And behind it all are my own actions. If I hadn’t done what I did to Iain, Willie never would have felt justified in his decisions. My family would still be whole.
Davey, my love, my boy, it has to stop. I have to stop. And, believe me, my fingers do not want to write these words. But I can’t do this anymore to Iain. When he’s found, when he comes home, I have to tell him. I have to straighten things out with him before there can be anything with us. Things weren’t good between Iain and me; surely he won’t disagree. But, Davey, I have to go about this the right way or I may never be able to forgive myself.
That’s why I’ve been painting our story on the side of my cottage. A reminder of what was. A memorial to us in paint and brush.
Please understand. Know that I love you, but please understand.
Elspeth
Place Three
June 8, 1916
Sue,
You don’t know how I’ve been dreading this letter from you. I knew it would be coming someday, but I dreaded it all the same.
The day you wrote back and said that you loved me too, Sue, you turned my world upside down. Life has never looked the same to me since I read those words. But your last letter, that’s turned it around again, and I’m dizzier than before. I haven’t slept since.
I could beg you not to leave me. That’s exactly what the selfish boy in me wants to do. And, deep down, I think that’s what you want me to do too. But, all of this I’m doing here, it’s an effort to prove myself worthy of you, worthy of whatever it is that we have. That man wouldn’t pull you away from those you love. He wouldn’t send cracks running through your life.
All I will beg, though, is that you consider for a while longer. Don’t shut me out just yet. This has all come so suddenly. I would not hold you in something you do not want, but give me more time. Let me hold you a little while longer. Until Iain returns, please stay with me.
Always,
Davey
Isle of Skye
19 June 1916
Dear Davey,
I received a formal letter from the War Office. As there has been no further news received, Private Iain Dunn is regretfully presumed to have been killed in action.
The moment I heard the knock on the door, I knew. I didn’t even open the letter right away, just set it up on the mantel Finlay carved. Funny, my very first thought was of Finlay, how he’d collapse at the news. I had to shore myself up. I had to be there for my brother.
I didn’t sleep at all after the letter came. I spent the night in the old cottage, sorting through Iain’s few things. He left behind so little, such scant evidence that a man once lived. I couldn’t bring myself to move anything from the places he laid them.
Forgotten on a shelf in the old cottage, a nautical almanac from 1910—did he really once read?—and a carved pipe. Evenings, while I sat and scribbled, Iain carved. He got that from Finlay, I know. I still remember the two of them as boys, sitting down by the shore with dark heads bent together, whittling pieces of driftwood into peg dolls and tops for me. In recent years, he’d started fishing in deeper waters, staying out in the boat all night. I told myself it was because he was tired of doing nothing but carving and staring into the fire every evening. Now I just don’t know.
He kept a small kist for his clothes, though he walked out the door wearing most all that he owned. Nothing left in the kist but two oft-mended blue shirts I made when we first married. They were enthusiastically uneven, but he never complained, only brought them to me for mending when the old patches wore out. I still have a length of that blue fabric somewhere. Amazing that the shirts lasted longer than we did.
Tucked in the back of the kist was a broken wooden comb. He always wore his hair too long. He said he liked to feel it blowing against his forehead when he was out on the water. The night before he left, he sat in front of the fire in just his trousers and cut his hair short. I thought to catch it all up and tuck the locks between the pages of Byron, but he tossed it all into the fire. I wasn’t that sentimental, anyhow.
At the bottom of the kist, I found a dented biscuit tin, crusted with salt and rusted shut. It must’ve lived in his seabag, before he emptied it and packed for the army. I had to lever it open with the meat knife. And, oh, Davey! Inside, a copy of my first book, Waves to Peinchorran. We hadn’t been married yet when I gave it to him, not knowing if he’d ever read it. The pages were water-stained and, right in the middle, at a poem about summer nights, was a twisted lock of my hair. In pencil he’d underlined the phrase “warm as a breath on my face.” Next to the book was a carved wooden baby rattle.
Since then I’ve been sitting here, wrapped in a sweater of his, staring into the fire. Màthair came over yesterday and clucked her tongue to see me sweltering in front of a fire with a wool sweater. She brought in water for a bath and set to work making a fish pie. While the pie cooked, she helped me wash my hair and asked, “Is it guilt you’re feeling?”
How could I explain to her that it wasn’t guilt over loving you, that it was guilt over not loving Iain enough? That all this time I spent thinking he was turning from me, he wasn’t. He went away, chasing herring up the Minch, but he carried a piece of me with him. He always kept me close.
I feel so hollow, Davey. Back when I got the other letter, when I found out he’d gone missing, I told myself he was dead. I cried my allotment of tears then. Why would I tell myself anything different? Hope is useless at a time like that. Hope only sets you up for disappointment.
Davey, I don’t know how to do this. Mourn. I didn’t shed a tear when the letter arrived, and I still haven’t. I can’t leave the house, because who would understand? There goes his widow, who refuses to cry. There goes his widow, who doesn’t care.
But I do. He was my husband. How could I not care?
I don’t know what it is I expect you to say. I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing, except that’s what I do. Màthair told me not to stop. She told me to keep writing “my American,” that there was no better way to keep me going.
Please don’t leave me, Davey.
Sue
Chapter Eighteen
Margaret
Beagan Mhìltean, Skye
Saturday, 31 August 1940
Dear Paul,
After Gran found me at Seo a-nis and brought me back to her house, she could see the questions in my eyes. But she put me off. Told me we could talk tomorrow. She had a big pot of brose cooking over a fire and set me down at the table across from my grandfather and my uncle Willie, two men as weathered as the Crags. Gran kept those sharp crow’s eyes fixed on me, but Grandfather didn’t look at much but the inside of his eyelids the whole meal.
With no sounds but the crackling of the fire and the scraping of spoons in bowls, I waited for Gran to say something. Such a wee woman, yet so intimidating. She’d dried me off and given me an ancient sweater and a pair of Grandfather’s trousers to put on. My own clothes steamed quietly in front of the fire. Uncomfortable in strange clothes in a strange place, I waited for Gran to go first.
Uncle Willie blethered the whole meal, with anecdotes about Skye, questions about Edinburgh, and a whole string of awful jokes. About himself or my mother, he said nothing. From Gran’s tight mouth and narrowed eyes, I gathered that Willie was the family disappointment. Unmarried, uncouth, still taking up space in her house.
Through all Willie’s talk, Gran sat silently, watching me. A battle of wills, and the old woman was the more stubborn of us. I finally broke and asked her how she knew I’d be coming. On a place such as Skye, I could full well believe in second sight.
“Finlay wrote to me.”
Willie’s spoon clattered into his bowl. “Finlay wrote?”
“First time in twenty or so years.” She had a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “He said Elspeth’s daughter had tracked him down and, if she stayed as persistent, would be up on my doorstep in no time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me he wrote?”
Gran glared. �
�Just because you live in my house and eat my bread does not mean I tell you everything, Willie Macdonald.”
Willie didn’t even look chagrined. “He’s my brother.”
“And yet he didn’t write to you.”
Willie thumped back his chair and, with no apology, left the kitchen.
Disappointment indeed. My first night there, and already in the middle of a family squabble.
“Finlay wrote that you were asking about Elspeth when she was younger,” Gran said. “That you wanted to know your mother before you were born.”
I nodded. “He wouldn’t tell me much.”
“Finlay’s as stubborn as Elspeth, to be sure. All these years, both of them waiting for the other to apologise.” She scraped the last of the brose from the pot into my bowl. “Both were more alike than they’d ever admit, even as children. They were our dreamers, the two never content with a crofting life. Both were starving for knowledge. They read and reread everything they could reach. Both kept their eyes on the horizon, as though looking for a way to touch it. Both, when they gave their hearts away, lost them for good.”
I remember exactly what she said, because I made her repeat it and then scribbled it down the moment I could.
“The difference, though, was that the poetry was only in Finlay’s soul. It was in Elspeth’s very fingertips.” She gathered in the bowls and stacked them with a clatter. “To bed with you, Margaret Dunn. In the morning I will give you that ‘first volume.’ ”
Those black eyes didn’t brook any argument, and I knew where Mother had got her stubbornness.
When I woke in the morning, the cottage was quiet, everyone having gone off to their chores around the croft. On the kitchen table rested a plate of fresh bannocks, a pot of jam, and a tall stack of gilt-edged poetry books. All written by my mother.
Paul, I had no idea. I knew poetry rode in her soul but not that it had once flowed straight onto the page. My mother, a poet!
All week I’ve been reading and rereading the stack, building a picture of her through bits and pieces of verse. Joy, sunshine, the sea. Love soaring, love vanishing. Love tearing her in two. And I’m starting to understand what she’s feeling as she wanders London. For, in her poetry, I see some of those ghosts.
Love,
Margaret
London, England
24 August 1940
Dear Sir or Madam,
Many years ago, a young man named David Graham roomed at this address while a student at the University of Illinois. I know that it has been quite a long time, but I would appreciate any information you could supply.
If you have any information about his whereabouts after leaving Urbana, Illinois, can you please contact me? You can write to me at the Langham Hotel, London. I thank you in advance.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Elspeth Dunn
Chapter Nineteen
Elspeth
Place Five
June 30, 1916
Dear Sue,
Sue, YOU’VE DONE NOTHING WRONG. There isn’t anything inappropriate in how you’re reacting to Iain’s death. And how dare anyone try to make you feel otherwise! Cry if you want to. Or sing if you’d rather. Wear the black dress to church, but then change into a bright-yellow one when you’re at home. If you want to sit sweating in front of the fire, by all means do so. But then, the next morning, go for a walk barefoot in the coolness of the dew.
Don’t for a moment collapse in on yourself. You don’t realize what a vibrant force you are on this earth. You are not one meant for mourning. You’re meant for living and for loving. As long as you live, you are paying him tribute. As long as you still love him, you are paying him tribute. Keep hold of that, Sue.
And remember, “Here I am.” I am just an envelope away.
David
Isle of Skye
7 July 1916
My chevalier,
Even when you don’t think you have anything to say, you come up with the perfect words. Of course, I would’ve been cheered just seeing a grubby envelope addressed in your scrawl, but your words inside act as a balm to my raw heart.
I don’t have a yellow dress, but on the way home from the post office I couldn’t help but take off my hat and tuck a bunch of blue forget-me-nots in my hair. It was such a beautiful day, warm and drowsy, that it reminded me of my wedding day. Did you know, I would’ve been married eight years last week? I gathered up some more forget-me-nots, some bright-yellow saxifrage, pansy, red campion, and tied them into a wee posy with the ribbon from my hat. Then I took it to the spot where Iain and I used to play as children and laid it on top of the fairy mound where he gave me my first kiss. I couldn’t think of a better place for a memorial to him.
As I stood up there, trying to remember this man I hadn’t seen for nearly two years, this husband who suddenly became such a stranger to me, the question of whether or not I still loved him flitted unbidden across my mind.
I think I’ve always loved Iain in one way or another. I told you I’d known him for years. From childish affection to the “crush” of adolescence. From the blushing love that comes with adulthood to the comfortable love of marriage. So, yes, I still do love him. I suppose I can’t imagine not loving him, so long have I been doing it.
It’s funny you should ask about my poetry. I hadn’t written anything for a long time, not since Christmas. I tried to write something last night, as a way to sort out my feelings, but it all sounded so artificial. It didn’t flow the way my words did when I was with you. Remember that poem that I wrote in London about you sprawled across the bed with your arm flung over your face? That very movement was a poem in itself. The words were there—I only had to pluck them out of the air and pin them down onto the page. But last night… I just couldn’t do it. Is my muse gone? Will I not be able to write again?
As strange as this might sound, given the circumstances, I feel better having talked of Iain, almost as if my words here were a eulogy. By talking of him, laying that posy down, I feel as if I’m (gently) closing a door. But when one closes a door, all that remains is to open another one.
Sue
Place Six
July 15, 1916
Sue,
It sounds as if you are doing well. I knew you would figure out what it was that you needed to do.
We’ve moved again. I feel like a gypsy, living out of the back of my flivver, never bedding down in one spot long enough to wear an indentation into the floor. We’re officially en repos again, so we’re a good distance behind the lines but still running the occasional evacuation, usually of the sick (malades) rather than the wounded (blessés).
Place Six is one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in France, made even more so by the peacefulness and respite it offers us. I wish I could take your hand and show it to you. We’re staying in a little valley just beyond the town, verdant and dotted with flowers. After smelling powder and blood and the sickly sweet smell of infection for so long, we can’t get enough of the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers. Here’s a poppy for you, Sue. Press it in your Huck Finn and keep it for me.
I remember when you wrote that poem in London. Sue, could you send that to me? Yeats and Shakespeare are all fine and good, but I hunger for a bit of original Elspeth Dunn.
Do you notice I’m not worried when you say you’ll never write again? You thought the same right after the war broke out, and you kept on writing. Darker, more thoughtful stuff, but stuff all the same. I know you wrote a lot while we were in London. Your muse hasn’t left you, Sue. Be patient.
And you haven’t stopped writing, no matter what you say. Your words haven’t become artificial. You still write to me, and I don’t know that you’ve ever written more-natural, more-honest thoughts than you write in these letters.
Oh! There’s the call for mess. Have to end it for now but wanted to remind you that someone in France is thinking of you.
David
Isle of Skye
22 July 1916
Davey,
Yesterday, I felt rather pensive. As I went about my chores, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it means to be married. The expectations the community has of you, the expectations you have of yourself. I’m still not sure what it means to be a widow. I don’t know what it is I’m allowed to feel or do.
I’m sure Iain’s mother thinks I should spend the rest of my days in mourning, saying a prayer for him each morning, lighting a candle for him each night. As I knelt in the garden, pondering this, I began to think that’s what I should be doing.
Then your letter arrived and I was reminded that, of the men in my life who have loved me from far away, here was one who was safe and whole and sound.
I went and dug up that poem to copy over for you. In a rush, those words brought back that lazy afternoon to me. I remember watching you there on the bed, looking so at ease, so happy. We hadn’t eaten, had hardly slept in days, yet you were so perfectly content. Do you remember how you fed me oranges from the fruit bowl with your fingers? I don’t know what tasted sweeter—the oranges or you.
The poem reminded me not only of that afternoon but that I’ve been in love with you for a long time. Rather than spending my time pining away for someone who is never coming back, I could be pining for someone who will. If I say a prayer every morning, Davey, it will be a prayer for you, a prayer that this war ends soon and I have you by my side.
E
Repose
He lies in stillness, bathed in light,
Every muscle touched with gold.
Letters from Skye Page 14