Letters From Skye: A Novel

by Jessica Brockmole

  They wrote to each other for years, Paul. My mother and Davey. And every letter from him was in there. From the first in 1912—an admiring fan letter from an impetuous college student—to the last in 1917—a scribbled note, grimy from a prison camp, that ended their relationship. Just like that. One moment they were looking to the future, the next he broke it off with a fairy story about a fisherman’s wife.

  The story was about her. Her husband, Iain, was a fisherman on Skye. He went missing during the war, was declared dead, and reappeared. Turned up on her doorstep with Davey’s letter in hand. She didn’t even get a choice.

  The Next Morning

  I wrote that to you and then, as the sunrise came orange through the window, I fell asleep too. When I woke, Mother sat propped up in her bed, watching me covered in her letters.

  “You’ve read my story,” she said. I asked if she was angry, but she shook her head. “It wasn’t right of me to keep it. It’s your story too.”

  My mind was full of questions, but seeing her there, pale against the pillows, eyes still on the letters, I couldn’t. Instead, I asked how she was feeling.

  She straightened, but I caught a wince. “So much better. I think I’ll be going home soon.”

  I told her I wasn’t sure about that, that the doctor might think it best that she stay and rest awhile longer, but she blinked and sighed. “I just want to go home, Margaret. I’ve been away for too long.” She wiped her eyes with a thumb. “I never should’ve left. I need to go back to Edinburgh, go on my walks, go sit in the quiet of the cathedral. I don’t know how better to build up my strength. Home.”

  “Elspeth,” said a voice from the foot of the bed. “I’ll take you home.”

  If you can believe it, Paul, it was Uncle Finlay. He came.

  Love,

  Margaret

  London

  Saturday, 21 September 1940

  Dear Gran,

  Uncle Finlay came here, to London. He arrived this morning and has spent all day with Mother, catching up on the past two decades without saying much of anything at all. He’s taking her home tomorrow, back to Edinburgh.

  I don’t know how you did it, convincing him to come down to London, to finally talk to Mother, but thank you. For the first time in a while, I see a moment of peace on her face.

  Love,

  Margaret

  London

  Sunday, 22 September

  Dear Paul,

  Last night, before she fell asleep, Mother told me that I had only half the story. I had Davey’s letters but not hers.

  So, instead of heading to the train station this morning with her and Uncle Finlay, I went to the Langham to see if they’d unearthed her other suitcase. Inside, she told me, were her copybooks, where she jotted drafts of all her letters. Ever the writer.

  They had her other suitcase, full of the copybooks. Her half of the story. But, oh, Paul, they also had a letter for her.

  To one of the many letters she sent out over the months of waiting in London, someone had sent a reply.

  And I don’t know what to do. It’s her letter, to be sure, but I saw her spread out on that hospital bed, tired and defeated, saw her limping to the train station on her brother’s arm, just wanting to put London behind her. What if this reply is nothing? Or, God forbid, bad news?

  I’m back to Edinburgh on the next train. I’ll have seven and a half hours to decide whether to give her the letter or open it myself.

  Love,

  Margaret

  Detroit, Michigan

  September 10, 1940

  Dear Mrs. Dunn,

  I apologize for not replying sooner, but your letter was forwarded on to me from the secretary of our central branch of the American Field Service Association. They thought I would be in a better position to answer your questions.

  I wish I had better news for you, but I do not have any contact information for David Graham. He’s never sent updates or news to our bulletin, nor has he attended any of our reunion dinners.

  I do have a little bit of information, though, that may help you. Some of the other men kept in touch after the war. And I saw him in Paris. Ol’ Dave, he made it through the war. He always was a lucky one.

  Dave—we called him “Rabbit”—was in a prison camp for a few years. He must have been taken prisoner in ’16, before the United States entered the war and the Red Cross took over the Field Service. He didn’t write to any of us, other than his good friend Harry, while in the camp. But I know he did make it out after the Armistice. After the war, we all saw him in Paris.

  They’d tucked him in a hospital in Paris to get his strength back before sending him home, but Rabbit snuck out. He caught up with us at our headquarters at Rue Raynouard. Imagine our surprise! He was in good shape for having spent time in a prison camp. He begged a spare suit of clothes and our pocket change and all the chocolate bars he could carry, then said he wasn’t going home, not yet. He had to go up to Scotland after his girl.

  You see, Mrs. Dunn, I recognized your name. No disrespect intended, but Rabbit could never shut up about you. He was head over heels. To hear him talk, you were every fairy-tale princess wrapped up in one. Harry kept mum about the whole deal, but the rest of us, we knew something had soured during those years he was at the camp. And then Rabbit turned up at Rue Raynouard, begging money so that he could go up to Scotland and apologize for something. I guess that was the last time you saw him too.

  But some of the other guys kept in touch after we all got home to the States. Rabbit went back to teaching. He stayed in Chicago for a while, then went to Indiana to be nearer to his sister; I’m not sure where he ended up from there. I do know that he published a book, a fairy-tale book for children. You should’ve seen all of us old guys grinning like kids when someone brought it along to an AFSA reunion dinner. Our Rabbit, a published writer!

  I’m sorry that I don’t have an address for him, but I thought you’d like to know that he was doing well last I heard of him and that he had a book published. And, although I don’t have Rabbit’s address, here’s Harry Vance’s. He’s much better than Rabbit at keeping in touch. Harry has been teaching at Oxford. That’s not too far from London, is it?

  I wish you the best of luck, Mrs. Dunn. And, if you see Rabbit again, please give him my best.

  Sincerely,

  Billy “Riggles” Ross

  Secretary, Midwest Branch,

  American Field Service Association

  Edinburgh

  Tuesday, 24 September 1940

  Dear Mr. Vance,

  I am writing on behalf of my mother, Mrs. Elspeth Dunn. She has been trying to locate the whereabouts of David Graham, whom she knew years ago. I was given your address by Billy Ross with the American Field Service Association. He thought that you might have current contact information for Mr. Graham.

  Please, anything that you can tell me would be welcome. My mother has been looking for Mr. Graham for quite some time. We would both be more grateful than you could know.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret Dunn

  Oxford

  27 September

  Dear Miss Dunn,

  I debated whether or not to send you Dave’s address. Old recluse that he is, he values his privacy. But he’s spent far too long alone, feeling sorry for himself. He’s spent far too long wishing he could change the past.

  His address is below. He’s been living in London, at a flat around the corner from the Langham Hotel. He always did say that London was full of memories.

  Harry Vance

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Elspeth

  Isle of Skye

  1 May 1919

  Dear David,

  You’re probably surprised to be getting this from me, but with my newest book of poetry out, how could I forget one who was once my “fan”?

  Not having heard from you these two years past, I have no idea where in the world you might be. I am hoping that, by sending this parcel to your parents’ house,
it will get to you somehow.

  How have you been since the war? I wrote to you in the prison camp, soon after Iain returned home, but you never responded. Have you been well?

  It’s very odd, but a few months ago I thought I saw you, standing in the road across from my parents’ house. I glanced down and then the image was gone. You do know that this island is populated by the spirits and ghosts of memory, don’t you?

  Iain’s recently passed away. Of all the ironies—he makes it through Festubert, through captivity in Germany, through escape and flight, only to die of influenza back at home in his bed. He hadn’t been strong since he returned, though, and he fell ill so easily. It was not too surprising when it happened.

  Do you know, I think he was waiting to die. He always believed he should have fallen with his friends at Festubert. Things just weren’t the same for him once he got home. I don’t think he felt as if he fit in. He never seemed to know what to do, especially when it came to me. We tried. We really tried, Davey. Everything was different, but we tried.

  I haven’t been able to write any poetry in years. “Repose” was one of the last poems I wrote. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was, but then I realised.

  It was you, Davey. It is you. There is no poetry in my life without you. You have been my muse all along. Before I met you, I wrote poetry with my pen, and my readers loved it. It meant something to them. But after meeting you, I wrote poetry with my soul, and I loved it. It meant the world to me.

  I understand I know nothing of your life now. It’s been two years since I’ve heard anything from you. For all I know, you could be married, have a family. But I’m going to take a page out of your book. I’m going to close my eyes and run right over that trench wall.

  Davey, I can’t be without you. I can’t be without you. Do you remember all of those promises and dreams we made back during the war? Come and make them all again to me.

  We’ll go wherever you want, live wherever you want. Edinburgh? Skye? Urbana, Illinois? I could go anywhere with you by my side. I’ll be your wife, your mistress, your lover. As long as I am yours.

  I am closing up my cottage and heading to Edinburgh. Nothing has been right for Màthair since Finlay left. Maybe if I go too, he’ll come back. I can do that much at least for her. Will you come to Edinburgh? Will you come to get me?

  I’ll go to St. Mary’s every morning to wait for you. I don’t know when you’ll get this letter, but I promise I’ll wait. I’ll wait every morning, as long as it takes. I gave up on you once, that day when Iain, instead of you, walked through the door. I won’t give up on you again.

  I have never stopped loving you, Davey.

  Sue

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Margaret

  Edinburgh

  Tuesday, 1 October 1940

  Dear Mr. Graham,

  I hope you won’t think me forward, but I wanted to write to express my admiration for your book, Favorite Fairy Stories for Favorite Children. Although it has been many years since I’ve been young enough for fairy stories, something made me look beyond the words on the page. Each has a story beneath. Allegory, to be sure, but also magic and poetry. These are not tales just for children.

  I especially was taken with the last in the book, “The Fisherman’s Wife.” That one felt so real, as though it was written from the heart. How like life, where we fumble our way through love only to find that it’s simpler than we think.

  I find it interesting that you changed the ending of “The Fisherman’s Wife.” Originally, you had the story end with the water sprite sacrificing himself so that the fisherman could swim safely to shore. A very noble ending. But here, in the published version, you have the water sprite fight for Lucinda’s love. He gives her a chance to choose him of her own free will. Perhaps not as noble, but real, steeped in regret and hopefulness.

  Of course, the tales in this book aren’t the only ones you’ve written. More than two decades ago, you wrote a love story in letters, a love story just as magical as the fairy stories—even more so because it was true. It’s a story without an ending, though. A story that breaks off in one noble moment, leaving questions for all the moments that came before. Questions that remain twenty-three years later.

  I know you can finish it. You’re one of the two best writers I know.

  With much admiration,

  Margaret Dunn

  London, England

  October 5, 1940

  Dear Miss Dunn,

  It seems like a lifetime ago that I first wrote those same three words. That lifetime has taken me across an ocean, over the trenches, into hell and back. But writing that “noble ending” was by far the hardest thing. Little wonder that I changed my mind.

  Only one copy of the original draft ever existed. Please, how is she?

  David Graham

  Edinburgh

  Tuesday, 8 October 1940

  Dear Mr. Graham,

  She’s wondering. She’s spent the past twenty-three years wondering why you stopped writing. Why you never replied to the letters she sent after Iain came home. Why you disappeared.

  My mother never told me about you or about her life before I was born. But I could see the weight of regret on her shoulders, so many years of wondering and waiting. This war, it’s shaken her. It made her remember the other war, she said. Made her remember what she gained and what she lost. War is impulsive, she told me, and you are left with nothing but ghosts.

  And maybe it’s not my place, to write so to a stranger, but I feel as if I know you—after reading all of her letters, kept walled up since the last war ended. Even though we’ve never met, I understand you. I’m just as restless, just as fearless, just as searching for my place in the world. I understand questioning but not leaving without a backwards glance. Why did you?

  Sincerely,

  Margaret Dunn

  London, England

  October 11, 1940

  Dear Margaret,

  I didn’t stop writing to her. I never could. I regretted that “noble ending” the moment I penned it. I wrote her letter after letter, but with no reply. Why would she want to write back to me when she had her husband back at home? When they had a second chance? Why would she want to write back to me when she had you?

  She never wrote another letter, but he did: Iain, he asked me to stop. He asked me to never write again.

  After he got back, he said, she was happy. They were starting over and trying to make things work. They’d started a family, something she dearly wanted to do. And it made sense. Why would she want a kid like me? A kid who couldn’t settle down? Who didn’t want to commit to a family the way she did? No wonder she was glad for Iain to come home.

  I did try once to apologize, face-to-face. Even though Iain didn’t want me to talk to her again, even if I figured she didn’t want to talk to me either, Sue was worth it. When I got out of the camp after the Armistice, I begged, borrowed, and stole to get up to Skye. I had to hear it from her.

  Someone directed me to her parents’ cottage. When I got there, I heard laughter, and I stopped in the road. I’d never forgotten the sound of Sue’s laughter. I looked to the back of the cottage, and I saw her. Sue was with Iain and a little girl. You. Iain had swung you out over a stream, and you were giggling uncontrollably. All three of you laughing. I hesitated. Sue looked up, just for a moment, and I thought she saw me, but then you started to giggle again and I couldn’t move a step. I couldn’t intrude on that happy family moment. I couldn’t intrude on her new life. I left and never tried to contact her again.

  All of those letters while I was in the camp, unanswered. And, in all these years, she’s never tried to find me. Why stir things up now?

  David Graham

  Edinburgh

  Monday, 14 October 1940

  Dear Mr. Graham,

  I looked through every letter she saved, and they stopped the day Iain came home. You say you wrote to her. If they’d arrived, why wouldn’t she have saved them?
>
  What if she never saw them? Iain might have tossed every one into the fire. You, who won her heart with nothing but your pen: Why would he let them get through?

  She said you’ve always been the only one for her. Her love, her muse, her poetry. When Iain died, she took a risk the way you did. Sent a letter and crossed her fingers. She wrote that she was moving to Edinburgh and that she’d wait for you every day in St. Mary’s Cathedral—your old meeting spot—until you arrived. Because you would. You’d get her letter and you’d come for her. She was sure of it.

  So sure that she’s waiting there now, the way she has every day since. She’s never given up on you. She couldn’t go for the noble ending.

  Margaret Dunn

  London, England

  October 17, 1940

  Dear Margaret,

  Waiting at St. Mary’s, all these years?

  You know, I’m not surprised. She was always stubborn as a barnacle. Elspeth never gave up on anything—even when she should’ve given up on me.

  I never did get that last letter of hers, the one where she talks of moving to Edinburgh. I’ve found it now. It was nothing but my own pigheadedness that kept me from reading it before. You see, she sent it tucked in the pages of Out of Chaos, her last book. Out of chaos. That seemed to describe Iain to a T. He’d escaped the trenches and a prison camp. He’d left his one rival behind bars. He came home to peace.

  From the moment Iain and I met in that prison camp, we were at an impasse. He realized that all was not lost—not with me behind a fence—and I realized that things wouldn’t be so easy with Elspeth, not with her husband still alive. I once made her a promise that, if Iain came home, I’d back off.

  I was in on an escape plan with a few other guys. We fabricated “Boche uniforms” out of jacket linings, parts of blankets, sheets. Our plan was to put them on and walk straight out of the gate. Audacious, but that was me back then. Iain got wind of the plan and he wanted in. The other guys saved me from having to say a word. They told Iain there wasn’t room for him. They said “no” so that I didn’t have to.