Letters from Skye (23 page)

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

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.”

And I haven’t received a single response. I know, after decades, I shouldn’t expect any. People move on, lives continue. I shouldn’t expect that these people still live at the same
addresses. I shouldn’t expect that they know anything about Davey. I shouldn’t expect that they can bandage up my heart.

I’ve spent these long weeks of waiting just wandering around London. Going to every place we walked together, every railing he brushed against, every bend in the road where he stopped to touch my face. Did I ever tell you about the Christmas I spent with Chrissie in Edinburgh, when Davey and I both went outside at midnight just to feel the other across the miles? I thought if I went to all the right spots in London, I could feel him: his breath on my face, his voice in my ear, his hand in mine. I thought that I could find those moments and catch them up in my fingers.

But this isn’t the London where I gave away my heart. This is a city prepared for siege. Everything’s a little dimmer, a little greyer. Shop windows we pressed against are full of tinned food and gas masks. Doorways we paused in to kiss are edged in sandbags. There’s no romance beneath the chandeliers of the Langham. These days, it’s crowded with uniforms and officious-ness. The war is everywhere.

There was one moment when I stepped out of the hotel and swore I saw him on the other side of the street, standing on the steps of All Souls Church. But a bus passed and the image was gone. Even here, nothing but ghosts.

Màthair, there’s no hint of Davey here. Not any longer. Not even in our old room at the Langham. I thought being where we once were, would draw him to me. That I’d send out these letters and finally get some answers. That I’d finally find out what happened to my American.

I’m tired. Half my life has been waiting, it feels, and I don’t know how much longer I can do it. It’s exhausting.

I’ll stay another week at the Langham, just to be sure no letters come, but then I’ll head back towards Edinburgh, head back to again wall up my memories and continue waiting. I know no other way to be. I miss my Margaret so.

   Love,

   Elspeth

9 September 1940

Maisie,

Have you heard from your mother? Please tell me you have. Is she well?

The moment I heard the news about the bombs in London, I hoped she was already out of the city. None of the reports I’ve read seem to know exactly how many planes there were, exactly how many buildings were hit. Hundreds? Thousands? But London is still burning, they say. They are calling it a blitz.

I’ll find out more but, please, tell me your mother got out in time.