Letters From Skye: A Novel

by Jessica Brockmole

  4 October 1914

  David,

  Well, I’ve finally heard from Iain. His battalion is at a training camp in Bedford. He expects they’ll get called up any day, but I imagine most men say that. What else do they have aside from anticipation? It was a short letter, talking cheerfully of training and weapons and how they all hope to “get a few Huns.” Not a word of me or our home or the bairn I’d lost.

  My brother Finlay enlisted too, at the same time as Iain. Those two were inseparable growing up. It only stood to reason they’d go off to war together. My mother refuses to let my youngest brother, Willie, join up. He’s her baby, and she’ll hold him close for as long as she can. Willie’s been going about in a black cloud since Finlay went off. I think Màthair’s made a mistake and let the wrong one go. Willie’s always her lad, but Finlay, once he’s had a taste of the world, might never want to come back. He’s not made to be a crofter or a fisherman. I think the only thing that will bring him back to Skye is Kate.

  I’ve been trying to write, to go out walking by myself and compose some poems. But they all come out jumbled. Not quite right. I need things back to normal. I need to keep my mind from things. I can’t think about Iain or Finlay or any of our other boys getting ready to go off to fight and die.

  I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you about my husband. I suppose it just never fit into our conversations. But now I’m weary of not always telling you the absolute truth.

  Elspeth

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  November 2, 1914

  Dear Sue,

  I can understand how your brother Willie feels. You know me, I wouldn’t be happy either if I were left behind while everyone else went off to war. I’d want the adventure too.

  I know it may not be much, but I’ve started writing down those fairy stories I’ve been telling Florence. I’ve included one with this letter—“The Mouse King’s Cheese.” Florence adores cheese! I thought you might find it entertaining, something to pass the time. It’s not finished, though. I’m not quite sure how to end it. Maybe you have an idea?

  Another term has begun and I feel a bit more confident, having taught these classes all before. We’ve just finished talking about the history of chemistry (starting from the alchemists, then Lavoisier, Mendeleev, and the like). My students turned in the most appalling set of essays. To think, they will be the next generation of statesmen and lawyers, and they can’t even construct a proper argument! At any rate, when I was reading these and ruminating that I (I hope!) wrote a bit better at that age, I couldn’t help but think of you.

  Sue, you must start writing again. Don’t try to force yourself, but tuck a pencil and a square of paper in your waistband, so that whenever and wherever your muse returns to you, you will be able to stop and scribble it down. Emerson said, “Genius is the activity which repairs the decay of things,” and he was talking about poetry. I think if you get to writing again, that could be the thing to help you return to the normality that you crave.

  In any case, don’t stop writing to me, no matter what. It may not be poetry to you, but I’ve never thought of your letters as anything less.

  Waiting for the poetry,

  David

  Isle of Skye

  29 November 1914

  Dear David,

  Oh, I think the horrid little girl should stay a mouse forever! Climbing onto the table to reach the bread on the other side? I do hope your niece has nicer table manners than that.

  Well, if you can’t leave Lottie as a mouse, what could you do to her? I mean aside from having her be caught by Mrs. Owl and made into mouse mousse. She has to learn her lesson somehow. Maybe something involving the pies cooling on her mother’s window? (O, what a temptation.…) Or maybe she has to rescue the Mouse King in some way and thus receives his undying gratitude? Maybe she falls in love with the Mouse King? I don’t know for certain, but someone in a gold velvet robe and miniature shoes has to be quite eye-catching. As though he were wearing a checked jacket. It wouldn’t be surprising if she fell in love.

  You’ll be pleased to know I’ve dashed off a few poems. I took your advice and began to carry my notebook and pencil along with me, and one morning, as I was washing the floor (how mundane these things are sometimes!), an idea came to me. I sat there on the wet floor while my wash water cooled, and I jotted down a poem. It isn’t the “genius” of Emerson, but it seemed to capture my thoughts at the moment.

  I’ve had to take over many of Iain’s chores now that he’s left. Yesterday the wind snapped one of the ropes we use to secure the thatch on the roof. A patch worked its way loose during the night, and I was greeted with a pile of snow in my kitchen come morning. You should’ve seen me on the roof, clinging on with one hand like one of Kipling’s Bandar-Log, trying to tie down a bundle of thatch with the other. When I came in, my eyebrows and eyelashes were all frozen together, and I had to suck on my fingers in order to thaw them enough to make a cup of tea. I’ve taken to wearing my trousers nearly every day, such is the work that I’ve been doing. I know that Iain didn’t think of that when he decided to up and leave to follow boyish dreams of glory.

  You know, Davey, the nights are the worst. I sit by the fire, knitting or holding an unread book on my lap, and I can’t stop my mind from racing, can’t stop my ears from hearing every rattle and creak. I try to go to bed early, so that I don’t have to think and feel alone, but I just can’t fall asleep. I admit, I’ve been pulling out all of your old letters and rereading them, sometimes falling asleep covered in your words. It makes me feel that you are really here and that I’m not alone. I can imagine we’re talking. Absurd, I know, since we’ve never actually talked and I don’t know what your voice sounds like. By the way, do you realise how pretentious you sounded in your early letters to me? You must have really wished to impress me.

  I finally feel tired, so I think I’ll end this now and blow out the candle. If the weather holds tomorrow, I’ll be able to post this, but I think the mail is taking longer these days.

  Elspeth

  Terre Haute, Indiana, U.S.A.

  December 23, 1914

  Dear Sue,

  I’m in Terre Haute, spending Christmas with Evie, Hank, and Florence. I got your letter as I was leaving for the station and was happy to have such pleasant reading material for the train. Such a lengthy missive; the winter nights on Skye must be long indeed.

  Your suggestions roused me to finish “The Mouse King’s Cheese,” so I now include the ending of this story for your perusal (approval?). I’ve read the completed tale to Florence, who jumped up and down and cried, “ ’Gain! Read it ’gain!” If I can inspire a similar response in you, I will be satisfied.

  I’m surprised to hear you refer to “boyish dreams of glory,” you who are always so careful to avoid labeling based on gender. Around here, I hear as many women as men berate President Wilson for keeping America’s toes neatly out of the maelstrom in Europe. America hasn’t had a war in a while; we’re spoiling for a fight.

  Just last night at dinner Evie got into quite a tirade against Wilson. Our grandfather fought near the end of the Civil War, and we grew up listening to his stories. That man could spin a tale! No one else could make war sound so unlike war. He enthralled even young Evie, such that she pasted on a fake mustache and played Rough Riders with me all summer.

  Even though Dad didn’t have a war when he was in the prime of his life, he stayed out of the army, to his father’s eternal disappointment. Not sure Gramps ever forgave him for that. He thought soldiering and war a civic duty; Dad thought it suicide. If America jumps into the fight, I may join up simply to spite Dad.

  But cheerier thoughts certainly are needed. Evie has already been spoiling the festivities here with talk of war. Hank is ready to send her to sleep in the barn. The merriest of Christmases to you, Sue. You may be quite alone there in your little cottage, but know that you are not forgotten and that someone is thinking of you this Christmas.

  David
/>   Isle of Skye

  21 January 1915

  Dear Davey,

  A new year and a belated Christmas gift for you. My newest book! Your letter and the box of freshly printed books from my publisher arrived on the same day, so you will receive one of the very first copies. It seems so strange to read these poems now, as they were all written before the war. So different from the themes of my recent poetry. No flowers, clouds, and summer days. I’m writing on darker subjects and emotions now: loneliness, anger, bleak winters. I’m not sure it’s that good, but at least it is helping to “slay my dragons,” as they say.

  I get news so sporadically from Iain that I may go mad. Really, I hear more about him from Finlay. Thank goodness for a letter-writing brother. In fact, I think I may already be going mad, as I’m considering moving into my parents’ cottage until Iain comes home. I slipped on some ice and sprained my ankle the other day whilst out walking. Luckily, I was in town buying groceries at the time and someone was able to get me to the doctor’s, but it made me worry. What if it had happened when I was at home alone? I don’t have a telephone and I would’ve been quite by myself, unless someone happened by for an unexpected visit.

  I’m also fed up with all of the tasks around here. A croft is hard enough to run with a whole family helping out, but a single person? Everything seems to be falling apart on me. Another rope snapped on the roof. I climbed up again and realised that all of the ropes are weak. I don’t know if they’re shot through with mould, if the birds have got them, or if it’s a problem with my plaiting, but they are fraying and pulling apart. I ask you, Davey, what is a well-published poet doing scrambling onto a thatched roof in the dead of winter, a length of heather rope between her teeth? Shouldn’t I be somewhere in a leather armchair in front of a roaring library fire? Would you be there too?

  I enjoyed the ending to “The Mouse King’s Cheese.” Lottie grows up, she learns to share and say “thank you.” I still think it would have been splendid if she had fallen in love with the Mouse King, checked jacket and all. What did Lara think of this story?

  Take care,

  Elspeth

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  February 16, 1915

  Dear Sue,

  You’ll never believe, but I sent one of my fairy stories to a magazine! I don’t expect a reply for some time, but I thought you’d be proud to know I screwed up the courage to get “The Fairies’ Twilight Ball” out there. Without your encouragement, I never would’ve even written the stories down. What made you decide to send out your poetry the very first time?

  Your new book is marvelous! And you’ve even autographed it for me. I rate as a “dear friend” now? I can see what you mean about the lightness of the themes (of course, I haven’t read anything that you’ve been writing recently), but perhaps we all need to read about flowers, clouds, and summer days in these times.

  I’m back at school now after the holiday. I’ve been bringing in newspapers for my students to read. I’ve found them to be woefully uninformed about what is going on in Europe. If Wilson lets us into the war, some of my senior students could enlist. At least now they no longer think that the Balkans are somewhere near Sweden.

  To answer your question, I don’t know what Lara thinks of “The Mouse King’s Cheese.” She hasn’t read any of my stories. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what it is that she reads. I’ve tried to lend her some of my favorites, but she passes them back as “boys’ books.” All I catch her reading these days are fashion magazines and guest lists as we plan for the wedding. After then, she should have more time to settle back with a book. Right?

  I wish you luck on moving in with your parents. You are a brave woman! Over here, I’m looking forward to just the opposite.

  David

  Isle of Skye

  8 March 1915

  Dear David,

  Soon after to writing you, I received a letter from Iain, saying they were being sent to the front at last and would be leaving on Friday. Of course, it was Friday morning when I got the letter, so they were already gone.

  Why couldn’t he send a telegram? Maybe I would have been able to work up the courage to get on that ferry, to see my husband one more time. I haven’t seen him since just after war was declared, more than half a year ago. I know he’s had leave in that time, as Finlay has been home to visit. But when I asked him about it, he said he certainly didn’t have enough money to make the trip all the way from Bedford. He’s infuriating! I have a modest amount put away from the sales of my books, but Iain stubbornly refuses to touch a penny. All he had to do was leave his obstinacy in his kit bag and let me buy him a ticket to come say goodbye. Now he’s at the front, and who knows if I will see him again?

  I’m doing well, aside from all of that. We’re not as hard hit on Skye as in the big cities. My brother’s widow, Chrissie, is in Edinburgh, and she writes of how scarce some foodstuffs are becoming. At least we have our own produce and as much milk as our cows will give. This time of year is always a bit tougher, when we’re hoping for some fresh greens and soft fruit. But I still have a good stock of neeps, swedes, tatties, and smoked fish, so I can’t complain. I am running low on tea, though, and have been reusing my leaves when I can. Sugar has gone up in price, but it’s not as though I’m making marzipan cakes or sugar biscuits these days.

  So Iain is in France and, beyond that, I don’t know what is happening. I just pray that he and Finlay will keep an eye on each other, the way they always have. I pray they will stay safe.

  Elspeth

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  March 29, 1915

  I hardly know what to say. I’m trying to put myself in your shoes, in your frame of mind, so that I can empathize as well as sympathize. I simply can’t do it. I’m sorry.

  I really should be brushing off my morning coat and practicing my speech, as the wedding isn’t far off. And what am I doing instead? Sitting at my desk, writing to you, Sue. I know I should be more excited about the upcoming nuptials, but I suppose it is natural to feel a bit of apprehension. Not that I doubt my decision … but I’m feeling a little anxious about the whole event. Lara is excited enough for the both of us. She seems to be all wrapped up in dress fittings and whispered conferences with her friends.

  I don’t know all of the plans being concocted, only that everyone we’ve ever met or could ever hope to meet will be there. We’ll probably serve platters of hors d’oeuvres that will go back to the kitchen mostly untouched and then twice as much roast meat as our guests could hope to eat. The women will all be dressed too elegantly and laced too tightly to do more than nibble on the food. This will be washed down with enough champagne to fill several bathtubs—the only part of the feast the guests will consume enthusiastically—and followed by a course of cakes and pastries so sweet they would make a dentist weep. After all this, I still have the honeymoon.

  And I can’t help but think of you, Sue, sitting alone by the fire in your cottage, “making do” with salted fish and potatoes, weak tea and unsweetened cake. I do admit to feeling a twinge of guilt; all of my extravagant feasting and leisure when you and the boys at the front are doing so much but getting so little in return. If someone were to ask where I would rather be on my wedding day—in a room full of strangers, trying to consume my portion of the feast, or alone in a cottage with you, Sue, drinking weak tea—I know which I’d choose.

  David

  Isle of Skye

  17 April 1915

  David,

  Well, I’ve moved into my parents’ cottage. It’s getting to be too much living by myself, in more ways than one. I was spending nearly every day at the post office, waiting for word, but I realised how pathetic that was. Bad news will find you, no matter how far you run.

  Also, it was too hard for me to maintain the cottage. I’ve made a bold decision, though, to have a new cottage built, a modern stone building with a slate roof and a chimney. I have Iain’s separation allowance and he isn’t here to tell me I c
an’t. I’ve hired joiners and everything. Here’s a wee sketch of what I’m planning. I’m going to leave the old blackhouse up for the animals. No more sharing my cottage with the hens!

  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.