Letters from Skye

by Jessica Brockmole

  Davey, I need you to be the strong one. I need you to be brave for the both of us. Please come here and take me away. I feel invincible when I’m with you.

  I’m tired now. I don’t want to argue about this. It’s a fact and not worth fighting about. Amidst all this war, all this death, we’ve made life. The baby, it’s just another adventure. And, remember, I can face any adventure with you by my side.

  Sue

  December 3, 1916

  Dear Elspeth,

  I wish I weren’t writing you. Months ago, Dave gave me this envelope and told me to mail it if something ever happened.

  We were doing a run four nights ago. When we got there, we found that the dugout had just been hit. Doctors, orderlies, blessés—gone. An officer was trying to put some sort of order on the situation, directing those coming up from the first-line trench.

  Having a little medical training, I started checking over the blessés coming in, deciding who was going to even make it back to the poste de triage. Those brancardiers still upright were dumping their loads and heading back out as fast as they could stumble. Dave, fool that he is, jumped into the trench and followed after. He came back a few times, ignored my shouts, and went back out. One time he didn’t come back.

  He had no business being up over the first line, but you know Dave. He never would listen to prudence. He did what had to be done, though.

  I debated for those four days whether or not to mail you this letter. I kept hoping he’d come limping out of No Man’s Land with an amusing story about yet another lucky escape. It wasn’t to be.

  There’s not much I can do for you from here, but please write to Minna if there’s anything you need. I know about your situation. Dave told me that night, as we were speeding along to the poste. Yes, he was shocked and scared. But that night he was hopeful. And quite happy.

  So to satisfy the last wish of the best friend I could ever hope to have…

  Harry Vance

  Sue, my own sweet girl.

  This is the letter you were never supposed to read. If you are, it means this is the last one I’ll ever send.

  As I’m writing this, it’s May and I’ve just gotten back from seeing you in Paris. Your stack of increasingly frantic letters waited for me upon my return. As I read them, I began to realize exactly how scared and worried you must have been, so far away from everything happening here. I don’t want you to have to go through that again, not knowing, so I’m doing what works best for us. I’m writing you a letter.

  I don’t know when you’ll read this. It could be next month, it could be six months from now, it could be a year. I hope it’s never. I don’t know what the world will be like then. I don’t know what sort of things we’ll have been writing about. I don’t know if you’ll have found yourself another handsome American ambulance driver.

  I can say with certainty (even looking into the future) that I haven’t and never will find another Sue. You are the reason I frown at the sunrise and smile at the sunset. Frown because I have to face the day alone, without you by my side. Smile because that’s one less day we have to spend apart.

  You wrote in one of your letters that you didn’t think you were strong enough. You said, “I can’t do it all on my own without knowing you exist in this world.” You are strong, Sue. Look at you—you crossed the English Channel for me! When I see the things you did for me, it makes me wish I was a stronger man for you.

  I know you wish I had never gotten involved with this war over here, that when I got to London I had just stayed on that train and raced clear up to Skye, never leaving again. But I had to do this. I couldn’t come to you as a failure, Sue. I had to prove I was something. You always call me a boy. I needed to grow up and become a man.

  I know you, my dear. I know that right now you are shaking your head angrily at my words and saying, “But you didn’t fail. You got me to fall in love with you! I’m your success.” You are my success, Sue. And I know that. I don’t know what I did right in my life, but it must’ve been something pretty worthy for me to have gotten you. My pearl.

  I regret not telling you this. I want to be the first thing your bleary eyes focus on in the morning. I want to watch you wash your face and slide on your stockings. I want to cook you breakfast and kiss the egg from the corner of your mouth. I want to curl up by the window, you tucked on my lap, reading, writing, talking, breathing. I want to warm up your bare feet between my knees in bed. I want to fall asleep with your hair tickling my chin.

  I would have moved to Skye and suffered through the disapproval of your neighbors and your family, if that was what you wanted. I would have gone to the farthest reaches of Siberia, if that was what you wanted. I know that now I’m in a place neither of us would have chosen.

  You said once a long while ago that it was too clichéd to say you could love someone forever. Is there a word that means “longer than forever”? That will be how long I love you.

  Now, forever, and beyond that. I love you.

  David

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Margaret

  Glasgow

  6 September

  Margaret,

  It’s weighed on me for years that I was the cause of my sister’s sadness. I’m sure she blames me still.

  You see, I had a girl named Kate. When I went off to soldier, she wove a lock of her hair into a rosette and stitched it to my shirt, near my heart, so that she’d always be with me.

  Then came Festubert and I returned home a leg short, wanting nothing more than to bury my face on her shoulder. But that first moment, when I tried to draw her into my arms, she flinched. Literally flinched. She slowly stopped coming around, but, really, that made it easier. If she wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have to see her eyes sneak to my folded trouser leg, wouldn’t have to feel the air between us as she stepped aside to let me pass.

  I thought I understood. What lass wants a cripple for a husband? Even when I received my prosthetic, I knew it wouldn’t matter. She already felt so far away.

  Then Willie came home on leave. I was out at Elspeth’s new cottage, carving a mantelpiece. Willie found me sitting behind the kailyard with a lapful of wood shavings, and he tossed off his tunic to help. There, sewn to his shirt, right over his heart, was a golden rosette of hair.

  We scuffled. He kept saying that we can’t help who we love. I think I broke his nose. Màthair was furious, and Elspeth cried and cried. Willie left the next day and didn’t come home on leave again.

  And I thought that was that. I simmered, but Willie left and I could carve Elspeth’s mantel and try to forget I’d ever met Kate. But peace doesn’t last long. Elspeth received a letter from the War Office. Iain had been officially declared dead.

  Those months passed in a blur. Iain, closer to me than my own brother, was gone. We’d set off for France with a lot of bravado and a promise to watch out for one another. I’d failed. Those were black days, to be sure. Elspeth was better off than I was. Alasdair’s bairns had come to stay with her, to fill her days. Since Kate left me, I had no one. I spent my time alone, walking the hills with my cane and a flask. When I went to Edinburgh for a check on my prosthetic, the doctor took me to task for abusing it so on the climbs. I didn’t care. I needed the pain.

  But on my way back to Waverley Station, I saw Elspeth. She wasn’t back on Skye, mourning Iain. She was in an embrace right there on the street, with a stranger.

  I know I wasn’t being fair when I squared her around and gave her a piece of my mind. The man pushed between us, as if it were any business of his. He wasn’t even from here; he was just an American. How could she forget about Iain like that? Only months after his death, and here she was throwing herself at someone else. How could she betray him, and with an American?

  She stood with head down and let me say my piece. Whispered that she hadn’t forgotten Iain and never would. But then she started to cry, and the American stepped between us again. I went for him, asked what he was doing going after other men’s wives
while soldiers were dying in the trenches. And Elspeth’s eyes flared up.

  Yes, men were dying in the trenches. But, back at home, people were living. She was living. And I was never to step between her and her life again. She threw back her shoulders in that stubborn way I knew so well and said that we can’t help who we love. Just as Willie had.

  Hearts meant more than blood? Now I knew why Willie thought that. But he was only a lad. Elspeth was supposed to be the smart one. The loyal one. The one who’d never turn away from her family or the promises she made. It was always supposed to be Elspeth, Iain, and me against the world. I told her to choose. Chin lifted, she took the American’s arm. I spat, said she was a fool, said that my whole family were fools. One day he’d play her false, but I wouldn’t stay to pick up the pieces. And I didn’t.

  I did write to Màthair once, a few weeks later. I asked if Elspeth had listened to what I said. I asked if she was still with the American. Màthair wrote back that I should know well enough when to quit, that Elspeth didn’t much care what anyone said these days. She’d just received word that her American had died, and it took all of Màthair’s strength to keep Elspeth from following after.

  Of course, I felt rotten after that. Who wouldn’t? But I was young and stupid and thought that any apology was too late. The past is past, Màthair always said, and so I stepped away from it all. If Elspeth decided to forgive me one day, she’d find me. At least that’s what I thought at the time. And, lad that I was, it made sense.

  Now I know it was stubbornness—foolish stubbornness—and I’m too old to keep waiting for forgiveness. For breaking her heart, for breaking our family, the forgiveness might never come.

  I’m asking for it now. I know how things can change in an instant in wartime. I know how quickly things can be lost. If you hear from your mother again, please tell me. I need to write to her. After all this time, I need to tell her that I’m sorry.

  Love,

  Uncle Finlay

  London, England

  2 September 1940

  Dear Sir,

  Many years ago, a young man named David Graham volunteered with the American Field Service, near the beginning of the Great War. I understand the American Field Service Association plans reunions of the ambulance sections and maintains a publication with news and information about the former members.

  If you have any information on David Graham, no matter how slim, 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 Twenty-three

  Elspeth

  Kriegsgefangenen-Sendung, Postkarte

  January 2, 1917

  Sue,

  If you get a letter from Harry, do not open it! Throw it away. Never read it.

  I know you must’ve been worried, not hearing from me for a while, but trust me when I say I couldn’t write to you before now.

  I am fine, but I’ve been taken prisoner. I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to write or how often I’ll be allowed to send letters, but you can write to me at the address on the other side of this card.

  Can you please write to Harry to let him know what happened and give him this address?

  I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Christmas with you, but, as you can see, I didn’t break my promise to you. I just need to delay its fulfillment.

  I love you. More than you could ever know.

  David

  Isle of Skye

  22 January 1917

  Davey,

  I can hardly write through the tears. Your postcard—precious bit of cardboard!—is crushed in my fist, and I’m writing you with my other hand. Màthair tried to pry it from my hand to read, but I wouldn’t let it go. She saw your handwriting and then ushered everyone out of the room.

  I knew you couldn’t be dead. I suppose everyone says that about those they love. But I still felt you! As long as my heart was whole and beating, I knew you must still exist on this earth.

  And you do! Every day that I thought about you and wept over you, you were thinking about me with just as much force.

  Oh, my darling, my love. My own amazing boy. Me—the poet—lost for words.

  Your Sue

  Isle of Skye

  24 January 1917

  Davey,

  I’ve found them. My words, that is.

  How are you? Really? Do you need anything? Are you warm enough?

  I can’t bear the thought of you in a prison. It must be awfully cold and uncomfortable, if it’s anything like in the books. Can I send you packages?

  It has been a bleak few months, for a lot of reasons, but now I see a ray of sunshine through the clouds. I can crumple up the poems I’ve been writing since December and toss them in the flames.

  This is the slow time of the year. Much sitting in front of the fire, reading and writing. I’ve been trying to get the children interested in poetry, but, alas, no such luck. Are you allowed to have your books there?

  As much as the thought of you in prison makes me shiver, I can’t help but be glad that you’re alive, that, God willing, you’ll be back in my arms before long.

  Yours,

  Sue

  February 7, 1917

  Sue,

  I’m allowed to send only two letters a month (not to exceed six pages) and four postcards. I really should send the occasional letter and postcard to my mother, Evie, and Harry, so you won’t be able to get nearly the bounty of letters you did before. The bounty of thoughts, however, will remain undiminished.

  As far as I know, you are able to send as many packages and letters as you wish. If you can, there are many things I need. I didn’t have my bag with me when I was taken, so I can use a lot of basic things: comb, toothbrush, soap, spare socks and shirt. I’ve been borrowing these from some of the others. Would it be possible for you to send a blanket? And books! Any and all reading material you can get your hands on. I’ve been reading and rereading your two precious letters (the rest back in my duffel bag—I should write to Harry about that). All I had on me when I went over was your picture and “Repose” tucked into my jacket pocket, but I could live on nothing but sand and water for years as long as I had those two things.

  What I wouldn’t give for things to be back to the way they were in Edinburgh. Just you, me, and a quiet place. Just you and me.

  I love you,

  Davey

  P.S. How have you been feeling? You haven’t mentioned anything about the baby.

  Isle of Skye

  28 February 1917

  I wanted to send the package as soon as possible, so I hope I’ve found everything you need—some more socks (I had a whole basket knit for you, so you will have no shortage of socks, my love!); the only men’s shirts I could find in Portree; comb, toothbrush, and tooth powder; soap; a package of handkerchiefs. Wondered if you needed shaving tackle but didn’t know if you’d be allowed to receive that. The blanket is the one from my own bed.

  Harry’s already taken care of your kit bag. When he thought you weren’t coming back, he packed up the contents and sent them to your mother. He kept aside your copy of Huck Finn and your Bible, which he sent to me. He’s no fool; he knew what I would want most of all to remember you by. I know you have a greater need for Huckleberry’s companionship than I do. Anyway, I have my own copy. I return him to you.

  I rummaged quickly through my own stock and tossed in some Byron and Plutarch, supplemented with a few penny dreadfuls I found in town. I’m sorry I couldn’t fit any more in this package. The blanket took up nearly all of the room. I have some fresh notepaper for you tucked inside Byron and a couple of pencils.

  I want to hold on to the Bible for now, if you don’t mind. Consider it your pair of socks.

  I never stop thinking about you and wishing you were here.

  Love,

  Sue

  P.S. I’m not pregnant any longer. Maybe it is for the best.

  March 16, 1917
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  My dear Sue,

  Many thanks for the parcel. Everything is much appreciated, especially the socks.

  I’m quite comfortable here. The sole drawback I see is that I’m the only American in this camp. There isn’t even an Englishman to converse with. French and Russians and Poles. A few of the Frenchmen have a bit of English, and I am starting to learn a few words of Russian, but it’s not the same.

  Speaking of which, the books are perfect, Sue. Don’t you worry. Even the “penny dreadfuls.” The lack of a library was making me crazy. Those of us here who are of a literary bent devour (and then re-devour) anything with words. I’ve been borrowing whatever I can in French. Anytime you have a bit of space in a package, my dear girl, please slip in a couple of volumes for me. Anything and everything is welcome. What I wouldn’t do for a Trib! Again, another “alas!”

  Thinking of you,

  David

  P.S. Maybe it is for the best. Everything is so uncertain now. A guy in prison isn’t exactly father material. We can talk about it properly when I get home. I love you.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Margaret

  London

  7 September 1940

  Oh, Màthair,

  I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been in London these past two months with a suitcase of letters, reading and rereading Davey’s scrawl. I’ve written to every address I can think of—his parents’ house in Chicago, the apartment he shared with Harry, his rooming house, his sister’s house, even his university alumni organization, and the American Field Service Association—any address I could find that could lead to someone, anyone, who might know what happened to him. To “my American.”