Letters from Skye

by Jessica Brockmole

  I haven’t heard from Iain in quite some time. If it weren’t so grim, I would laugh, as I get more mail from a man I’ve never met than I do from my own husband. But, as they say, no news is good news.

  I know I didn’t say it in my last letter, but I am proud that you’ve sent one of your fairy stories off to a magazine. Have you heard anything yet? Please let me know how it goes.

  You asked how I worked up the courage to send off my poetry. It was Finlay. Growing up, the two of us were never content. We’d sit on the beach, he carving, and me either sketching or scribbling. Our eyes on the horizon, no words were needed. But then he grew old enough for Da to take him on the boat. He’d go off fishing and leave me behind on the shore. He always brought me back stones he found, so that I’d feel I was with him. But I knew that, though he sailed away most mornings, it wasn’t an escape. Sure as anything, going out on the boats tied him to the island. He’d never be able to leave. And so he made me promise to send out my poems, to try to send something of myself out into the world. Because he, he was trapped. But the rest of the world was mine for the taking.

  I broke into the schoolhouse every night for a week to use the headmistress’s prized typewriter, pecking away until I had a pile of poems typed to send. In this instance, crime did pay. The rest is, as they say, history! If you can believe it, I was only seventeen.

  My publisher has been amazingly patient with me and my reclusion, but he sent me the most curious letter last week. Ages ago, he had asked for a photograph of me, to be included in the frontispiece of one of the books. He’s finally said that, since I do not have a photograph to send him, he will send a photographer to me! I am waiting to hear a final confirmation, but I believe he is coming in a couple of weeks. I can’t tell you how nervous I am, Davey! I’ve never had my photo taken before; I’ve never seen myself through someone else’s eyes (or lens, as it were). I have no idea what to wear. We don’t want the world to be disappointed at the one and only photograph of Elspeth Dunn.

  At some point you are going to have to make a decision one way or another about the wedding, dear one. You need to decide if you want to be on the ferry when it sets off or if you are happier back on the sturdy pier. I know that you are not a man content to wait behind and just watch as the ferry chugs away. But perhaps this isn’t your boat. Perhaps it doesn’t sail where you want to go. You’ll make the right decision. I think you already know what it is.

  E

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  May 9, 1915

  Dear Sue,

  You sound like you are doing well, despite not knowing what is happening at the front. Who knows, I may be able to give you a firsthand account if Wilson finally gives in. After the Lusitania, everyone here is howling for German blood. Twelve hundred people who had nothing to do with this war died on that ship. What was it you said in your first letter? We’re all cowboys and outlaws here in the United States. If we get over there, the kaiser had better watch out!

  The term is winding down and I hope that my students are leaving my classroom slightly better for it. Many still dismiss the war as a European problem, but a fair number see that it’s bigger. Gone are the days when our countries are isolated. This is the twentieth century. What affects one country affects us all. Now my students see that the world is worth fighting for.

  You really screwed up the courage to send off your poetry when only seventeen? Sue, you’re amazing! And, if you don’t mind me doing the math, younger than I thought for someone so obviously distinguished. Seventeen when you started and, checking the date in the front of your first book, only twenty-seven now. You tease about being “old,” but there are only four years between us.

  I hope that your photo sitting went well, if it’s happened yet, and that you weren’t resigned to wearing your old trousers or being photographed among the sheep. I should dearly like to see the result.

  David

  Isle of Skye

  29 May 1915

  Oh, Davey, this foolish, foolish war!

  There was a great battle at Festubert. The battalion that most of our Skye boys are in was front and centre. Almost every family I know here lost a son or husband or father to the hungry maw of this war at that single battle.

  My brother Finlay, he was wounded quite badly. A shell fell just in front of him, thankfully missing him but tearing open his left leg with fragments. He was quite literally one step away from disaster. Màthair’s gone to see him—he’s earned himself a “Blighty,” as the English say, and is in hospital down in London. I actually followed her down to the pier and was a hairbreadth away from getting on that ferry. But I couldn’t. Not even for Finlay. I cried into my sleeve for being gutless, then wrote him a poem on my handkerchief. I hope it will say what I cannot. I hope he’ll know how much I love him. I’m waiting up here on Skye for Màthair to write, praying it’s not as bad as I imagine.

  Iain was wounded too, but not badly enough that he was out of the trenches for more than a few days. He didn’t even write to me, just sent a pre-printed Field Service postcard, where you cross off the lines that don’t apply, giving a staccato message: “I have been admitted into hospital / wounded / and am going on well.” A letter from him followed, a short note saying he was fine—just a nick in the shoulder, nothing to worry about—but could I send some cigarettes?

  And do you know what’s strange, Davey? I’m really not worried, at least about Iain. I feel a bit hollow. I feel lonely, but that’s not an unusual feeling these days. I feel somehow wistful, though for what I’m not sure. But I don’t feel sad or angry or scared or worried. At least not right now.

  I pray that America doesn’t get involved in this. Stay right where you are, Davey. Don’t give in to the taunts of a bully. I don’t want a reason to start worrying.

  Praying,

  Elspeth

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  June 15, 1915

  Dear Sue,

  Why is it that I’m always at a loss for words when you need them the most? If my thoughts of you right now could be put into words so easily, then you would be getting the firmest of epistolary embraces. How is Finlay?

  The disorder in Europe seems to mirror the disorder in my own life. First, Evie’s husband is ill. It didn’t seem very serious at first, but he has taken quite a long time to recover. Florence is staying at my parents’ house now. You can imagine how nervous Evie is about Florence’s health. The moment Hank felt the least bit feverish, she sent Florence away.

  I’ve postponed the wedding. Lara’s furious. I told her it wasn’t fitting to go ahead with the festivities, not with Hank so sick. I don’t think she believed it was my only reason. Truth is, I don’t either. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this just isn’t my ferry. Though I don’t expect her to be content with that.

  Don’t they say bad luck comes in threes? If Hank’s illness is the first, and my canceled wedding the second, then the third has to be that I was asked to not come back to my teaching position next year. They were very polite about it, but, essentially, I was canned. It seems the parents took issue with me bringing in newspapers, telling my students about the Lusitania and other atrocities. Mommy and Daddy didn’t want their precious darlings to know what a horrible place the world really is. Here I am, trying to educate, and I get sacked for doing it too well. “Stick to the periodic table,” I was told.

  And no such luck with “The Fairies’ Twilight Ball.” The magazine sent it back with an impersonal note saying that it didn’t fit their needs and they “regretfully decline.” A rejection is a rejection. So, you see, I’m failing all around.

  But I suppose nothing was ever accomplished without a little perseverance. I’ll reschedule the wedding, start scanning the want ads again, send out my story to yet another magazine. I wouldn’t be “Mort” if I shied away from a bit of a challenge. I fell off the drainpipe and broke my leg, but, you know, I was up that same drainpipe just a few months after that little event.

  One of the good thi
ngs I’ve got going for me is that I’ve finally left my parents’ house. Harry rented an apartment after coming back to the States and I’ve moved in with him. It’s like being in England with him all over again.

  The other good thing in my life is you.

  I hope things are going better for you now, dear Sue.

  Thinking of you,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  2 July 1915

  Dear David,

  Finlay’s lost his leg. Only below the knee, but that’s more than anyone wants to lose. He couldn’t work up the nerve to tell Màthair in his letter. Of course, she doesn’t care. She’s just thanking God he’s alive. We all are. He’s been moved to hospital in Edinburgh for recovery and therapy and will be back on Skye after he’s fitted for a prosthetic. We won’t be able to take the rambles we used to, but at least I’ll have my brother back.

  I was getting quite worried as I read through your letter, as you sounded so earnest. So much happening to you, enough to get even the most stouthearted person down. I was much relieved to hear you admit you were still the same old “Mort,” the boy who could climb a drainpipe with a sack full of squirrels and a heart full of merriment. I think if my Davey wasn’t cheerful and laughing in the teeth of danger, then nothing would be right in the world. How do you think I’ve been able to keep my spirits up through all of this? How do you think I’ve been able to stay afloat in this sea of chaos?

  The picture-taking went well. Before Màthair left London, I sent her a postal order and begged her to buy me a dress, something nice and modern. I must have sent far too much, for she brought back a sensible brown wool suit and blouse, a completely pragmatic dress (grey like the Scottish skies in winter), and an utterly frivolous rose-coloured gown. The rose dress is a fluttery, flimsy affair and seems terribly immodest after the great lumpy things I was wearing before, but it feels like I’m wearing a rainbow and it makes me look years younger, as if I never had things like wars to worry about.

  The photographer convinced me to wear the rose-coloured dress, saying it made me look more like a poet—“ethereal” was the word he used. Naturally he wanted to get a picture outside, against the backdrop of which I write, so he posed me by the garden, down on the shingle, and, yes, Davey, even by the sheep. I felt quite silly, for what Highland girl wears an insubstantial little feather of a dress to go out herding sheep or climbing hills? But I shouldn’t complain, as the pictures came out rather well. You can’t even see that I have on my old black boots underneath. My mother keeps a small flower garden, and I think the pictures taken there turned out the best. It was quite curious to see my own face in a photograph. I have never seen myself in such a detached way before. The photographer sent me a few prints of my own, so here you go. Now you can see what I really look like. I hope you aren’t disappointed.

  Last night I sat outside the cottage, watching the moon rise, notebook and pencil on my lap. The garden smelled like foxglove and honeysuckle, with, of course, the tangy scent of the sea. It was even cool enough that I wasn’t bothered much by the midges. Màthair brought me out a Thermos flask of tea before she went to bed. I stayed out all night. I had my hot tea and my notebook. Who could want for anything more? The night seemed so pregnant, so poignant, one of those Scottish nights that make you understand why some still believe in spirits and wee folk. I was expectant, waiting out there for something I’m not sure I found. When my da came out to do the milking in the morning, he found me fast asleep on the bench beside the house, “all covered in dew like a fairy,” he said. Now you can see where I get my poetry!

  You know, I’m content right now, but that contentment is as fragile as an egg. I’m cushioning it and trying to keep it from the booms and crashes across the channel. I’m so afraid something is going to crash so loud that it will reach clear across to my little island.

  E

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  July 21, 1915

  Dear Sue,

  I have your picture propped up on my desk as I’m writing this, and I’m trying to imagine you reading my letter after it arrives. Your description—it didn’t do you justice. I don’t think I need to tell you how lovely you look to me.

  But now, having seen your picture, I can see why your dad thought you looked like a fairy asleep in the garden. If I wasn’t certain you were bigger than my thumb, I should’ve guessed your dress was fashioned from rose petals and spiders’ webs. You look quite fey amid the blooms. And your expression is so wistful. What were you thinking of right then when the photo was snapped?

  I didn’t realize the stories of my antics and asinine exploits were so important to you—“afloat in this sea of chaos”? I never hoped I could achieve more than a hearty chuckle or round of applause for the stunts I pull. I feel I have a lot to live up to now, but, as always, I’m up to the challenge. If you believe—

  Since writing the above, something has happened. Harry let Lara into my room to surprise me and she spotted the letter on my desk. She snatched it and read it before I realized what was happening. Lara’s called the engagement off for good, in fact tossed the engagement ring in my wastebasket. She says she fancies I’m in love with you and she can’t compete with someone who’s been winning all along.

  You know, for a girl who didn’t finish college, she’s quite smart.

  David

  Isle of Skye

  4 August 1915

  Davey, oh, Davey! You shouldn’t have written what you did. If you hadn’t written it, then I wouldn’t be in this quandary. I could go along, carrying my secrets. I would go on expecting to be a widow, checking the newspapers to see each fresh casualty list. You would go on being my cheerful correspondent, an admirer of my poetry, and an interesting friend. And now you’ve spoiled that with your last letter. You can never now be just my “interesting friend.”

  What should I say? I should say that it’s terribly presumptuous of you to write to a married woman and claim to be in love with her. But what do I wish to say? I wish to say that I don’t think you would have written that if you weren’t somewhat sure of how I felt.

  What was I thinking about when that photograph was taken? I thought you knew, Davey. I was thinking of you.

  Sue

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  August 20, 1915

  My dear Sue,

  Do you realize how nervous I’ve been, waiting for your reply? If I were a betting man, I would’ve put a large wager on you not replying at all. But the small part of me that saw signs and portents in every letter you sent, the part of me that not only read between the lines but above and below, that part would have put a wager on you writing back and knowing exactly what I was talking about. I’m glad that part of me won the bet, for the prize is so much greater.

  What happens now? If you lived down the street in Chicago, I’d ask you to dinner. Or maybe not. What does one do with a married woman, apart from leave her alone?

  See, I’m going to make a muddle of this. Whatever “this” is. You’ve seen how I’ve been failing at just about everything I’ve set my mind to these days. A guy with nothing going for him but guts. Why would you want a guy like me?

  Wondering,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  6 September 1915

  Davey, Davey, Davey,

  You’re not a worrier. Why are you thinking so hard about this? The past three years, we’ve let things fall as they may, and love happened. Do we need to plan out what comes next? Do we even need to know?

  I hope you realise that I’ve never thought of you as “a guy with nothing going for him but guts.” If you only knew how you keep me going, how you keep me waking up, simply because I know you’re thinking of me. You moved me to write again when I thought my muse had fled. You reminded me that I’m not just a lonely recluse. I have something more now. I have you.

  Do you really think you need to prove yourself to me? Do you think you have to do anything but continue to be there? That’s all I ask. J
ust be there.

  Thinking of you,

  Sue

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  September 28, 1915

  Sue,

  So much has happened here. You’ll never guess—I’m going over to the front! Harry saw an ad for the American Ambulance Field Service, looking for volunteers to drive ambulances for the French Army. Wilson can’t get off his duff and let us Americans into the war, so we’ll have to find our own way in.

  Think of it! Driving an auto as fast as I can, shells whizzing by overhead, men’s lives actually dependent on me driving as recklessly and as fearlessly as I can. Can you think of anything more perfect for me? I couldn’t manage as a teacher, but this… this I can do.

  We don’t get paid, but I have a small trust fund set up by my grandfather. Harry has already said we’ll pool our resources once we get to France and, if we have to eat canned beans or brown bread or whatnot every day, so be it. No money forthcoming from my father!

  Harry and I went over there for dinner last night to break the news. My mother left the table, dabbing at her eyes, and my father asked, “Why on earth are you going to France?” Harry leaned back in his chair and said, “Hell if I know. But it will be a damned fine adventure,” then saluted my father with his glass of Madeira. My father turned purple and I thought he would have an apoplexy.

  We have a few things to do here. Have to get a typhoid inoculation, which will take a couple of weeks, and we’re waiting for official letters from the headquarters of the American Ambulance to send to the State Department. We’ll need letters of credit from our banks. We have supplies to get together (boots, sweaters, driving gloves), but we’ll get our uniforms in Paris. And photographs! I need a dozen or so copies of my passport photo for licenses and identification cards. So much to do and we’re trying to get it done as quickly as we can.