gone when he left Skye—but she was shopping in Glasgow one day years ago and passed a man who looked just like her da, Alasdair. She was young when he died, but Aunt Chrissie always kept a wedding photo by her bed. Emily chased the man down and, on a whim, threw out her da’s name and was shocked to find out that he was Alasdair’s younger brother. But it was no heartfelt meeting. Uncle Finlay shook her hand firmly, passed along his best wishes amidst other banalities, and then continued on his way. If Emily didn’t immediately hurry to find a telephone directory and learn that he had an address in Glasgow, the family might have lost that one brief reappearance of Uncle Finlay.
Thank goodness for curiosity, else I’d probably not have the courage to write to an uncle I never knew existed. And a disagreeable uncle at that, if rumours are to be believed. Wish me luck!
Affectionately,
Margaret
Chapter Seven
Elspeth
Isle of Skye
5 November 1913
Davey,
I reread what I sent you last week, and I wanted to write again quickly, before you have a chance to respond. Although I still stand by everything I wrote in my earlier letter, I wish I had written a bit more gently.
I think you were wrong in what you said, about women having this mythical innate “motherness” inside. But, Davey, you’re still young. I keep forgetting that. You’ve never been married, never had children of your own. You could very well feel this way for the rest of your life, but I can’t hold you responsible for your beliefs right now. I’m sorry for expecting so much of you.
There! That’s done. You should know that I don’t often apologise or recant words spoken in anger. And by “often,” I mean “ever.” I hope you’re not too cross with me.
Elspeth
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
November 22, 1913
Dear Sue,
I wasn’t sure how to respond, and so I’m glad you wrote again. I truly didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t have many women in my life. I have my mother and my sister, Evie, two of the most capable women I know. Evie couldn’t wait for the day when her firstborn came into the world, and she just knew how to hold and feed Florence. And the other woman in my life, Lara, is counting down the days until she can get to running her own household. I swear, that girl has been dreaming about trousseaux and supper menus since she left the nursery.
You will be interested to know that I am officially an engaged man! I suppose as officially as one can be. I’d had poetically romantic notions about dropping on one knee and presenting a pearl set in gold, but Lara took one look at the ring and me and politely requested a band of diamonds. She loves to flash it around, as if to say, “He isn’t a doctor, but we’ll get by.” No concrete plans yet for the wedding, but it will probably be a longer engagement. Lara has about two and a half years left before she graduates, and I wouldn’t dream of adding the distraction of a wedding to her schoolwork. I can’t count on anything modest or subtle, not with Lara and my mother planning it.
I suppose I should get my traveling in before the wedding, if I have only a few years left of bachelorhood. Perhaps I should come out to Oxford to visit Harry, the obliging friend who’s been sending me your books. He’s almost finished with his studies there, and I have a holiday coming up at the end of this term. Once that ring is on my finger, my traveling days may be over!
David
Isle of Skye
13 December 1913
David,
I’m so glad you aren’t cross with me. You may find this funny, but I don’t have many friends, at least not many who read poetry, ride cattle, or wear atrocious checked jackets. Why would you keep writing to a raving Scottish woman from some remote island in the Atlantic? At the risk of sounding horribly sentimental, I would quite miss your letters if they were to stop.
Officially engaged? My, my, but you are growing up, dear boy. Though perhaps I should lend you my rock-and-mineral guide, as you seem to have mistaken your Diamond for a Pearl.
I suppose we’ll have to add commitment to the list of things you approach without fear, wild boy. What does scare you? Certainly not the college administration. Perhaps your father?
My fear at the moment is that I will run out of ink before I’ve finished this letter. Horrid old pen!
It will likely be after Christmas when this reaches you, but I’ve made you one of my famous Christmas puddings (in miniature). Eat it in good cheer and have a marvellous holiday.
Elspeth
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
January 12, 1914
A Happy New Year to you, Sue!
You’re right, you do make a marvelous Christmas pudding! It’s similar to the fruitcake my mother insists on making for us each Christmas. The woman doesn’t set foot into the kitchen all year, unless it’s to make a last-minute change to the menu. But every year, as the Christmas season approaches, she dons a lace-edged apron about as effective as a paper cake doily and waves all the staff out of the kitchen. Mother emerges hours later, hair floured, a smear of molasses on her cheek, and a shine in her eyes that could only be brought about by “sampling” the brandy, but victoriously bearing a fruitcake. It generally has the appearance, texture, and taste of a paving stone, but we must all eat a hearty slice on Christmas Eve.
The joy we had this year, Sue, was eating your delightful Christmas pudding. Both Evie and Hank insisted on examining the box you’d sent, to make sure I wasn’t holding out on them. Even my father begged for more. When my mother asked, with the air of a jealous mistress, how this pudding compared to her fruitcake, we were quick to reassure her, “Oh, the Christmas pudding is good, but it’s very… you know… British.” We left it to her to interpret just what that meant.
Did you have a peaceful holiday? Any more kettles this year? I regret to say that Santa Claus didn’t leave a kettle for me, but I did get a splendid new tennis racket. I can hardly wait until the snow thaws to go try it out. Evie stitched a beautiful bookmark that reads “A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.” And my father presented me with a watch, a gold number with a thick chain. He told me it was his father’s watch and his father’s before him. “Now that you’re a man, David,” says he, “and have some direction in your life, you’ll need something to help guide you. You know where to go, but now you will know when to go.” The whole speech was rather stodgy, but Mother was dabbing at her eyes and even Evie was sniffling. It’s a handsome watch but makes me think of my grandfather. I had been hoping for a wristwatch, something I could wear while driving, climbing, and cycling, without looking as if I had just stepped out of the nineteenth century.
My dad has been quite pleasant over the holidays. But I think you might be right; if I have a fear, it would be my father. I eventually did stand up to him about not going into medicine, but if I hadn’t done as poorly as I did my last semesters, I wouldn’t have had such an easy time of it. Even after all of his talk about me “becoming a man,” I still live under his roof, like a child, obeying his rules. He doesn’t approve of anything I do or anyone I do it with.
I’ve always found it funny that my friend Harry is the one person my dad should approve of but in actuality is the person he disapproves of the most. Harry has to be one of my oldest friends. We went to school together as children, pored over my father’s anatomy texts (more specifically poring over those pages pertaining to the female anatomy), went on our first dates together under the philosophy of “safety
in numbers.” Harry’s family moves in the same social circles, he’s actually completing his medical studies, he’s absolutely brilliant, and he’s flawlessly polite. What could my father find fault with?
I suppose that a sharp mind can be wielded like any sharp weapon, and Harry can be quite disapproving of the snobbery he finds at many of the social functions we are forced to. He’s lucky that most of the people he mocks don’t catch his sarcasm and dry humor, or he wouldn’t be invited back nearly so often. It’s been quite a few years since Harry set off for Oxford. We write back and forth—not nearly as often as you and I write—but I’m looking forward to seeing him.
And a Christmas gift for you, dear Sue. A mottled black-and-pen, so that you’ll always be able to write to me.
To a new year,
David
Isle of Skye
28 January 1914
Already 1914, and the world hasn’t ended yet!
Davey, you misled me! This isn’t a mottled pen at all. It’s marbled through with red and black, just like a polished length of jasper. What better pen for a budding geologist?
Letters from Skye Page 4