Letters from Skye

Chapter Nineteen Elspeth

Place Five

June 30, 1916

Dear Sue,

Sue, YOU’VE DONE NOTHING WRONG. There isn’t anything inappropriate in how you’re reacting to Iain’s death. And how dare anyone try to make you feel otherwise! Cry if you want to. Or sing if you’d rather. Wear the black dress to church, but then change into a bright-yellow one when you’re at home. If you want to sit sweating in front of the fire, by all means do so. But then, the next morning, go for a walk barefoot in the coolness of the dew.

Don’t for a moment collapse in on yourself. You don’t realize what a vibrant force you are on this earth. You are not one meant for mourning. You’re meant for living and for loving. As long as you live, you are paying him tribute. As long as you still love him, you are paying him tribute. Keep hold of that, Sue.

And remember, “Here I am.” I am just an envelope away.

Isle of Skye

7 July 1916

My chevalier,

Even when you don’t think you have anything to say, you come up with the perfect words. Of course, I would’ve been cheered just seeing a grubby envelope addressed in your scrawl, but your words inside act as a balm to my raw heart.

I don’t have a yellow dress, but on the way home from the post office I couldn’t help but take off my hat and tuck a bunch of blue forget-me-nots in my hair. It was such a beautiful day, warm and drowsy, that it reminded me of my wedding day. Did you know, I would’ve been married eight years last week? I gathered up some more forget-me-nots, some bright-yellow saxifrage, pansy, red campion, and tied them into a wee posy with the ribbon from my hat. Then I took it to the spot where Iain and I used to play as children and laid it on top of the fairy mound where he gave me my first kiss. I couldn’t think of a better place for a memorial to him.

As I stood up there, trying to remember this man I hadn’t seen for nearly two years, this husband who suddenly became such a stranger to me, the question of whether or not I still loved him flitted unbidden across my mind.

I think I’ve always loved Iain in one way or another. I told you I’d known him for years. From childish affection to the “crush” of adolescence. From the blushing love that comes with adulthood to the comfortable love of marriage. So, yes, I still do love him. I suppose I can’t imagine not loving him, so long have I been doing it.

It’s funny you should ask about my poetry. I hadn’t written anything for a long time, not since Christmas. I tried to write something last night, as a way to sort out my feelings, but it all sounded so artificial. It didn’t flow the way my words did when I was with you. Remember that poem that I wrote in London about you sprawled across the bed with your arm flung over your face? That very movement was a poem in itself. The words were there—I only had to pluck them out of the air and pin them down onto the page. But last night… I just couldn’t do it. Is my muse gone? Will I not be able to write again?

As strange as this might sound, given the circumstances, I feel better having talked of Iain, almost as if my words here were a eulogy. By talking of him, laying that posy down, I feel as if I’m (gently) closing a door. But when one closes a door, all that remains is to open another one.

Place Six

July 15, 1916

Sue,

It sounds as if you are doing well. I knew you would figure out what it was that you needed to do.

We’ve moved again. I feel like a gypsy, living out of the back of my flivver, never bedding down in one spot long enough to wear an indentation into the floor. We’re officially en repos again, so we’re a good distance behind the lines but still running the occasional evacuation, usually of the sick (malades) rather than the wounded (blessés).

Place Six is one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in France, made even more so by the peacefulness and respite it offers us. I wish I could take your hand and show it to you. We’re staying in a little valley just beyond the town, verdant and dotted with flowers. After smelling powder and blood and the sickly sweet smell of infection for so long, we can’t get enough of the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers. Here’s a poppy for you, Sue. Press it in your Huck Finn and keep it for me.

I remember when you wrote that poem in London. Sue, could you send that to me? Yeats and Shakespeare are all fine and good, but I hunger for a bit of original Elspeth Dunn.

Do you notice I’m not worried when you say you’ll never write again? You thought the same right after the war broke out, and you kept on writing. Darker, more thoughtful stuff, but stuff all the same. I know you wrote a lot while we were in London. Your muse hasn’t left you, Sue. Be patient.

And you haven’t stopped writing, no matter what you say. Your words haven’t become artificial. You still write to me, and I don’t know that you’ve ever written more-natural, more-honest thoughts than you write in these letters.

Oh! There’s the call for mess. Have to end it for now but wanted to remind you that someone in France is thinking of you.

Isle of Skye

22 July 1916

Davey,

Yesterday, I felt rather pensive. As I went about my chores, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it means to be married. The expectations the community has of you, the expectations you have of yourself. I’m still not sure what it means to be a widow. I don’t know what it is I’m allowed to feel or do.

I’m sure Iain’s mother thinks I should spend the rest of my days in mourning, saying a prayer for him each morning, lighting a candle for him each night. As I knelt in the garden, pondering this, I began to think that’s what I should be doing.

Then your letter arrived and I was reminded that, of the men in my life who have loved me from far away, here was one who was safe and whole and sound.

I went and dug up that poem to copy over for you. In a rush, those words brought back that lazy afternoon to me. I remember watching you there on the bed, looking so at ease, so happy. We hadn’t eaten, had hardly slept in days, yet you were so perfectly content. Do you remember how you fed me oranges from the fruit bowl with your fingers? I don’t know what tasted sweeter—the oranges or you.

The poem reminded me not only of that afternoon but that I’ve been in love with you for a long time. Rather than spending my time pining away for someone who is never coming back, I could be pining for someone who will. If I say a prayer every morning, Davey, it will be a prayer for you, a prayer that this war ends soon and I have you by my side.

Place Eight

July 31, 1916

Sue,

We’ve been jumping around but still en repos. We are camped on the grounds of a marvelous villa, with our tents set up right in the tree-lined park. There is nothing much to do, except for the occasional malade run, so we’ve been relaxing, reading, walking, touring the nearby town. Some days we almost forget there’s a war on.

Your poem brought back memories for me as well. Yes, I remember feeding you those oranges. The juice dribbled out of the corners of your mouth and I kissed it clean. We took so many baths! I know, you wished you could’ve taken that bathtub home with you as a souvenir. Me, I would’ve brought those oranges. Or maybe those flowers that you liked so well in Piccadilly, the ones you said smelled of the Highlands.

Don’t go buying any train tickets yet, but I think that I am due to go en permission at the beginning of September. We’re entitled to perm every three months for just a week but can take a leave of two weeks after nine months. A week isn’t nearly long enough to get from here to Scotland and then back again (which is why I haven’t gone any farther than Paris before now), but two weeks will give us plenty of time. So be en garde, my dear, that if all goes well, I’ll be coming to see you in September. Maybe we could meet in Edinburgh?

Isle of Skye

7 August 1916

Davey, my Davey!

Dare I even hope that I will see you in September? I know how fickle armies can be when it comes to leave. That’s only a month from now—I’ll start to dust off my suitcase! Yes, yes, I’ll remember to bring a suitcase this time. Edinburgh would be lovely. I was quite enamoured of the city. Or we can meet in London again, if that’s an easier trip. I don’t want to squander a moment of your leave. Someday I will get you up to Skye, but there is time. There is time.

My mother appeared on my doorstep last week with Chrissie and the bairns in tow. With the food shortages in Edinburgh and the Zeppelin attack in the spring, Chrissie thought the children would be much better off up with us on Skye. She and Màthair exchanged a look and Màthair said, “With all your extra space…” So here I am, playing “little mother.”

Chrissie went back to Edinburgh the very next morning—nurses are in too great a need these days for her to take more than a few days off—but the children settled in quite well. I have only the one bed, and Emily sleeps in here with me. Màthair brought over some tickings, which we stuffed with hay and dried bedstraw. They all seemed to think it a jolly adventure to hike out in search of bedstraw. Emily is the only one who might have a memory of living on Skye. Allie was barely in breeches yet when they left and Robbie was just a wee yin. The boys have really known only city life and view the whole journey to stay with Aunt Elspeth in the Highlands as something akin to Marco Polo’s exploration of China.

I know that Màthair and Chrissie mean to distract me, to fill my days and nights so that they aren’t so lonely. I can’t fault them their thoughtfulness. But they don’t know that, ever since the postman brought me a letter from a cheeky American one rainy spring day four and a half years ago, I haven’t been lonely anymore. I love you.

Place Nine

August 14, 1916

Dear Sue,

When we are all lying about without much to do, we always get into one of two conversations. Well, one of three, I should say. It is unavoidable that the subject of girls comes up at least once in any given conversation. Those who have them will always bring out the creased, folded photos of their girls back home. Pliny, ever the wise guy, brings out a risqué French postcard he bought somewhere and swears quite solemnly that she is his “best gal.” The best part? It’s a different postcard each time.

The other favorite topic of conversation, unsurprisingly, is when the war will end. We are always optimistic and usually pin a vague ending date somewhere around the next major holiday. At this time of year, we’re all cheerfully saying the war will end by Christmas. Once January rolls around, we’ll all be crossing our fingers for an Easter finale.

The third conversation that always crops up is what we will be doing after the war. No matter what, this future vision inevitably starts with a feast to rival anything you might find at Delmonico’s. Bread with real butter, rich chowders, steaks as thick as a man’s arm, cakes and pies and doughnuts, coffee with fresh cream, good bourbon. Please excuse the droplets on this paper; I seem to be drooling.

After our future selves gorge on this much-anticipated feast (and perhaps work off the meal in a bit of exercise with aforementioned “best gals”), they have to choose a career or path of life. Good ol’ Wart wants nothing more than to settle down with his girl and start production of Wart Junior. Pliny has grand plans of running for the U.S. Legislature. He fancies himself a bigwig, with an endless supply of cigars and women. Gadget—who is the best of all of us at repairing and generally tinkering with the flivvers—wants to go work for Henry Ford, designing cars. Riggles wants to open a showroom and sell them. Harry will return to his Minna in England and perhaps become a professor. He said he’s seen enough maiming and injury here to turn him off wanting to practice medicine.

Really, though, it’s all balloon juice. None of it means anything. It’s fine and good to talk up what you will do when you get out of this, but the talk is just hot air until you do get out of this. We could talk about our futures today and then lose those futures tomorrow.

Well, except for your Davey. You do know I’m coming home to you, don’t you, Sue? Made a Faustian bargain to guarantee I would get to see my Sue again. Ah, it’s perhaps unpatriotic to talk about Faust these days. If any of my buddies were to read this, I’d be tarred and feathered for sure. DAMNED BOCHE RUBBISH! There, maybe they’ll focus on the capitalized bit and ignore the rest.

Oh, we’re being called to start cranking the Lizzies up. Have to address this and go drop it to be sent.

Isle of Skye

22 August 1916

Dear Davey,

What do you tell them about your “best girl”? Did you tell them I’m breathtakingly beautiful? Amazingly clever? The most mouthwatering cook this side of Hadrian’s Wall?

Oh, Davey! I’ve just realised that, if all goes well, you’ll be eating my world-famous Christmas pudding in person this year! You’ll be finished with the year you signed on for. See, it doesn’t really matter to me if the war ends by Christmas or not, because I, not the Field Service, will have you.

You talked of everyone else and what they hoped for the future, but not a word about yourself. Keeping secrets? “Balloon juice” it may be, but I know you’ve been thinking of it. You are too much of an optimist, Davey dear, to not dream about the future. Will you take me to Delmonico’s? Teach me to drive? Whisk me away on ski trips to Michigan? Will we kiss everyone goodbye and sail around the world? Since meeting you, I’ve done more than I ever thought I would. In the past year alone I’ve been to London, Paris, and Edinburgh. I’ve dined at the Carlton, slept at the Langham, and shopped on Charing Cross Road. I feel I could learn to ski or drive a car. With you by my side, I can face any adventure.

Place Ten

August 31, 1916

Sue,

Things are so busy here. I’ve hardly had a break long enough to change my socks. We serve only a single poste here, but so many men move through that poste that we have all twenty cars going at any given time. I’ve just worked nearly forty-eight hours without so much as a catnap. I’m soaking up a heel of bread in lukewarm soup and trying to keep my eyes open long enough to write you back.

God, I’m tired!

No secrets about the future, Sue. I hope to start the very first Highland ballet troupe. And you can be in the barrel of in the and a

Sorry there, dozing…

Place Ten

September 1, 1916

Sue,

I’m sorry my last letter was so short and so garbled at the end. I was literally falling asleep over the letter. As my head bobbed, I swear I saw a prairie dog dash past. I’m sitting in the ambulance, trying to write this note on my knee while drinking down a mug (or ten) of coffee.

Still here at———————and things are as crazy as can be. No word about the perm, but you know I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.

We’ve been here—what?—two weeks now, so I don’t imagine we can be here too much longer without going en repos or being let en permission. If they keep working us at this pace, we’re going to drop. Gadget has come down with something and is back at the field hospital, so we are short a man.

Let’s wait and see about Christmas. You’re right, my year is almost up, but I can reenlist on three-month contracts. Maybe? The future isn’t going anywhere. We’ll talk about it when I see you. Crossing my fingers for that perm!

Riggle’s cranking her up, so I’ve got to end for now. Last swallow of coffee!

Isle of Skye

11 September 1916

Dear Davey,

I hope you’ve managed a rest. Any word about your leave? Will you be able to travel up all this way? I can come down and meet you in London again. I have Màthair on alert—she’ll come over to stay with the children the moment your telegram arrives.

Lord, but that does sound strange: Màthair will stay with “the children.” They’re not mine, but I can’t help but feel some responsibility. After all, I am taking part in the shaping of their young minds!

Chrissie won’t recognise her children when she comes back to pick them up. All are quite brown and freckled from the sun. The boys have become positively plump on all the crowdie and cream I’ve been putting in front of them. Emily still looks thin to me, but at least she has a bit more energy now that I’ve prodded her out into the sunshine.

Please write, no matter how tired you are. Even “I love you” scrawled on the back of a postcard makes my heart skip.

And I love you.

Place Eleven

September 11, 1916

My dear, dear girl,

I’m sorry I haven’t written much lately. We were in a really hot zone and were running nearly nonstop. Didn’t have time to do much else but drive and keep out of trouble. Even though I didn’t have the time or the energy to write to you, Sue, you are never out of my mind.

We’re finally en repos. I think they could have moved us to the middle of a swamp and we wouldn’t have cared, so tired are we. I don’t care one way or another where I am, as long as I get to sleep and write to my Sue.

We were quite close to the action and had our fair share of scares in the section. Harry had a shell explode right in front of him while he was driving. He came through with nothing more than a few scratches and ringing ears, but the ambulance was a bit worse for wear in the nose. All of us have found ourselves drowsing at the wheel, but Bucky ended up drifting off the road and smashing into a wall. He’s a bit banged up, as you can imagine, and has earned himself a trip out of here.

Not sure how long we’ll be en repos, but no matter how long it is, it won’t seem long enough. I’ve put a bug in my CO’s ear about my perm, so we’ll wait to see what he says. We’ve only just gotten to Place Eleven, and I’m sure there are things to get in order before he can sign off on perms.

I think I’m going to try to get a nap in before the call for chow. Oh, but it feels so good to stretch out!

POSTES ET TÉLÉGRAPHES

PARIS

13 SEP 16

E. DUNN ISLE OF SKYE=

HAVE LEAVE FOURTEEN DAYS WILL WIRE WHEN ARRIVE

IN ENGLAND WILL BE LEAVING IN THE MORNING=

21 Rue Raynouard, Paris, France

September 13, 1916

Sending a postcard in addition to the wire on the chance that you don’t get the telegram or that the postcard will beat it there.

I’ve gotten leave! Fourteen days, if you can believe it. I got my pass to travel to Paris within hours of sending the last letter to you and had my stuff in my bag half a minute after that. Perk of having done so much moving around!

No need for you to come all the way down to London. I’ll start heading north, you start heading south, we’ll meet somewhere in the middle….

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS

S 16.04 PORTREE

13 SEP 16

D GRAHAM=

EDINBURGH=

WE WILL MEET IN EDINBURGH=

ST MARYS CATHEDRAL AND THIS TIME I WILL BE THERE=

MY HEART SINGS AGAIN WITH POETRY=