Letters from Skye

Chapter Fourteen Margaret

Glasgow

22 August

Dear Margaret,

It was no impulsive war marriage. Elspeth was married to my best mate, Iain. The three of us had grown up on the hills of Skye. We ran bare-legged down the braes, splashed along the shingle in search of stones. Truth be told, Iain was always a little afraid of Elspeth. Her hair wild, she’d shout poems into the ocean spray. She was as fey as the island. One day we were dangling over the Fairy Bridge and he asked for her hand. She looked at me, then smiled and said yes. I thought the three of us would always be together. I never thought Elspeth would betray him.

As much as I’d like to help, I don’t have the answers. I left Skye about a year before you were born. But my màthair, she was there. Write to her on Skye. Your grandmother will know more than I do.

On the train to Fort William

Saturday, 24 August 1940

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.

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.