Letters from Skye

Chapter Eleven Elspeth

The Langham, London

27 November 1915

Davey,

You’ve only just left, are probably now settling down in your seat, listening to the train rumble out of London. I’m sorry I didn’t see you to the station. Truly I am. I had no faith in myself. I knew if I had gone to the station with you, I would’ve clung on to your arm and not let go. Now, though, I do regret not going, not getting one more chance to see your dear face.

I have to admit that, once the tears dried, I was quite angry with you. I suppose I thought I could somehow convince you to stay. If I gave it all to you, you wouldn’t be able to leave. Not that I would’ve given you any less of myself. How could I? Everything about these past nine days was perfect.

On the train down, though, I was terrified, more terrified than I’d been to climb onto that ferry, and that I had to walk onto with eyes closed and breath held. With every pitch of the boat, I wished myself back at home, where the ground didn’t move. But the train was even worse. It wasn’t only taking me away from home, into the unknown. It was taking me towards you.

I know you’re in love with me. Never doubt that, my boy. Three years of deliberate word choices, neat turns of phrase, the “Sue” on the envelope written with extra care. I know I had no reason to worry about our meeting. Yet I did. All that, you did for a pen-and-paper Elspeth, a witty and worldly woman who offhandedly sends letters to Americans, who argues about books and writes poetry at the drop of a hat.

But those poems I write by dim candlelight, as birds roost in the thatch above. I wipe stinging eyes to read your letters, crouched by the smoky swirl of the peat fire. None of my neighbours thinks of me beyond That Odd Bird, Elspeth, the one who walks into town with a book in hand rather than a spindle. As the train chugged closer to London, I couldn’t help but wonder whether you’d think the same.

But then I stepped into King’s Cross Station, met your eyes across the crowd, and all my fears melted. You saw past the elegant pink dress, past the hair I’d spent the past hour straightening, past my attempts to look like the kind of woman who travels across the country to meet fascinating Americans. You saw the real Elspeth. You saw me.

Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you without that silly red carnation in your lapel? Did you think I wouldn’t see you for the romantic I know you to be? I’ve pulled out and stared at your picture enough that I think it may be burned onto the inside of my eyelids. Now I know my dreams are the stuff of more than imagination.

But to see you in the flesh, in colour, is more than I could ever hope for. Did you know your eyes are the exact brown-green of the Scottish hills in wintertime? And you are so much taller than I would’ve guessed from your photos. You lost that mustache you’d taken such pains to grow, and your hair is shorter yet still invites fingers through all those sandy curls.

You seemed so shy when you met me at the station, almost as if you didn’t know me at all. And I couldn’t believe that my Davey, the boy who can blether on for pages about books and tree wars and his niece, couldn’t think of more than ten words over supper! I think I prattled on enough for the both of us. I was nervous, though, dining at my very first restaurant. So many people, so many forks, and not an oatcake in sight. But when we walked back to the Langham, when you stopped my words with a kiss that left me breathless, that’s when I saw the Davey I love. That’s when I saw the fearless boy who stole my heart.

Ah, the Langham! I felt like a princess just walking through the front door. All marble and glass and electric lights, like a palace. Did you not expect me to come back to your room? It certainly seemed so, the way your eyes grew huge and your hands trembly when I suggested it. You dropped the key to the room five times; I counted. And there was nothing to be nervous about in the end.

I wish we could’ve stayed up there the whole time. Nine perfect days. Waking up and seeing that funny startled look in your eyes each morning to find me still there. Falling asleep in your arms with our drowsy conversation in the dark. I collected each word like a bead, to string together on my lonely nights back on Skye. Yours is the very first American accent I’ve ever heard. I like it best when it’s saying, “I love you.”

I know you had to leave. Even after all that, even after me, you had to leave. And I hate myself for hating it. I hate myself for wasting a single second of our precious time wishing things could be different.

Of course, I couldn’t tell you any of this in person. I couldn’t say much at all. The very sound of our voices was so… odd. So banal. I confess I couldn’t wait to get back to my notepaper and pen to tell you how I felt. And to tell you how my mind is collaborating with my heart and my body to make me miss you unbelievably, more than I thought I could.

I love you. Stay safe. Stay safe for me.

The Langham, London

29 November 1915

My own boy,

You probably don’t yet have my earlier letter, but I thought it could never be too soon to tell you again how much I miss you. The hotel seems so big and lonely without you (does the room echo or it just my imagination?). The scent of oranges linger in the air and I swear I can still see the shape of you in the mattress. As lovely as the Langham is, I shan’t be too sad to leave. It isn’t as lovely when you aren’t here.

I went out shopping today. Davey, why didn’t you tell me about all of the books? While out walking, I turned a corner and was confronted with a street packed full of bookshops. You may laugh, but even if I were to have let my imagination run loose, I never would’ve conjured up an image of an entire store filled with nothing but books. I’m afraid I looked quite the “country yokel,” standing in the doorway of the first establishment I entered, staring around me goggle-eyed at the shelves upon shelves. It was Foyles, so of course it was some time before I reemerged, blinking, into the sunlight. I swear I became lost a dozen times. The rest of the day I traipsed from one end of Charing Cross Road to the other, ducking into every single bookshop I passed, and not leaving without buying at least one thing. I became quite adept at saying, in an offhand sort of way, “Send this to the Langham,” and then was flabbergasted at the stacks of parcels awaiting me at the hotel that evening.

I puzzled over what to get for you, Davey, my dear, as I know that you have only a limited amount of room in your kit bag. All a person really needs to get them through the vagaries of life are the Bible and W. S. (both of them). I guessed you already had a Bible, so I’m sending you Scott’s Lady of the Lake and the most compact edition of Shakespeare’s works I could find. And a little sliver of room left in the package which I’ve filled with Dryden. After all, “words are but pictures of our thoughts.”

The funniest thing—I was greeted in one bookstore by a display of my own books. I must’ve looked amused as I picked up a copy of Waves to Peinchorran, as a salesclerk hurried up to me. “Twee little verse,” she said, quite seriously. “The author lives up in the Highlands of Scotland. You get a lovely sense of their superstitions and almost primitive lifestyle.” I nodded sagely, then took the book to the counter and signed the flyleaf with a very distinct “Elspeth Dunn.” I handed the book back to the astonished salesclerk and said, with what I hope was an airy tone, “We’re regular savages but don’t always eat our own young.”

I am running water for one more long, luxurious bath; a bath where I don’t have to draw and heat the water myself. Just to sink back in the steamy water and rose oil is heaven itself. In the morning I’m meeting my publisher in Cecil Court (where he’s promised me even more bookshops!), and then I’m heading back to the station to catch my train north. I’ll write to you again when I get there, but I’ll be crossing my fingers, my toes, and maybe even my eyes (when no one is looking) that there will be a letter from you waiting for me.

Paris, France

December 5, 1915

My Sue,

What a surprise to get here and find not one but two letters from you waiting!

I’ve been busy, running from one end of Paris to the other, it seems, securing the necessary paperwork, buying my uniform and the last bits of equipment, taking my driving exam. Did I tell you that, when I was on the boat trip across the Atlantic, I had the childish urge to go to Paris first and then to London, so that I could greet you all kitted out in my uniform? I think I look quite well turned out. All dressed up, but nowhere to go!

Until we get to the front, we’ve been trying to enjoy what bit of time we have before we’re really put to work. Our uniforms get us all sorts of boons—half-priced theater tickets, discounted drinks. It’s been fun, but… it still doesn’t seem like the “Gay Paree” I remember. Many of the theaters and music halls are shut or operate on shortened hours. Cafés are closed early, lights are dimmed on the street at night. Even so far from the trenches, it’s a city at war.

The books are much appreciated, as I’m sure you knew the moment you bought them. You’re determined to turn me into a poetry reader, aren’t you? Haven’t I told you that Elspeth Dunn is the only poet for me? I just have room left in my duffel bag for the Shakespeare, but Harry’s going to read the Dryden and W. S. and then we’ll swap.

My Bible is one that I’ve had since my First Communion. It’s a slim little volume bound in limp brown leather with pages as thin as dragonfly wings, so it’s the perfect size for my bag. My name is scrawled in the frontispiece in round, childish letters, and I have a lock of Evie’s hair tucked somewhere in the Book of Ruth, so it can’t help but remind me of home.

I also brought along my battered copy of Huck Finn, more for comfort than for reading, as I could probably recite the whole book verbatim. But that dog-eared book has been the first thing in my suitcase when packing for anything stressful or upheaving—hospital visits (of which, as you know, there have been more than a few), first ocean voyage, going away to college, moving to the apartment. I take it out, read it straightaway, and it immediately makes me feel that I’m back curled in the green armchair in my parents’ library. It only stands to reason that I’d bring it along here.

Perhaps it’s superstitious, but I also view the book somewhat as a lucky charm. My mother bought it to read aloud to Evie and me when we had the measles. We finished reading the book and then, the next day, Evie’s fever broke. I’ve always somehow associated that collective sigh of relief with Huck Finn.

You may rightly wonder, why does the invincible Mort need a lucky charm? Well, Sue, I’m afraid. For the first time in my life I’m really afraid of something tangible. I was fine on the boat ride over, even eager for what awaited me in France. What I overlooked, though, was what I would find in London. I found something worth coming back for. I found you, Sue.

The boy who never shied away from any form of daredevilry, brought to his knees by a woman he only just met. But what a woman she is! When you stepped off the train and that shaft of sunlight found its way through the glass in the roof to set you aglow, even an atheist would’ve seen the finger of God in that.

Even after you stepped into the shadows, you glowed like a candle the rest of the day. You spoke, and I heard a chorus of seraphim. You laid your hand on my arm when we were leaving, but I felt the touch of wings. A bit flowery, I’ll give you, but such was my state of mind. I laid eyes on you, there was that shaft of sunlight, and I was suddenly terrified. Terrified you would disappear in a cloud of bubbles, terrified I might be hit by a bus in the next instant, terrified the world would end before our world had even begun.

Not until we were in the taxicab and you tumbled nearly onto my lap as we edged that corner was I truly aware you were flesh and blood. My skin memorized every place you touched, and that feeling didn’t diminish for the rest of the afternoon. I don’t know if that one little incident made as much of an impression on you as it did me, but it reminded me whom I was with. Not an unreachable angel but a woman I know better than I know the lines in my own palm.

I was still terrified, though. I didn’t want to make a wrong move. That first evening was perfect. Dinner, dancing, strolling through Regent’s Park. I didn’t want to ruin it by suggesting anything improper. I wanted to—oh, God, did I want to!—but I could never have brought myself to ask.

I have a small confession to make. Or maybe you’ve guessed it already. That was the first time I was with a woman. With a woman in that way, I mean. Remember when you pulled the sheet over my shoulders? I wasn’t shivering because of the cold; I was scared to death. Of course I had an idea of what to do—all guys talk about that—but no concrete list of instructions. I didn’t want to go about it the wrong way. And then you laughed and you kissed me again, and I realized in that laugh that you were every bit as nervous as I was. How was I to know that there really was no list of instructions? How was I to know that that could be… that?

You’re right, though, it was a shame we had to leave that room at all during those blessed nine days, but I suppose it had to be done. I wouldn’t have missed being best man, and I think Minna was happy to have another woman as witness aside from her mother. Harry had to peel Minna off him at the station. She tossed her hair and blew him a saucy kiss as he climbed on board. I happened to glance back and see her resolve crumble, and, for an instant, she looked like a little girl. With all of her carrying on, I sometimes forget how young she really is.

As we sat in the register building, waiting with Minna and Harry, I couldn’t help but think of our future, Sue. When I come back from the front, when I’ve served my year, what do we do then? What options do we have?

Harry is grumbling at me to turn off the light and go to bed. Now he’s just thrown a boot at me, the cantankerous bastard. We have just a few more hours before we have to be up, so perhaps I will oblige him, as long as he doesn’t use me as a target any longer.

You know, writing this all to you has helped calm my fears somewhat. As long as I still have your letters, a lifeline running to me all the way from Scotland, I will be okay. I told you I brought the book along with me as a lucky charm, but you, Sue, you are my lucky charm.

Edinburgh

12 December 1915

My love,

Your letter preceded me to Edinburgh, and it was a very bewildered Chrissie who greeted me at the door to her flat. I had taken my time working my way back up to Scotland, spending a few days in York and a few days touring the abbeys in the Scottish Borders. Off my island, I resolved to see as much as I could. I thought it would be a bit of a lark to appear on Chrissie’s doorstep. To say she was shocked to see me would be an understatement.

It’s quite overwhelming to go from living by myself in an isolated cottage to living on a busy block in a wee flat full of children and noise. At least Chrissie has given me a room of my own, putting me up on the sofa in the little sitting room. I am quite dizzy most of the time and seem to have had a constant headache from their chatter, but it’s been lovely. Chrissie and Alasdair’s children have grown so! I suppose it has probably been six or seven years since they moved from Skye, so it’s not at all surprising. I wouldn’t have expected them to shrink. My niece, Emily, is turning eleven now and is quite the lady. The boys, Allie and Robbie, are eight and six and are quite a handful. When I last saw Robbie, he wasn’t even walking yet, and here he is, running and telling jokes and doing sums in his head. All of them are so full of life that it seems almost indecent in this time of war.

Incidentally, you will tell me if there is anything you need, Davey? Prices may be sky-high here in Edinburgh, but I imagine they are still lower than what you are finding in France. I bought enough books in London that I can certainly spare some to send on, once you’ve found room in your kit bag. Toss away a mug or a few bits of weaponry. Make room for the really important things, dear!

I know exactly what you mean about your much-loved copy of Huck Finn being a source of comfort and even of luck. Because I rarely leave my cottage, I don’t think I have as many of those anxious moments as you do, but I most definitely did when I bribed Willie to blindfold me and toss me on the bottom of that ferry. My lucky charm is a piece of amber, the clear colour of honey. Finlay brought it back for me the first time he sailed off with Da. That stone led to my fascination with geology. I carried it in my pocket for the longest time and, when I was feeling blue, would take it out to examine, hoping to discover the magic it held. When reading aloud in school or sitting for exams, I would feel for its reassuring shape in my pocket. The amber is worn quite smooth now and has an appealing little groove where my thumb fits. It only stands to reason that it would be the first thing in my suitcase when I left Skye.

It’s funny to hear you go on about that shaft of sunlight falling as I stepped off the train. I know just what you were talking about, but I’m afraid I didn’t view it quite as poetically as you did. I was trying to scan the station to find you when that ridiculous sunlight broke right through the window and shone into my eyes. And that accidental tumble in the taxicab? Perhaps I would’ve felt the same current of electricity if I hadn’t been so utterly embarrassed at landing in an undignified heap on your lap.

Not to make light of your romantic impressions, my darling. I am a poet, after all, and capable of being every bit as sentimental.

I was certainly nervous to meet you but, truly, I didn’t dream you’d be nervous as well. And terrified? I didn’t think you had ever heard of the word. I might have ventured to say that you’d done this before—declared your undying adoration to a woman you’d never laid eyes on, joined the French Army for an excuse to cross the Atlantic, and then lured her to an extravagant London hotel.

I did see a slight slip in your confidence when we got up to your room. I didn’t know for sure that it was your first time, but I wondered. You are right, though: I was scared too. I think all of the experience in the world couldn’t prepare someone for the very first time they are with a person they love. Was there really anything to be worried about? It obviously all worked out quite well—or we wouldn’t have repeated it so many times!

I don’t know what options are open to us in the future. But do we need to worry about it now? The world has enough worry without adding another skein to the tangle. You just concentrate on staying out of the way of the shells and bullets, and I’ll concentrate on writing to you and loving you more every day that passes.