Dear Paul,
I’m done with writing letters. I’m on my way to the Isle of Skye!
Of course, Uncle Finlay didn’t give me an address for my grandmother, and I didn’t think I’d get far wandering the island, asking the way to “Granny Macdonald’s” house. I would imagine that half of Skye is called Macdonald. So I poked around the house looking (again) for a forgotten envelope, an old address book, my mother’s birth certificate. Nothing. Not even one of the letters Gran sent each and every month, covered with scribbles of Gaelic. David’s letters must be the only ones Mother kept.
Then I remembered how, from the moment I learned to read, my mother insisted I write my name and address on the inside covers of my books, in case I was to accidently leave a treasured Stevenson or Scott on a park bench. I went at once to her library and pulled the most battered, ancient-looking thing I could find off the shelf, a scruffy copy of Huckleberry Finn with a faded poppy pressed in the middle. Sure enough, right inside the cover she’d scrawled “Elspeth Dunn, Seo a-nis, Skye, United Kingdom.” As though, even there and then, there was a danger of thieving park benches.
I asked around until I found a family looking to evacuate a child north. Emily’s neighbour, Mrs. Calder, has been terrified with all the recent bombings. She’s arranged for me to escort her daughter Dorothy to a farm outside Fort William. It pays my fare that far, and it’s only a short way from Fort William to Skye. I borrowed a suitcase from Emily and away I went!
I tell you, Paul, this is a little thrilling. Of course it isn’t the first time I’ve been away from Edinburgh but, apart from that jaunt down to Plymouth to see you, I’ve never been away on my own purposes. Even when you and I went bouldering or rambling the hills, we never went far from the city. Of course, it could be argued that I’m not heading to Skye for myself; I’m heading there for my mother. And the grandmother I’ve never met! But if I can learn more about Mother’s “first volume,” about that part of her from before I was born, then the trip will be worthwhile in more ways than one. She’s not here to stop me from finding out about my father.
Train to Mallaig
Later
Dear Paul,
Dorothy is settled. A silver-haired woman built like a battleship met us at the station and took charge of both Dorothy and the envelope of money from Mrs. Calder. Before she left, Dorothy pressed a note into my hand, written on the back of her train ticket, and asked me to give it to her mother when I return to Edinburgh. I can scarcely read it for the smudges and tearstains and deplorable penmanship, but it says, “I love you,” over and over. She’d folded it over and upon itself a half dozen times and scrawled their address on the front. I promised her it would be the first thing I’d do when arriving back in Edinburgh.
Really, though, I’m starting to worry about Mother—and, I have to admit, feeling somewhat guilty. Maybe it wasn’t the letters or the bomb that ran her off. Maybe it was our argument. Even though I’ve pushed her before to find out who my father is, we’ve never actually argued. I’ve always let her shrug it off. I went too far, I asked too much, and I can’t help but feel that something fractured in that instant.
Was she right, Paul? Are we rushing into things? Not too long ago, you and I were just friends. We never did anything more serious than offer each other a sandwich or a hand-up on a boulder. When you joined up and asked me if I’d write to you, I almost laughed. I didn’t think you and I had enough words between us for letters. Then you said you’d fallen in love, and I thought maybe we did and maybe it could work. But, as my mother said, emotions run high and sharp in wartime. I trust yours—honestly I do—but don’t know if I believe my own.
Maybe this trip will be what I need. A lick of independence, a thread of distance. A chance to figure out if this is really what I want. Perhaps this is a journey to solve more than one mystery.
Affectionately,
Margaret
London, England
10 August 1940
Dear Sir or Madam,
Many years ago, two men named David Graham and Harry Vance lived at this address. I do not know if they still stay there or if they have moved from Chicago, but I would appreciate any information you could supply. I have been out of touch for some years and would dearly like to find them.
If you have any information about their whereabouts, 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 Fifteen
Elspeth
———, France
February 2, 1916
I’m in——— right now, en route to———. I didn’t think it would take so long to get here from Paris. We rode in a freight car and had to stop more times than I could count. I remember making nearly the same trip years ago on a holiday in France but in a plushy first-class car, drinking wine and watching the countryside. This time I was crouched in a freight car, wedged in with my duffel, passing around a flask of execrable brandy. Peering out through the slats of the car, I could recognize some of the stations we passed, although none of the villages looked quite the way I remembered.
The station here is quiet, the streets thronged with men in blue and khaki rather than the gaily dressed holiday-goers from an earlier time. We’ll be here for a few more days before moving on. The section we’re joining has been en repos at————, cleaning and repairing the ambulances, and has been making its way to——. A guy by the name of Pliny, a veteran ambulance driver of sorts who has been away on furlough, is waiting to go up the line with Quinn and me. He told us to enjoy the pastries and hot baths while we could, because it will be awhile before we see either again.
So you insist on knowing what it was that Johnson said to me? He tried all of the usual jokes as to why I might not be joining them in their skirt-chasing. He kept going until he saw my jaw tighten, and then he knew he’d hit on something. “So that’s it. Screwing another man’s wife, is it? He’s out there in Hell’s Half Acre and you’re back at home—” Well, I won’t repeat the rest, as it isn’t fit for a lady to read. Let me just say that the comments went downhill from there.
Now you can see why I went after him. His words hurt, not only in what he said but in how he said it. What we did, Sue, what we have, has never seemed wrong to me. Maybe it’s easier for me to feel this way. I’m not the one who’s married. I don’t know your husband. It’s easier for me to forget he even exists.
Did the fact that you were married give me pause at the beginning? I would be lying if I said it didn’t. I hesitated, Sue. Why do you think it took me so long to tell you I loved you, even when I would’ve sworn from the hints sprinkled through your letters that you felt the same? You forget, I was raised a good Catholic boy. Despite my wayward childhood, the Ten Commandments are not something I take lightly.
But you said you loved me too. I trusted that you knew what you were doing when you responded. My hesitations melted. Then we met, we talked, we touched. Any remaining doubts I had floated away. How could something that felt so right be wrong? Everything was perfect. Everything is perfect. I’ve held those memories—those delicate, beautiful memories—close to my heart. And I haven’t given much thought to your husband or the tangled mess that is our future.
Until Christmas Eve, when Johnson said what he said, cheapening us, Sue. It’s impossible to hear disparaging comments like that and not start to believe them after a while, especially when you know they’re based in truth. I am “screwing another man’s wife.” It was a rude reminder of who I was and what I was doing.
It made me wonder how you really felt. You’ve never mentioned pangs of guilt or feelings of uncertainty. I didn’t want to tell you what Johnson said because … well, I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I didn’t want you to reconsider.
The decision has always been yours, Sue, and it still is. You decide whether you want to continue this relationship. You decide where you want to go from here.
> Whatever you resolve, know that I am ever …
Your Davey
Isle of Skye
9 February 1916
My dear,
Your letter had more holes in it than a thatched roof in springtime. Either you thought your wee letter needed a bit of ventilation on its long journey to Skye or someone didn’t want you to be telling me where you were going or how you got there. With the exception of “France,” all other place names were excised.
Am I offended by what Johnson said? Who wouldn’t be offended at such language. Am I surprised, though? Not really. When you refused to tell me, I guessed it was something like that.
No, this hasn’t been easy for me, although I’ve tried not to let on just how hard it has been. You’re at the front, dealing with the tangled and bloody aftereffects of the war every day. This is my own private war, Davey, and I didn’t think you needed to deal with my tangled and bloody conscience.
When you sent me that letter, the one telling me exactly how you felt, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake for nights grappling with my heart. The feelings I have for you are so sharp and so new. But, although my feelings for Iain have changed, they’re still there. He’s my husband. I can’t so easily dismiss either the way I felt or the vows we had made.
Iain is Finlay’s best mate. As lads, they were never out of each other’s sight. I grew up with Iain always around. When it came time to marry, he seemed the only logical choice. Finlay was over the moon when I said yes to Iain. But things changed. Our paths diverged. My poetry was published and I yearned for the literary lifestyle. I wanted to travel, study, find someone else who’d actually read and understood Lewis Carroll. Iain wanted nothing more than to go about his life the way he had always done. I would go to the beach and look out over the water, wishing I could be anywhere but here. He would go off in his boat with Finlay, knowing that when he returned, I would still be there.
Something wasn’t right, even before I got your first letter, Davey. We were floating apart, buoyed by different ambitions and expectations. In you, I found a like-minded soul. You were listening to what I had to say; Iain didn’t seem to hear. Then the war started and Iain withdrew completely from my life.
Really, Davey, I don’t understand it. He was never so distant when he was here but, now that he’s gone at the front, I rarely hear from him. I know what’s going on from the newspapers, from Finlay, from the other letters our Skye boys send home. I just don’t hear any of this from Iain himself. I don’t know if it’s something I’ve done, but he’s closed himself off from me. This has always been his reaction—he withdraws rather than face whatever is bothering him.
I didn’t plan to fall in love with someone else. I also didn’t plan for my husband to leave me without so much as an explanation. I didn’t plan any of it, but it happened and I can’t say I am unhappy.
I do love you, Davey. And I know this is my decision. Call me an idealist, but I can’t help but think that things happen for a reason. You came into my life at the same time that Iain was walking out. You were there for me right when he was not. That has to count for something.
I tell you, it’s hard being back in my parents’ cottage, back on this tiny island, for all sorts of reasons. I feel so … on display. Màthair knows about you and me, and I’m not sure who else does. So many nights, I want to be alone with my thoughts and memories, to lie down and have those sweating, shuddering dreams of you. Just when I start remembering and my pulse quickens, I’ll hear my da snore or Finlay cry out in his sleep, and the moment is lost. The cottage isn’t big enough for the three of them and for my dreams and me.
E
Place One
February 16, 1916
Sue,
Yep, the censors got to me! They went ahead and sent off the letter anyway (after copious slashing), but I got called to task and reminded of the rules under threat of never being allowed to write to you again. If the letter falls into enemy hands, they don’t want to let out where we are, where we’re going, or when we might possibly be at either place. As if the Boches don’t know exactly where we’re at right now. They’re peering over the sandbags at the French Army as I write this!
I’ve finally settled here at “Place One” (I’ll be a good boy and stay mysteriously vague). We got in a few days after the rest of the section. The three of us pulled in at night, while many of the rest were on duty. Some were at the picket post in a village not more than a kilometer from the trenches, a twenty-four-hour duty. We were shown to a long building, where we scrounged for a spot in the center of the room, then fell onto our sleeping rolls. I was sleeping so soundly I didn’t hear when the first wave of guys trickled in during the night after finishing their runs. Didn’t notice a thing until the next morning, when I was beaned in the head by a ball of socks and woke to find Harry grinning at me from the foot of my bed. He had been away at the picket post all night and had just been relieved, only to come in to the barrack and find me curled up in his spot.
I’ve been assigned an ambulance with a guy they call Riggles, a quiet ex-football player with a perpetual cigarette hanging between his lips. The only time he says a word is when he’s exchanging the extinguished stub for a freshly lit one. Riggles has been here almost since the beginning of the American Field Service, so I suppose I couldn’t have been paired with anyone better to show me the ropes.
They threw me right into work when I arrived. We’ve been running evacuation routes, transporting wounded men (charmingly called blessés) from dressing stations to hospitals farther behind the line. Most of the dressing stations are at least a few kilometers from the line, so we don’t see much aside from the distant smoke of bursting shells.
A few nights ago there was some fierce fighting near here. One of the blessés I had was in rough shape. He had been behind a wall when a shell hit and was nearly crushed by the crumbling masonry. I had to drive pretty carefully until I got to the picket post, but, once I passed that and the roads were comparatively smoother, I drove hell-for-leather back to the hospital. A medic said another five minutes and the patient probably would’ve been lost. It wasn’t much, but it was a quiet affirmation of what I am doing here in France.
Okay, Sue, if you promise to stop worrying about me, I’ll do the same. I understand why you did what you did. Your love is too precious for me to push aside just when you need someone to accept it.
I’ve been waiting for chow to be served, and I can see the men starting to line up, so I’ll have to cut this short. I think I can still get it out today.
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 soc
ks, 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.
Letters From Skye: A Novel Page 11