Your father sends his regards. I fear this war has rather knocked the stuffing out of him. He has taken to spending even more time wandering the moors or locked in his study. I fear he misses all three of you dreadfully, though he would never say it.
There, enough of this. Flora, your frighteningly impressive sister, sends me letters full of fundraising suggestions she expects me to put into action. We have had blanket drives for the refugees, innumerable cake and jam sales in the village hall, and next month we will be holding our biggest event yet, over in the grounds of Colonel Patterson’s estate. A Christmas Fayre of the most old-fashioned type. We hope to raise enough to send at least one ambulance to France. I have purloined a case of your best vintage for the tombola, I do hope you approve. Frightening to admit it, but I am quite enjoying all this organising. Perhaps it is from me that Flora inherited that particular talent. Who would have thought it?
I find the newspapers too depressing to read these days. There seems to be a growing voice in London dissenting against this dreadful conflict and I am becoming sympathetic to that point of view, though you must know that in no way reflects on the great sacrifices my children are making. I am very, very proud of all of you.
Speaking of which, your father had a letter from Alex just this morning, telling him he had asked you to intervene on his behalf with a transfer. I beg you, Robbie, to do all you can to persuade Alex to remain where he is. As a mother, I can be forgiven for taking a little comfort in knowing my youngest is in a place where the fighting is less fierce.
One of the officers from the house has just arrived, and I must go to see what he wants since the laird is out. He is a rather shabby boy with the most dreadfully common accent. I cannot imagine that he would have been deemed officer material in peacetime—heaven knows what school he attended!
I am sending my best love. I torture myself that I said it so little to your dear face, my darling. Looking back on how we were before the war, I want to laugh at some of the things that seemed so important.
Please keep safe.
Your mother
23rd November 1916
My dear Sylvie,
I am safe, and overwhelmed to receive so many letters from you. Thank you. I would have sent you a telegram if I’d known you were so worried, though perhaps it would not have been such a good idea to have it arrive out of the blue. I know from my mother what emotions the sight of those things can do these days.
Before—before the war, long before Sylvie, you see, I think there are two befores now, as you do—a telegram usually signalled good news.
I’m arriving on this train. I will meet you at this time.
Even something as simple as
Happy Birthday.
Looking back on it now, that life seemed to consist of a string of parties and dances and picnics. Not true, of course, lest you think I was a complete dilettante, because I did work for my living. Not that I had to. As you’ve probably guessed, I come from a relatively privileged family, but I wanted to.
I’ve lost the thread of what I wanted to say. I miss you, Sylvie. Is that permitted? Too late, I’ve said it. I think about you all the time—no, that’s not true, and I’ve resolved to tell you as near to the truth as I can. Only you. I think about you all the time that I’m me, just me—in the moments that I’m Robbie and not Captain Carmichael, and believe me, they’ve been few and far between this last fortnight.
Do you want to know how it’s been? I never tell anyone. Usually, all I want to do is forget. I’m back behind the lines, another trench, another little dugout cut into the earth that I share with another captain—or I will do, when they replace the one we lost. There’s a brazier fashioned from a large metal drum, and coals to burn. There’s a lamp, and two bunks with straw mattresses. My man brings me hot water. I have no idea where he gets it from. Of course, there are rats, too, and the smell—no, no need to describe the smell. It’s eerily quiet now. No field guns, after weeks of incessant shelling. My ears are still ringing.
Later I have to go and attend to the men on charges. There are always men on charges. Tomorrow I will go up to the field hospital. Tonight I’ll be writing letters. You know the kind, all lies and brave words. I can’t believe they provide much succour for those poor families.
But I’ve still not told you how it was. It was as it always is, Sylvie. A mad rush forward, into the mist this time. We thought it was a good thing, the mist, but it worked just as well for the Germans. They couldn’t see us, we couldn’t see them, and our guns—well, you get the picture. Five days in all it went on, and I am still not sure whether we gained ground or not. The papers will say we advanced, of course. The losses were, as always, heavy.
My men went into battle bravely. I always thought it was the fear of what would happen to them if they didn’t go over the top that drove them on, but I was wrong. I watched them this time. They don’t fight for their country, not anymore—they fight for each other. You see, I was wrong when I said there was no such thing as comradeship.
Did I say that? If I didn’t, it’s what I thought, and I was wrong. I’ve seen valour and bravery and incredible sacrifice. Stretcher bearers, some of them conchies, take unbelievable risks to help hopeless cases, Sylvie. I have to write one of
those
letters after this one. A Corporal Bellingham. I shall say the usual stuff, but the truth is he had a horrible death, trapped for eight hours in a shell crater with his leg blown off before the stretcher bearers got to him, and conscious for most of it. He’d only been here a few months.
I hope you’ve not been fretting too much about me. Less than a day we spent together, it’s incredible, but as we said at the time, that doesn’t seem to matter. Your letters—four letters, I do not deserve such riches—have been a godsend.
I would give anything to see you, to hold you, to kiss you. Please keep writing and don’t make of any silence on my part anything but the vagaries of my duties. And of the postal system, which is really atrociously unreliable.
If I could but see you again—but that is to wish for the impossible, and I am not so changed as to do that.
Take care.
Robbie
23rd November 1916
Dear Mrs Bellingham,
On behalf of the officers and men of my Company, I wish to offer you our sympathy for the loss of your husband.
Corporal Bellingham was well liked by all his comrades, and an asset to the Company. He was mortally wounded on 16th November by German fire during an advance through the Ancre valley. I am informed by those who were with him that he died instantly and suffered no pain. Unfortunately, we have so far been unable to locate your husband’s mortal remains for burial.
Again, assuring you of all our sympathy in this difficult time.
Yours sincerely,
Robert J. Carmichael, Capt., ASH
18th December 1916
My dear Sylvie,
A few lines only. Hopefully you will have had my last three by now and perhaps even in an order that will make some sense! You must have quite a collection—assuming you keep them. Do you? I keep yours. The paper is worn from my reading them.
I got yours of the 10th and 16th this morning. I can see from reading them that at least one has gone missing. I write because there’s a small chance of leave. Two days only, Christmas Day and the day after. I can come to Paris. Can we meet?
I shall telegram when I know—so don’t panic when the boy arrives at your door.
Robbie
24th December 1916
My dear Robbie,
Can we meet?! As if there could be any answer save
YES, YES, YES
.
Just tell me when and where and I will be there, though I don’t expect you’ll get this in time.
I’m watching for the telegram boy.
Sylvie
28th December 1916
My dear Sylvie,
You will have received my telegram by now. I cannot say how sorry I am. There is a chance my leave may be rescheduled for next week, perhaps even Sunday, which is New Year’s Eve.
I expect you’ll have plans, but I’ll telegram once I know, and I’ll come to Paris, anyway.
I would march all the way to Berlin for just an hour in your company.
Robbie
Chapter Five
Paris—2nd January 1917
S
ylvie stepped farther back from the mirror and eyed her reflection critically. The dress was new, an extravagance bought in the excitement of thinking she would be spending Christmas with Robbie. A black, tight-fitting bodice with a square neck and a high waistline, and the narrow skirt was in the new fashion, grey wool with a wide border of the same black forming the hem, which sat just below her calves. Her stockings were also black, and her buttoned boots with their French heel made her feet and ankles look elegantly narrow. The slim line of the gown would have sat better on a less curvaceous woman, but for once she looked chic, in that indefinable Parisian manner. A pity that she had to conceal it under a coat, and her outmoded grey flannel one at that, but needs must.
She was far too early. Even if his train did by some miracle arrive on time, and even if, by an even greater miracle, he was on it, she would be at the restaurant at least half an hour before him if she left now. Sylvie peered out of the window. It had been snowing again. She took the telegram from the mantelpiece and read the contents once more.
Sorry leave cancelled again. Lunch Tuesday 2nd. 1300 hours, Chartiers? Third time lucky? Robbie.
Would it be, though? She had heard so many tragic tales of loved ones failing to return on leave because they had been wounded or killed. But it was stupid to think that way. Apart from anything else, Robbie was not a loved one.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter what he is,’ Sylvie exclaimed, jamming her hat over her carefully brushed hair. ‘He probably won’t turn up, and it’s incredibly stupid of me to care whether he does or not.’
* * *
By the time she got to Chartiers, her stomach was churning. Words and phrases from her letters to him kept popping into her head. Silly things she had told him about her childhood. Even more embarrassing, the way she had poured out her innermost feelings. The things that made her cry. Her anger, her pain. She’d even told him about her dream. It was as if the Sylvie and Robbie who wrote so candidly to each other were different people from the ones who were about to be reacquainted in the flesh. Perhaps it really would be better if he didn’t turn up. And if he did—would he expect her to take him back to the apartment, to pick up from where they had left off the last time? She stopped abruptly, right outside the glass doors to the restaurant, appalled by the shivery heat of desire that clutched at her belly.
Non.
He had not once referred to it, even obliquely, after that first letter.