Letters from Skye

by Jessica Brockmole

  As tired as I am, Sue, my dreams are always of you.

  Love,

  Your Davey

  Isle of Skye

  23 February 1916

  My darling boy,

  I am sorry for doubting you and the reasons you joined the Field Service. You’re right, Davey, this is something you can do, and you’ve already proven in the fortnight you’ve been there that you can do it well. There is a big difference between rushing out with a bayonet, intent on maiming or killing, and channeling all of that reckless energy into saving lives. I said before that you were still a boy, but I think that in a few short months you’ve proved yourself to be a man among men.

  Please keep yourself warm, happy, and, as always, safe.

  E

  Place One

  March 2, 1916

  Sue,

  I’m on a chow foraging run, which means I get a chance for a bath and a real meal while I’m here in town. I’m lingering probably longer than necessary over my omelet, because it gives me the chance to write to you before I have to get back in my flivver.

  Harry and I both managed to be en repos the other day, something that doesn’t often happen, as we end up working most every day, even when we are due a day off. We each brought books and a pitiful little picnic—tins of “meat,” crackers, a tiny raisin cake Minna sent, washed down with a bottle of perfect swill that was quite obviously mislabeled “wine.” I sincerely think that, after washing out his socks, Pliny refilled the bottle with the wash water, as that is precisely what it tasted like. Despite the vile wine and the equally vile canned beef (or was it cat?), it was a pleasant afternoon. I got Tarzan of the Apes nearly finished. I only wish I could’ve devoured my picnic with the same relish!

  We actually had quite a feast a few days ago. One of the men received the Croix de Guerre and threw a banquet to mark the occasion. He spared no expense and brought in a Parisian chef. Real food, wine that deserved to be called French wine, and all of it off china and linen. I swear, Sue, I felt too grimy to approach such an elegant spread, but approach I did, and we all tucked in before you could say “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Truly, Sue, it was a spread that would’ve done Ranhofer or Escoffier proud.

  My mouth is starting to water again at the memory, so please excuse any drips and smudges of the ink. And to think I just finished eating! Ah… the memory of that meal: That will keep us psychologically fed through many weeks of boiled beef and turnip soup.

  Love you,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  14 March 1916

  Oh, Davey,

  I don’t know what to feel anymore.

  Iain’s gone missing.

  I only just got the letter from the War Office, and I’m not even sure it’s sunk in. I read the words, I cried out once, but since then I haven’t said a thing—as though by ignoring it, I could make it go away. Missing. How could that be?

  Finlay’s an absolute wreck. He kept repeating, “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help him,” then walked out of the cottage. He limped back late that night, filthy and missing his cane, and slept for two days straight. It was up to me to tuck him into bed, patch up his torn trousers, find a length of wood for another cane. He’s useless without it.

  I want to know: Why is Finlay allowed to collapse? Why do I have to be the one to stay strong and pick up the pieces? Nobody else has. Iain is my husband. I’m the one who should feel this weighing more than anyone. I’m the one who should be so crushed I can barely breathe.

  You know I’m not very devout. I’m not a regular churchgoer. When I’m out on the mountain all by myself, I feel closer to God. It’s almost pagan, though, so far away from the hymns and sermons. Now I’m thinking I’ve neglected something vital. I didn’t give God his proper due and then I teased him with my infidelities, and now Iain is being punished for my sins.

  Maybe I have made the wrong decision. I don’t know what to think anymore. If I were to stop, would that bring him back?

  Elspeth

  Place Three

  March 21, 1916

  Sue,

  Have you had any news?

  “Missing” could mean a lot of things. It could mean nothing. Until you hear more, don’t speculate. Please.

  I’ve heard the guys in the back of my flivver talk about it enough. One minute you’re hunkered down, sharing a cigarette, the next you’re up and over the trench wall and into No Man’s Land. Close to seventy pounds on your back, running with bayonet fixed, dodging shell holes, debris, your pals. Everything’s so covered in mud you could run right over your own brother and not recognize him. You can’t even stop to take a second look, much less drag anyone to safety. Iain could be lying out there hurt, waiting for the stretchers to bring him back. He could’ve been lost in the rush over the wall. Don’t think of only the worst.

  Sue, you have enough to worry about right now without adding guilt and divine chastisement to it all. Yes, I believe in God. I’ve always attended church, even during my hoyden college days; I just had more to admit to in the confessional back then.

  When I was younger, Evie and I had a book of Bible stories, a lovely illustrated volume we would pore over on lazy Sunday afternoons. I remember one picture of God from that book. He was shown as a serene personage with a snowy white beard and rosy cheeks—looking not too unlike Santa Claus, now that I think of it—gazing down on the newly created world with pride. It reminded me of the way a father might look on a newborn child. I’ve always held that picture in my mind, and I think that’s why I could never believe in a vengeful God. That kindly, fatherly figure could never blame me for being led astray. He could never turn from me because of my minor transgressions.

  Think for a moment, Sue. With all of the atrocities the kaiser is committing, with all of the fighting and killing going on over here, do you really think God is looking down and directing his anger at a woman whose only sin is having too much love to give?

  I’m so tired right now. Just got off twenty-four-hour duty and have hardly had more than a few hours of snatched sleep. But I didn’t want to put off writing to you. If I can’t be there (epistolarily, at least) when you need me, then what point is there in me being with you at all?

  You may have noticed from the heading that we’ve moved again. There was a Place Two between then and now, but we didn’t stay for more than a few days. We’re a bit closer to the line this time but not close enough that we have to worry about shells falling in on us while we sleep—which is good because, with the hours that we keep, we need all of the sleep we can get.

  And on that note, Sue, I’m going to go to bed. I can barely hold the pencil as it is. Please keep me updated. Despite the circumstances, I truly do care. I wish I could be there to hold you, but this is the best that I can do.

  I do love you, my girl.

  David

  Isle of Skye

  28 March 1916

  David,

  How could I not worry? How could I not think the absolute worst?

  I’ve received a letter from a man in Iain’s battalion, a Private Wallace. He said he went over the top with Iain that day. He lost track of him in the fighting. When the retreat sounded, Private Wallace ran back and passed Iain on the way, “badly wounded.” Iain was so bad off that he couldn’t make his way back to the British trench, even when Private Wallace offered a shoulder to help. It was some time before any stretcher-bearers could work their way up there. Even with the approximate location given to them by Private Wallace, the stretcher-bearers said that they couldn’t find anyone. Not anyone needing a doctor’s care, that is.

  Finlay is beside himself. He and Iain were to watch out for each other. He blames himself for not being there to keep an eye on Iain. He blames himself for not bringing Iain home.

  It’s easy for you to say that God isn’t punishing me, but you’re not going through the private hell I am. You aren’t feeling the anguish and guilt I’m feeling. How do you know I’m not being punished in some way? All Iain asked
for was my love, and I couldn’t even give him that wholeheartedly. Perhaps that’s my sin. Perhaps that’s what I’m being punished for.

  Yes, I know you really care how I’m feeling, but, admit it, you also have your own self-interests to protect. You don’t want me moping about and brooding over my missing husband. But maybe moping is what I need to do. Maybe moping shows that I’m looking for some redemption.

  Elspeth

  Isle of Skye

  12 April 1916

  David,

  I didn’t mean you should stop writing to me. Your letters are still one of the few things keeping me afloat. Remember that whole “sea of chaos” bit?

  Maybe I sounded angry in my last letter. I know you really do care. I’m just confused, Davey. I’m confused and I’m being confronted by those feelings of guilt. Then I feel guilty that I wasn’t feeling guilty before. Does that make any sense?

  Also, I’m worried. Regardless of what I feel for you, Iain is my husband and I will always love him. I can’t bear to think of him in pain or distress.

  And I’m uncertain. I don’t know how I want this all to turn out. Of course I want Iain to be safe and well. But there’s a small evil part of me, a part I keep trying to ignore, looking at all of this with some measure of relief—at not having to make any decisions in the end, at not having to be uncertain any longer. Then I feel guilty once again for being so uncertain.

  Please write back, Davey. I miss you.

  E

  Isle of Skye

  22 April 1916

  Davey,

  Where are you? Why haven’t you written? I don’t know what I could’ve said to turn you away. Wherever you’ve gone, please come back to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.

  Where are you, Davey?

  Sue

  Isle of Skye

  25 April 1916

  Don’t do this to me! For the love of God, I can’t lose you too! Is everyone I love destined to disappear?

  I’m not strong enough for this, Davey. I can’t do it all on my own without knowing you exist in this world. I need you as I need breath in my body.

  I will pray to whatever god I have to if it will bring you back to me. I will pray to the fairies and imps that inhabit my island. I will pray to you, in the Temple of my Heart.

  Oh, my love! My love.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Margaret

  Portree, Skye

  Tuesday, 27 August 1940

  Dear Paul,

  It’s raining on Skye. It’s been raining since the ferry docked. I told the ferry captain I’m from Edinburgh; I’m used to precipitation. He just chuckled and chewed the stem of his pipe.

  Portree curls around the harbour, soft and smudged, like a chalk painting left out in the rain. Of course, I didn’t bring an umbrella—who in Edinburgh really carries an umbrella?—so I had to dart through the drizzle with my suitcase held above my head until I found a pub to duck into. Now I’m tucked by a fire, steaming and drowsy, with a hot toddy and that tattered old book. Staring at the address that’s not really an address. No street name or house number. Elspeth Dunn, Seo a-nis, Skye, United Kingdom.

  I know I should get up, perhaps go find the post office to ask about the address, but it’s too warm here by the fire. The rain is still pattering on the glass. Maybe I’ll order another and keep warm a while longer.

  A moment ago, I was content to sit in here all day, waiting out the rain, but now I’m stirred to action! Just as I was writing to you about being content by the peat fire, I overheard the surly publican chatting with the dowagers at the next table in a language I know from my mother’s lullabies.

  “Is that Gaelic you’re speaking?” I asked. When they nodded, I held out the book. “Please, what does ‘Seo a-nis’ mean?” I won’t tell you how I attempted to pronounce it. You’d be heartily disappointed in me. I’m sure both of the women were.

  But instead of translating, the taller of the two women pointed at the scrawl and exclaimed, “Elspeth Dunn! That’s a name I haven’t heard in quite some time.”

  The other nodded. “She left years ago.”

  “Seo a-nis is her house. She still owns it, doesn’t she?”

  “The family does.”

  I had no idea what I thought I’d find at my mother’s old house. Bits and pieces of the past? I only knew I had to go. “Where is it?”

  And, can you believe it, they looked me up and down! The publican smirked. “It’s more than a stroll, miss.”

  Miss? Really.

  “I’m no stranger to walking,” I’m afraid I said, somewhat stiffly. “If you can please point me in the right direction.”

  “It’s out towards Peinchorran.” He leaned on the table. “I can sell you a map and a compass. And an umbrella.”

  I took him up on the map—marked for her house in pencil—and the compass. Right now I’m hunched in the doorway of the post office, finishing this letter to you and wishing I’d also taken him up on the brolly. The rain is still coming in fits and starts, but there’s no car to take me down to her house. A bit over eight miles. We’ve done close to that before! I’ve changed into my oxfords and intend to attempt it. My mother has a house on the Isle of Skye. Rain or no rain, I plan to find it!

  Margaret

  27 August 1940

  Dear Maisie,

  I’m crossing my fingers and mailing this to you care of your mother’s old address on Skye, as it’s all I have. With luck, it will find its way to you.

  From the moment we met, you’ve been wondering where you came from. The wheres and hows and whys of Margaret Dunn. Just be chary. Not that every father is a skiver like mine, but I don’t want you to be disappointed. I’ve heard you talk about who your father could be. An earl? A general? Basil Rathbone? You didn’t have “island crofter” on that list.

  But isn’t that what searching for the past is? Surprising, shocking, perhaps even a wee bit scary. We never know what we’ll find. But I know you need to at least look. You’ll never know if you’re on the right course for your life until you see the course that has brought you to where you are today.

  You wondered if we were rushing things, if we could trust the way we felt. My sweet lass, I wouldn’t push you into anything you’re unsure about. By all means, consider as long as you wish. But answer me this: The moment you said “yes” and took my hand, what were you feeling?

  For me, I felt as if my heart would jump straight out of my chest, and I’ve kept ahold of that. Every time I start to remember standing chest-deep in the water off Dunkirk, not knowing if the planes would miss me, not knowing if I’d ever make it onto a ship, I’d think of your hand in mine and then any worries would melt away. Of all the things in the world right now, the way I feel about you is the one thing that I do trust.

  Take care and write me as soon as you can.

  Love,

  Paul

  Beagan Mhìltean, Skye

  Friday, 30 August 1940

  Dear Paul,

  I did set off to look for Seo a-nis that same rainy day I arrived. Which, in retrospect, was a bit of a mistake. Much of my walk there was cross-country (though, I do admit, this was probably due to my poor map-reading skills more than anything else). And it was no flower-strewn Borders path. I went up and down rises, across desolate stretches, with no one but sheep for company. Although I had my oxfords on, they were no match for the mud of Skye. I don’t know how many times I had to hop back to extract a shoe. I’d brought my suitcase (though any sensible person would’ve left it back in town), because I thought to change into something dry once I arrived, though I soon saw what a fruitless idea that was. My suitcase was soaked straight through. I tucked the whole in the lea of a crumbling stone fence to come back for later. I still haven’t found it.

  I finally passed an old man walking a dog towards Portree (at least I think so; I swear, the compass must be defective). He reassured me that I was on Peinchorran and pointed the way to Seo a-nis. He said it was the only thing along th
at edge of the loch and I couldn’t miss it. He was right.

  It didn’t look as if anyone had been in the cottage in decades. It’s one of those white, lime-washed buildings you see all over here, with two up and two down, and a chimney on either end. A real slate roof, though many of the tiles had fallen over the years. The shutters were nailed tight and boards stretched across. I tried the door, but it had warped and wouldn’t budge a hair.

  Next to the cottage was an older one, a low stone building with a rotted thatch roof. Beyond that, a tumbled fence marked off an overgrown garden, nothing much more than thistles at this point. Everything was quiet, apart from the waves crashing against the shingle and the bleating of distant sheep.

  The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle. I thought to walk down to the beach, to see if I could find any other sign of life. As I skirted the side of the house, I sent up a roosting flock of something feathered from the half-thatched building. I turned the corner and, oh, Paul, I froze.

  The whole back of the cottage, the side facing out to the sea, glowed with colour. It was like an Italian fresco, caught in the Hebrides. The lime-washed wall was covered with whorls and curves of paintings, some straight out of the Gaelic legends and lullabies Mother would rock me to sleep with. Selkie women slipping from their sealskins on the beach. A ring of fairies dancing around a shuddering green flame. A woman dressed in rose petals on top of a crag, her tears running down to the sea. The pictures merged and overlapped. A couple waltzing. A bowl of oranges. A pink pearl gleaming within an open oyster. Then images I knew could have come only from the last war. An ambulance hurtling past an explosion, while rows of boys marched by. The driver of the ambulance leaned out the window, his face tilted towards the loch, and I swear there was a gleam in his brown-green eyes.