Letters From Skye: A Novel

by Jessica Brockmole

  There! Now you have it! You hold my social future in the palms of your hands.

  I think I can hear the laughter all the way from Scotland.…

  Must go—the tree wars are beginning!

  Regards,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  10 October 1912

  Davey,

  Marvellous! This world needs more male ballet dancers, just as it needs more female geologists.

  And what, pray tell, is a tree war? Is Urbana, Illinois, so arboreally poor that its citizens must go to war? Trees are scarce on Skye, to be sure, but we don’t actually have to do battle. If the situation is that dire, please let me know. I will post a sapling or two.

  The seas here are said to be inhabited by the each uisge, a water horse who pulls his victims beneath the sea and tears them apart with his fangs until only the liver is left, floating up ominously to the surface. Raised on stories like this, what could entice me to step foot in the water?

  Really, though, I do have my reasons. The sea can be terrifying. My da is a fisherman. My brother Alasdair was too but one day never came home. His boat did, scattered on the shingle in bits and pieces. So, yes, I do understand the dangers of the sea.

  If there was a bridge connecting Skye to the mainland, perhaps I might have left. But, until that day comes, as long as I have the ferry to contend with, I fear I shall always be a prisoner on my island.

  Elspeth

  P.S. As strange as it may sound, my friends call me “Elspeth.” But you, not knowing me well enough yet to be a friend, may call me whatever you like.

  Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

  November 3, 1912

  Whatever I like? Then Sue it is!

  Tree wars? They’re silly pranks. Every class plants a tree on the campus and then the other classes try to destroy it. My class has already lost one. We’ve planted anew and have high hopes for the newest member of the ’13s. We’re guarding it in shifts, armed with eggs and paper sacks filled with water. Danny Norton has been feeding the tree a formula he swears by, but I think it’s mostly beer with a bit of bay rum oil to mask the scent. It must be working, as the tree hasn’t kicked it yet. The other night we yanked up the ’14s’ sapling, roots and all!

  Despite the tree wars, things aren’t all fun and games around here. This term is already turning out to be pretty difficult. My friends think the senior year is the easiest of all, but I have such a heavy load of courses. I’m at the library so often, I’m considering moving my pillow and toothbrush over. What’s easy about it? I’m dreading exam time.

  You know, it’s times like this that I doubt the future. I kept hoping that at some point the right professor or course would inflame me and I’d feel the passion others seem to feel. That I’d know, without question, what I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing. But here I am, my final year of college, and I still really have no idea.

  I always assumed I’d follow my father into medicine. Well, I suppose he’s always assumed that and I’ve just followed suit, having no plan of my own. I’ve come to realize, though, that I’m not eager for it. As much as I hate school, I almost wish I could just stay. Then I wouldn’t have to go out into the “big, wide world.”

  Well, there, you’ve heard my worries and my doubts. Perhaps they’re born of frustration as I move closer to end-of-term exams. I’m sorry to burden you with such glum ponderings. I’ll have to send this letter quickly before I change my mind.

  Tired,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  23 November 1912

  Davey,

  Don’t go jumping off your library tower, please!

  We’re not always made for doing the same as the others. My brother Finlay, he could carve the Mona Lisa on an acorn if he wanted to. I’d just end up with a splinter. I could never be a Nijinsky, no matter how hard I was to try. Those classmates with passion and aptitude for their field of study, it’s what they were made to do. Davey, you can’t force yourself to be the same. You’re made for something on this earth, but maybe it’s not what your father thinks. Does he know how unhappy you are?

  In my book, your aptitude lies in keeping a Scottish recluse from going mad during an island winter. The sheep aren’t nearly as fascinating.

  Really, though, Davey, you have passion. There’s something out there for you. Hold fast to that hope. You’ll find it.

  Elspeth

  Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

  December 11, 1912

  Sue,

  Your letter offered me a much-welcome break from studying. It even helped to soothe my throbbing head. I was in the hospital recently and still am not quite up to snuff.

  I’m not sure if my parents know how I feel about school. When I was starting college and mentioned I’d fancy studying American literature, my father actually laughed. Didn’t even look up from his newspaper. Just laughed and said, “Ridiculous.” He has a big walrus mustache, and when he laughs, he doesn’t make a sound. You only know because the tips of his mustache twitch. There he sat, sniffing, mustache twitching, saying things like “Ridiculous” and “No career in that.” “But I enjoy literature,” I protested. “Medicine. That’s what you need to study. You’ll thank me for it later. Nothing more rewarding.”

  I really did try to tell him then, Sue, honest I did. But it only bloomed into an argument, with my mother wringing her hands and imploring me to just “give it a try.” My father finally thumped his newspaper down and declared that he wasn’t paying for that nonsense and that, if I wanted to study something frivolous like literature, it wouldn’t be on his dime.

  So you see why I can’t talk to my parents. I need to just carry on. Finish college, finish medical school. Once I get a job, I can make my own decisions. Maybe.

  I should get back to my studying. I’m looking forward to the holidays as a time to rest up and recuperate before the term starts up again.

  Eyes swimming, vision blurring,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  5 January 1913

  Dear David,

  Happy New Year! It has been so cold, I can barely tear myself from my spot in front of the fire. When I finally did bundle myself and trudge to the post office, I found a letter from you waiting, and so it was well worth the trip.

  How was your holiday? We try to make it merry around here. I made my famous Christmas pudding and had the bonniest wee Christmas tree, strung with ropes of dried flowers. Boughs of evergreen lay across the mantelpiece and swung above the doorways. I was given a pair of mittens, a new kettle, and one of Robert W. Service’s books. Have you read his poetry? Simply marvellous stuff. If you enjoy reading my little verses, you should dip into his.

  What are some of your favourite books? Like any whose blood runs tartan, I adore W. S. Indeed, I don’t know that I could call myself an islander if I hadn’t read The Lord of the Isles. I think his novels are sometimes a bit too Gothic for my tastes, but his poetry really does a fine job of capturing Scotland in all of her changeable moods. I have a cheerful fondness for my battered copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, the first book I ever owned. My brothers and I would run Caucus-races down on the shingle while shouting the driest things we knew into the wind. And I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I’ve just read and quite enjoyed Three Weeks. You probably wouldn’t have guessed me for an Elinor Glyn sort of girl.

  Elspeth

  P.S. I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been in hospital. I hope it’s nothing serious. You seem to do this with alarming frequency.

  Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

  February 1, 1913

  Dear Sue,

  My holidays were splendid! I was in Chicago with my parents. My sister, Evie, and her husband came up from Terre Haute and I met my new little niece, Florence, for the first time. She’s almost a year old now. Full of smiles and the most infectious giggles as she yanked on my suspenders. I bought her a doll in a silk dress, which she was obviously too young for, as all she did was chew
on the doll’s hand and laugh at me. I’ll probably still be buying her dolls in silk dresses when she’s far too old for them, and she’ll likely still be laughing at me.

  I got a box camera for Christmas. Here’s a picture of me, so you can see your humble correspondent. Now you’ll have to respond likewise! Also, more handkerchiefs than I can ever hope to need, courtesy of my mother, a crisp copy of Gray’s Anatomy from my dad, and a set of stereo cards of the British Isles. This last was a special request; I want to see more of the land you call home. And finally, from my sister, one of your earlier books, which she amazingly tracked down somewhere. She stole a peek before wrapping it up, and I’m afraid you have another convert! Now that the new term has begun, I’ve been rationing myself with a poem a night, with the whole saved as a sort of reward for a job well done on my midterm exams.

  My favorite books? Without a doubt, Mark Twain is my favorite author, but to pick just one of his books? I don’t know if it can be done! Of course, none can compare to Huckleberry Finn, but A Connecticut Yankee is rollicking. I suppose about as far from your Lewis Carroll as one can get, though I confess I’ve read Through the Looking-Glass forward and back. I do like Jack London, Wilkie Collins, and H. Rider Haggard. Stories full of mystery and adventure. Poe can’t be beat for a thrill. I like a good western too and read things like Zane Grey when I want to take a break from “literature.” And who is “W. S.” if not Will Shakespeare? I’m afraid I’ve never read The Lord of the Isles.

  No, I wouldn’t have pegged you for an Elinor Glyn sort of girl. I have only a passing acquaintance with her books. And I do literally mean “passing,” as Three Weeks circulated from room to room in my dorm. One enterprising young man found a faux tiger skin rug for his floor, hoping, perhaps, “to sin/With Elinor Glyn.” She never paid a visit to our dorm, nor do I remember any other ladies taking him up on the offer.

  How did I end up in the hospital? Well … I was trying to ride a cow and fell off. Cow-riding isn’t a risky sport in itself—I’ve done it on numerous occasions—but we were leading the cow up the stairs of the Natural History Building toward the president’s office. She wasn’t as keen on the idea. I can only say that I don’t recommend this as a form of transportation. And what do you mean, I end up in the hospital a lot?

  Back to the grindstone, with a new term. I can’t say that this term is looking to be any easier than the last, but at least I’m almost finished!

  Refreshed,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  27 February 1913

  Dear David,

  Many thanks for the picture. You look so serious! And much younger than I thought. I can see a glint in your eye, though, that suggests a boy capable of stealing a tree or riding a cow. What became of your class tree?

  Don’t look for a picture from me. No camera over here, and I don’t think I could draw myself objectively. I would keep modifying and erasing until you had a picture of Princess Maud. We always want to appear more attractive than we really are, don’t you think? I mean, if you had been sketching your picture instead of snapping it with a camera, would you really have drawn in that dreadful checked jacket?

  Now that I’ve seen your picture, I can imagine you and your mates passing around Three Weeks. You wait on tenterhooks for your turn, and when you get the book in your eager hands, you race to your room, homework forgotten for the night. And as you start reading, your cheeks get quite pink as you realise just how unlike Henry James this is.

  I’ve never read Mark Twain, but I agree that Poe is thrilling. I remember reading “The Tell-Tale Heart” as a girl one night, in bed with a candle stub I pilfered from church. I was certainly punished for stealing the candle, because after I finished the book and blew out the candle, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I was quite positive that I heard the beating of the heart downstairs. When dawn broke, my mother found me sitting stiffly in bed, quite awake, clutching my blanket around me. I was convinced God was punishing me for my sin of stealing the altar candle. So what did I do the following Sunday to atone for my sin? I pilfered a candle from our cupboard at home and left it at the church!

  And, dear boy, W. S. is, of course, Walter Scott. I’m sure they have a few of his knocking around that enormous university library of yours. Regardless, if you’ve read Through the Looking-Glass more than once, you and I will get on beautifully. “Jabberwocky” is my favourite.

  In your very first letter (yes, I save all your letters!), you spoke of having been in hospital recently. What sort of livestock had you been using inappropriately at that time? Trying to waltz with a horse? Play football with a ram?

  Elspeth

  Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

  March 21, 1913

  Dear Sue,

  I had to put aside my books to answer immediately and defend myself and my poor checked jacket. You obviously have no sense of style on the Isle of Skye, as my jacket and I are at the height of fashion here on campus! And I had to look serious in the picture; it’s my first mustache. I’m curious now, how old do you think I look?

  All right, if you won’t sit in front of the mirror and draw me a picture with your pencil, please sit in front of the mirror and draw me a picture with your words. Look in the mirror, right now, and tell me what it is that you see. I’ll put together my own picture.

  No, no previous abuses of livestock, at least not any that landed me in the hospital. That earlier hospital visit was due to trying to scale the walls of the Women’s Building and sneak into Alice McGinty’s room. I shinnied up the drainpipe and had almost made it to the top when my hands slipped. My leg was broken and so was my heart, as Alice didn’t even appreciate my effort. I can understand her displeasure, as she was nearly kicked out of the dormitory over the incident. And do you know the most frustrating part of it all? I had climbed that very same drainpipe on more than one occasion, often with a jar of grasshoppers tied in my jacket or, on one memorable evening, a sack of squirrels.

  And our tree (we christened him “Paulie”) is still inching up. We may win this war yet!

  I was quite shocked when you said you had never read Mark Twain. What sort of education do you get in Scotland? This is a deficiency I shall have to rectify. Please accept this copy of Huck Finn—as a belated Christmas gift, if you like—excusing its battered appearance. I found it in a secondhand bookshop and it appears quite well loved, if recently kicked to the curb. I couldn’t give it a good home, already having a copy above my desk, but knew I could entrust you with its well-being.

  Until next time,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  9 April 1913

  Dear David,

  And what a splendid mustache it is!

  Oh, I am so horrid at guessing ages. I think with those round cheeks (so perfect for pinching, Davey-boy!) and that lock of hair falling into your face, you look about eighteen or so. A lady never reveals her age, but I’m not much older.

  All right, sir, I will attempt your challenge. And I will try to be honest with my description as well.

  Looking in the mirror, what do I see? I have a thin face and somewhat pointed chin. Small nose, narrow lips. My hair is brown and as straight as a line. I have it pulled back in a knot low on my head, as severe as I can make it, but it is so fine that I already have strands escaping and flying about my face. My eyes are the amber colour of my da’s good malt whisky. Although Màthair (that’s Gaelic for “Mother”) tries to keep me neat, I tend to wear my brothers’ old sweaters and skirts far too short to be fashionable. Don’t tell, but I’ve even been known to wear a pair of trousers—tailored down to my size—when out hiking.

  There! What do you think? Can you picture me? If I had sketched that for you, I certainly would’ve padded out the bosom.

  A sack full of squirrels, Davey? My, but you are a scamp! Those poor women. Why do these things if they end in yet another visit to the fine medical facilities of Urbana, Illinois?

  I was quite excited to get the copy of Huckleberry Finn.
I don’t have much of a library and so any book, no matter how battered, is welcome. Books get read and reread during those long Scottish winter nights.

  Elspeth

  Chapter Four

  Margaret

  Plymouth

  Wednesday, 19 June 1940

  Dear Mother,

  You can give it to me. I ran out without even saying goodbye. And after a boy who, until recently, was nothing more than a pen friend. And a poor pen friend at that, what with the weeks of not hearing from him. But if you could have seen how sweet and plaintive he looked waiting at the station, you would’ve forgiven him too!

  He’s well but had a near miss. Nothing worse than a few scrapes and a sprained wrist, though he won’t tell me what happened. Just that he’s glad to see me and feels better already.

  I don’t have any vackies scheduled to escort, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay down here for a bit. Paul doesn’t know when he’ll next get leave and, Mother, he needs me.

  Love and kisses,

  Margaret

  Edinburgh

  22 June 1940

  My Margaret,

  You don’t know how I worried about you, traveling all the way to Plymouth by yourself. You’ve never been so far from home.

  Perhaps you shouldn’t stay longer. You’ve gone down, you’ve cheered up your friend and satisfied yourself that he is as well as can be. You’ve even brought him every last crumb of the precious cakes bought with my ration coupons. You should come home now. You should come home before this becomes anything serious. Please.