Letters from Skye

Chapter Twenty-four Margaret

London

7 September 1940

Oh, Màthair,

I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been in London these past two months with a suitcase of letters, reading and rereading Davey’s scrawl. I’ve written to every address I can think of—his parents’ house in Chicago, the apartment he shared with Harry, his rooming house, his sister’s house, even his university alumni organization, and the American Field Service Association—any address I could find that could lead to someone, anyone, who might know what happened to him. To “my American.”

And I haven’t received a single response. I know, after decades, I shouldn’t expect any. People move on, lives continue. I shouldn’t expect that these people still live at the same addresses. I shouldn’t expect that they know anything about Davey. I shouldn’t expect that they can bandage up my heart.

I’ve spent these long weeks of waiting just wandering around London. Going to every place we walked together, every railing he brushed against, every bend in the road where he stopped to touch my face. Did I ever tell you about the Christmas I spent with Chrissie in Edinburgh, when Davey and I both went outside at midnight just to feel the other across the miles? I thought if I went to all the right spots in London, I could feel him: his breath on my face, his voice in my ear, his hand in mine. I thought that I could find those moments and catch them up in my fingers.

But this isn’t the London where I gave away my heart. This is a city prepared for siege. Everything’s a little dimmer, a little greyer. Shop windows we pressed against are full of tinned food and gas masks. Doorways we paused in to kiss are edged in sandbags. There’s no romance beneath the chandeliers of the Langham. These days, it’s crowded with uniforms and officious-ness. The war is everywhere.

There was one moment when I stepped out of the hotel and swore I saw him on the other side of the street, standing on the steps of All Souls Church. But a bus passed and the image was gone. Even here, nothing but ghosts.

Màthair, there’s no hint of Davey here. Not any longer. Not even in our old room at the Langham. I thought being where we once were, would draw him to me. That I’d send out these letters and finally get some answers. That I’d finally find out what happened to my American.

I’m tired. Half my life has been waiting, it feels, and I don’t know how much longer I can do it. It’s exhausting.

I’ll stay another week at the Langham, just to be sure no letters come, but then I’ll head back towards Edinburgh, head back to again wall up my memories and continue waiting. I know no other way to be. I miss my Margaret so.

9 September 1940

Maisie,

Have you heard from your mother? Please tell me you have. Is she well?

The moment I heard the news about the bombs in London, I hoped she was already out of the city. None of the reports I’ve read seem to know exactly how many planes there were, exactly how many buildings were hit. Hundreds? Thousands? But London is still burning, they say. They are calling it a blitz.

I’ll find out more but, please, tell me your mother got out in time.

Beagan Mhìltean, Skye

Saturday, 14 September 1940

Paul,

Mother sent a letter that arrived at the same time as yours, only hers was written two days before.

Oh, Paul, we had no idea! We’d had no mail, much less a newspaper, for days. A blitz attack that left all of London burning? Gran sent me straight into Portree for news and for a telegram to Emily, in case Mother had left London earlier and made it to Edinburgh.

I can scarcely believe what I’m reading, Paul. Hundreds of bombs, all over the city. Sure, there have been air raids in London before. We’ve all had air raids. But for so much so fast on one city… I just can’t comprehend. When they fall, they don’t discriminate. The London my mother knew truly is gone.

And then almost every day since! A city besieged. I hope, I pray, she’s not there, but Emily said the house in Edinburgh is still shut tight, so I do what she’s been doing all these months. I wait. And watch the post.

I know that you’re out there flying in it all. Paul, please be safe. For me.