Letters from Skye

Chapter Seventeen Elspeth

Ste. Geneviève, Paris, France

April 28, 1916

My Sue,

A million and one apologies for not writing more before! You were probably worried sick when you got nothing but that hospital postcard I sent, but I wasn’t in shape to write much. I am feeling heaps better now and thought you deserved more of an explanation.

I was working a route that went to a poste near the rear trench. Close enough to “smell hell,” as they say. Due to the heavy shelling, the blessés hadn’t yet been brought to this particular poste, so I stayed in the dugout, waiting. Pretty soon I saw the brancardiers struggling up over the ridge above the dugout. This rise is a bit chancy, as it is fully in view of the Boche guns. It was a moonlit night, and there was a brief moment when the brancardiers and stretcher were illuminated at the top of the ridge. Long enough for a gunner to open fire.

I saw the stretcher fall and so I ran up the hill. One of the brancardiers was down, but the blessé seemed to be okay. I pulled the wounded brancardier down the hill a ways and then helped the other guy with the stretcher. We were fired upon again. A shell hit quite close, enough to get me with some fragments in the shoulder and right foot. We somehow managed to get the blessé, the wounded brancardier, and me into the ambulance, though I was in no shape to drive.

My wounds weren’t too serious, but I got an infection and was quite feverish. I was moved farther back, until I ended up here in Paris. I’m so sorry, Sue. I know you must’ve been worried when you got that postcard saying I was in the hospital. I was in no condition to write. The French doctors put tubes in the wound to drain off infection, and I couldn’t move my arm for a few weeks. And none of my nurses spoke a word of English, so I couldn’t even dictate a letter. My shoulder is still rather sore and I’m writing this in brief stages. In my fevered dreams, though, you were always there, sitting next to me.

P.S. Please, please, please send some books! I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in the hospital, but I am near to climbing the walls for lack of anything interesting to read.

Hôtel République, Paris, France

May 6, 1916

My dear, funny girl! When I asked for books, I intended for you to just pop them in the mail. Although Louisa May Alcott? You did grab whatever was on hand as you ran out the door. What I can’t figure out, though, is how you could make it through a ten-plus-hour train ride with nothing aside from Jo’s Boys to read. But, really, Sue, that’s what you get for dashing out of the house with absolutely no suitcase! Not even a clean pair of socks. Good thing I lent you a pair of mine. I know you’ll give them back someday.

You’re always in my thoughts, but to see you again in person, drink you up like the sweetest medicine in the whole hospital—I feel like a new man. The doctors and nurses might as well have been peddling barley water for all it compared to you. My own personal tonic.

I’ll be heading back to Place Three tomorrow. Will write more then. I just wanted there to be a letter waiting for you when you got home.

Somewhere in the channel

6 May 1916

Davey, Davey. You didn’t have to get yourself shot in order to get my attention! You know that I love you regardless. It was a very sneaky ploy to get me onto a boat, though. If I hadn’t seen evidence to the contrary with my own eyes, I never would’ve believed you were as sick as you suggested.

You looked quite pathetic, dear, stretched out on that hospital cot, that you had me in a grip of worry when I first spotted you! So thin and pale under that sheet, your curls limp on the pillow—I about burst into tears. But then you opened those eyes, the color of the hills, and said, “There you are,” as if you’d been expecting me, and I knew you were fine. I’m surprised they discharged you so quickly, but perhaps they wanted to get rid of you after so long. Though after the comments you kept whispering in my blushing ear, I’m not surprised. The nurses are nuns, Davey. You’re lucky they didn’t speak a word of English.

Not that we needed words once in that hotel room. Your kisses very effectively stopped mine, the way they did in London. Very effectively. I wouldn’t have wished any of that long, tangled night away for an instant, but, my dearest, if I had known how much pain you would be in the next morning, I might have hesitated. Or, at the very least, bought a second bottle of brandy.

Oh, I wish we could’ve had more than that night! I wish we could have hidden in that room as long as the last time. Nine days to kiss, eat oranges, have good intentions of sleeping. But I know you had to go check in. I know you had to head back out to that ambulance of yours. To let you go again only half a day after catching you back in my arms—oh, Davey, it was impossibly hard. But you’re right. I worry so much about our “tomorrow,” about each and every goodbye, that I don’t enjoy the “right now.”

There’s enough to worry about in the future. I have no idea what tomorrow will tell about Iain. I have no idea what tomorrow will tell about anything. But you sat on that bed, bare-chested and beautiful and here. Davey, you are my “right now.”

At a time when I feel so uncertain, I was reassured by your confidence. I think seeing you, though, was the only tonic I needed. It cleared away any doubts and worries.

I should get back up to Skye in a few days. I’ll go straight through this time, not stopping in Edinburgh. I’ll write more once I get home. I just wanted there to be a letter waiting for you at Place Three.

Place Three

May 9, 1916

Sue,

Back at Place Three. Found your other letters waiting for me, the ones from the 12th, 22nd, and 25th. Were you really so worried? I’m touched, actually. I should get myself wounded more often. Not only did it work rather well at getting you to forgive me and getting you to admit how much you adore me, but I got the added bonus of seeing your beautiful face once more. And, once you got me out of that bleak hospital, there was the added, added bonus, which (to be perfectly honest) probably did my poor battered body more harm than good but left my mind in an oh-so-blissful state.

I’m still not quite up to par, but I’m doing better. They’ve offered me a citation for my actions. More important (at least in our section) is that I’ve finally earned my nickname! These nicknames are very important among us, as they signify that you’ve “proven” yourself and are truly part of the bunch. I’ve already told you about Pliny and Riggles. Harry already has his nickname—can you believe his real name is Harrington? Among the squad, we also have Lump, Jersey, Skeeter, Gadget, Bucky, and Wart. Don’t ask where they all came from, as I’m not sure I could even tell you! I’ve been christened Rabbit. The guys say I’m so lucky with these scrapes of mine, it’s as if I have a lucky rabbit’s foot. Not my right foot, of course, but my left foot came out okay, and isn’t that the lucky one, anyhow?

Isle of Skye

15 May 1916

Davey,

You are not to get yourself wounded again! Not so much as a sliver in your toe. Do you hear me? If you do, I shan’t come down again. I’ll toss every letter you send into the grate and ignore your boyish cries for attention.

You didn’t tell me: Is it part of your job to hike up dangerous parapets to fetch stretchers? All this time, I consoled myself with thinking you were safe, playing chauffeur well behind the lines. And now you say that you are not only driving right up to the danger zone but getting out of your vehicle! Please promise me you won’t do that again.

I did finally get the postcard you sent when you first arrived in hospital. Doesn’t say much for the mail service that it got here almost a month after you sent it. If I had received that card when I was intended to get it, I would’ve been to see you even sooner. Curse the General Post Office!

I arrived back here on Skye to find that my new cottage is finished. It probably won’t look like much to you, but to me it is a palace. Two storeys, a wooden floor, a chimney on each end of the house, windows with glass, and a door that latches! Such luxuries, I tell you. Here’s a wee sketch of the new place.

Finlay has been helping over there, working on the building. Since getting his prosthetic leg, he’s gradually been able to find a small measure of peace. Da found some thick pieces of driftwood and Finlay fitted them together in a mantel for my sitting room. He then carved the mantel all the way around with mermaids and selkies and sprites. It is truly the mantel of an island girl. It is the mantel of a girl who has conquered the sea by conquering her fears.

Poor Finlay, though, has been rather melancholy. Iain is not the only one he mourns. Things have been going sour with his girl, Kate. Since he returned, she’s been coming by less and less. Finlay’s still holding out hope that she’ll come back to him, get used to his leg, the way he’s had to. But I’m not so sure. Nearly every time I go to the post office, I see her, and with perfume-soaked envelopes. I can’t bring myself to tell Finlay. He’d just crumble, Davey.

I am on my way back to my own croft, to start moving things into the cottage. I know the bedding needs a hearty washing and the mattress an airing. Everything else could probably use a good scrubbing as well before I put it away in the clean new cottage. I’ll post this on my walk over there.

Place Three

May 22, 1916

Sue,

Okay, cross my heart and kiss my elbow. You won’t hear about me doing such stupid things again. I swear. How is that for an oath?

Things feel different here. I told you before about getting your nickname as being a rite of passage, to make you one of the guys. It really did seem to change my relationship with everyone. The guys have always been friendly to me, but I wasn’t close with anyone aside from Harry. I felt this constant nagging need to compete and best each and every one of them. But now I realize we’re all on the same side. I might even find a friend or two.

This is something new for me. I know, I know, hard to believe that with my sparkling personality and unerring sense of humor I wouldn’t be the most popular guy on campus, but I’ve always been one of those who has many acquaintances but few friends. Now I feel the camaraderie I’ve always read about.

I was reading through some of the Darley poetry last night, and it struck me that I haven’t heard you talk about your poetry for a while. I know I’ve been keeping you running from one end of the country to the other, but have you been able to find time to write?

The other day I scratched off a little fairy story about a princess with a magic traveling crown and mailed it off to Florence, but after I sent it, I counted out and realized she’s four years or so now. Is she too old for Uncle Dave’s fairy stories? What is it that four-year-old girls like? She is learning to draw and sends me the most frenzied pictures (thankfully accompanied by Hank’s written description). The last one was entitled: “Mama and the chickens and Aunt Sally’s cat by the seashore.”

As I write this, I’m eating my lunch, a rather dismal stew that seems to be mostly turnips and cabbage, and I’m thinking about when we ate at the Carlton. Braised duck, oysters, your first taste of champagne. I can still picture your eyes lighting up at the desserts. I can’t believe you ordered one of each! That seems ages ago, although it wasn’t more than half a year. Half a year, half a lifetime. Doesn’t seem to be much of a difference between the two when you and I are apart.

Do you remember what you said to me when we first met at King’s Cross? The very first words you spoke? You glided over to me and, as I was struggling to think of something intelligent to say, you said, “There you are.” I often think of that, Sue. Here I am. No matter where I am in the world, “Here I am.”

Isle of Skye

29 May 1916

Davey,

I’m in my cottage and I’ve embarked on a wee project. With the whole building lime-washed white, it just looked too tempting a canvas, so I’ve bought up all the pigments I could find in Portree and have been embellishing the outside. I perch myself up on the ladder, with my pockets stuffed full of brushes and jars, a curved piece of driftwood balanced on the roof for a palette, and let my imagination and memories flow through my fingers. I’m sure it looks like nonsense to any passing boat or hikers on the other side of the loch, but it all fits together in my mind. Each swirl of colour, each flick of the brush, is a tribute to us.

Finlay has finished my mantel, and it truly is a work of art. So much care taken, down to the tiniest details. Right in the centre is a fairy princess with a face that looks remarkably like Kate’s. I told him he was wasting his time on Skye, that he should be at the Glasgow School of Art, studying sculpture. He shouldn’t languish here like me, wasting his art on crofters’ cottages. Now that he’s off the boats, he’s not bound here anymore, the way the rest of us are. He can set off into the world the way we always dreamed as children.

Truth be told, I want him to go from here; I want him to stop thinking about Kate. When I was mailing your last letter, I saw her in the post office. The wind from the open door pulled the letter from her fingers and I caught it for her. Oh, Davey, it was addressed to Willie. The whole thing reeked of cheap perfume. She saw that I noticed but, uppity minx that she is, turned up her nose and refused to say a word. I probably should have told Finlay right away, told him that Kate had been playing him false all along with his own brother, but, oh, I couldn’t. Not when it seemed he was finding some peace with his life at last.

I think he may know already, though. Willie came home on leave last week, strutting like a peacock, regaling us with stories of brave battles, then hurrying off. I caught him outside the cottage, heading towards Portree. I told him I knew about Kate. I knew she was the girl he’d been going around with and that he should stop, for Finlay’s sake. He just laughed and said that a husband hadn’t stopped me and, anyway, I’d told him there was nothing wrong with following one’s heart. That he was only keeping with it because I was doing the same thing. That we were alike.

Davey, what he’s doing feels so wrong. And I’m seeing Finlay, broken in pieces over it. Just a few days after, Willie went out to help Finlay on my cottage. He came home with a bloodied nose, and Finlay didn’t come home at all until the next day. He must know. How could he ever forgive either of them?

And, according to Willie, I’ve been doing the same to Iain all along. Thinking about me rather than about him. All of those little fingers of guilt I get every now and again, they came on me full force with Willie’s words. Not only was I a sneak and a cheat but I’d led my own brother to do the same. I’d caused a rift in more than my marriage. I’d caused one in my family.

I could’ve given Willie different advice. I could’ve told Finlay about Kate’s letter back when I had the chance. But I’ve done nothing, and now my brothers won’t speak to each other.

And behind it all are my own actions. If I hadn’t done what I did to Iain, Willie never would have felt justified in his decisions. My family would still be whole.

Davey, my love, my boy, it has to stop. I have to stop. And, believe me, my fingers do not want to write these words. But I can’t do this anymore to Iain. When he’s found, when he comes home, I have to tell him. I have to straighten things out with him before there can be anything with us. Things weren’t good between Iain and me; surely he won’t disagree. But, Davey, I have to go about this the right way or I may never be able to forgive myself.

That’s why I’ve been painting our story on the side of my cottage. A reminder of what was. A memorial to us in paint and brush.

Please understand. Know that I love you, but please understand.

Place Three

June 8, 1916

Sue,

You don’t know how I’ve been dreading this letter from you. I knew it would be coming someday, but I dreaded it all the same.

The day you wrote back and said that you loved me too, Sue, you turned my world upside down. Life has never looked the same to me since I read those words. But your last letter, that’s turned it around again, and I’m dizzier than before. I haven’t slept since.

I could beg you not to leave me. That’s exactly what the selfish boy in me wants to do. And, deep down, I think that’s what you want me to do too. But, all of this I’m doing here, it’s an effort to prove myself worthy of you, worthy of whatever it is that we have. That man wouldn’t pull you away from those you love. He wouldn’t send cracks running through your life.

All I will beg, though, is that you consider for a while longer. Don’t shut me out just yet. This has all come so suddenly. I would not hold you in something you do not want, but give me more time. Let me hold you a little while longer. Until Iain returns, please stay with me.

Isle of Skye

19 June 1916

Dear Davey,

I received a formal letter from the War Office. As there has been no further news received, Private Iain Dunn is regretfully presumed to have been killed in action.

The moment I heard the knock on the door, I knew. I didn’t even open the letter right away, just set it up on the mantel Finlay carved. Funny, my very first thought was of Finlay, how he’d collapse at the news. I had to shore myself up. I had to be there for my brother.

I didn’t sleep at all after the letter came. I spent the night in the old cottage, sorting through Iain’s few things. He left behind so little, such scant evidence that a man once lived. I couldn’t bring myself to move anything from the places he laid them.

Forgotten on a shelf in the old cottage, a nautical almanac from 1910—did he really once read?—and a carved pipe. Evenings, while I sat and scribbled, Iain carved. He got that from Finlay, I know. I still remember the two of them as boys, sitting down by the shore with dark heads bent together, whittling pieces of driftwood into peg dolls and tops for me. In recent years, he’d started fishing in deeper waters, staying out in the boat all night. I told myself it was because he was tired of doing nothing but carving and staring into the fire every evening. Now I just don’t know.

He kept a small kist for his clothes, though he walked out the door wearing most all that he owned. Nothing left in the kist but two oft-mended blue shirts I made when we first married. They were enthusiastically uneven, but he never complained, only brought them to me for mending when the old patches wore out. I still have a length of that blue fabric somewhere. Amazing that the shirts lasted longer than we did.

Tucked in the back of the kist was a broken wooden comb. He always wore his hair too long. He said he liked to feel it blowing against his forehead when he was out on the water. The night before he left, he sat in front of the fire in just his trousers and cut his hair short. I thought to catch it all up and tuck the locks between the pages of Byron, but he tossed it all into the fire. I wasn’t that sentimental, anyhow.

At the bottom of the kist, I found a dented biscuit tin, crusted with salt and rusted shut. It must’ve lived in his seabag, before he emptied it and packed for the army. I had to lever it open with the meat knife. And, oh, Davey! Inside, a copy of my first book, Waves to Peinchorran. We hadn’t been married yet when I gave it to him, not knowing if he’d ever read it. The pages were water-stained and, right in the middle, at a poem about summer nights, was a twisted lock of my hair. In pencil he’d underlined the phrase “warm as a breath on my face.” Next to the book was a carved wooden baby rattle.

Since then I’ve been sitting here, wrapped in a sweater of his, staring into the fire. Màthair came over yesterday and clucked her tongue to see me sweltering in front of a fire with a wool sweater. She brought in water for a bath and set to work making a fish pie. While the pie cooked, she helped me wash my hair and asked, “Is it guilt you’re feeling?”

How could I explain to her that it wasn’t guilt over loving you, that it was guilt over not loving Iain enough? That all this time I spent thinking he was turning from me, he wasn’t. He went away, chasing herring up the Minch, but he carried a piece of me with him. He always kept me close.

I feel so hollow, Davey. Back when I got the other letter, when I found out he’d gone missing, I told myself he was dead. I cried my allotment of tears then. Why would I tell myself anything different? Hope is useless at a time like that. Hope only sets you up for disappointment.

Davey, I don’t know how to do this. Mourn. I didn’t shed a tear when the letter arrived, and I still haven’t. I can’t leave the house, because who would understand? There goes his widow, who refuses to cry. There goes his widow, who doesn’t care.

But I do. He was my husband. How could I not care?

I don’t know what it is I expect you to say. I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing, except that’s what I do. Màthair told me not to stop. She told me to keep writing “my American,” that there was no better way to keep me going.

Please don’t leave me, Davey.