Letters from Skye (Jessica Brockmole) читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги

Chapter Twenty-five Elspeth

Isle of Skye

6 April 1917

My love,

I’m not sure if I can send food as well, but I can’t bear to think of you hungry when I have so much more. Apples, bread, smoked sausage, cheese, beans, rice, salted herring, onions, jam. Not much fresh coming through my little garden yet, so I’ve included some dried peas. I hope they all make it to you with no trouble.

This time last year you were in hospital and I was frantic with worry. I won’t say I don’t worry about you now, as I worry every day we’re apart, but at least I know that you are safe and whole and missing me dearly.

I’ve also started writing to Minna. Did you know she’s had a baby? The bonniest wee boy, with a sprinkling of pale hair, like Harry. She sent a photo. Do you hear from Harry at all? It must be hard for her to be alone.

I’m tucking a kiss inside this envelope with the letter. Be sure that you grab tight to it before it wiggles out and escapes!

Love,

Sue

Kriegsgefangenen-Sendung, Postkarte

April 23, 1917

Sue,

Last night I saw the most beautiful sunset. It made me think about the time we took the tram out to Portobello and watched the sunset from the beach. Even though the water was freezing, you dared me to roll up my trousers and wade in. Then you sat on my lap and buried your toes in the sand and we shared that god-awful pie that you made. God-awful or not, I wish I had that pie now. And the sand. And the sunset. But, most of all, I wish I had you.

Davey

Isle of Skye

2 May 1917

Davey,

Of course I remember that sunset. I think that was the first time I’d ever sat and just watched the sun slip below the horizon. I truly felt the earth rotating beneath me. Or that could have been the kiss.

Love you,

Isle of Skye

18 May 1917

Davey,

I haven’t heard from you in a while. I wish I wasn’t starting to feel the first fingers of worry plucking at my heart, the way they always do when I miss a letter or two from you. You have to admit, your history in that respect hasn’t been exemplary. When you don’t write, it’s usually for a reason that makes me have to sit down to read the letter when it does come—being wounded and in hospital, being taken prisoner. What is it this time? What is there left?

I did something different this time. I left Emily with the boys and I went to church. I didn’t go to the stuffy Presbyterian church of my youth but rather to the tiny Catholic chapel in Portree. I remembered the warmth and mystery of St. Mary’s and, besides, I thought if I wanted to put in a special request to God to keep you safe, perhaps I should appeal to the Catholic God you pray to.

I wasn’t the only one in the chapel that day. Other women were there, in veils and scarves, muttering prayers and lighting candles. I brought along your little Bible and traced your name with my fingertip. I lit a candle and, not knowing the proper prayers, just closed my eyes and thought about you. When I opened them, a woman was sitting by my side, quietly watching me. “Have you said a novena for him?” I admitted I wasn’t Catholic, half-expecting her to order me out of the church. Instead, she put her hand on mine and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll say an extra for you.” She gave me her carved wooden rosary and promised to teach me the prayers when she saw me again.

I felt much better after leaving. Even though it is a bit of a journey for me to get to Portree, I now know a place I can go when I want to feel close to you.

Love,

Sue

Isle of Skye

22 May 1917

Davey,

Please quell these fears within me. I have been bicycling to Portree nearly every day to pray for you, and I need some confirmation that my prayers have been answered. These Catholic prayers are newly learned, and I want to be sure I’m doing something right.

Anything, Davey! A postcard. A sentence. A word, even. Please.

Sue

June 1, 1917

Sue,

I’ve debated for a while about how best to write this to you. You don’t know how many versions have ended up in the grate. I suppose the best thing is just to come out and say it.

Iain is alive.

He’s not dead, Sue. He’s here, in this same camp.

A few weeks ago, we were out having our exercise. A group of British men had recently been transferred to our camp and were clustered on one side of the yard. I tell you, my girl, it brought tears to my eyes to hear English spoken after nothing but French and the occasional indecipherable bit of Russian for six months! I hurried right over to one of the guys, begging to be let in on a conversation, any conversation.

One asked where I was from. I said, “Illinois,” and another man called out, “Illinois? You don’t say! I have family there. What part?” Europeans never seem to realize the vastness of the United States, so when I said, “Chicago. Urbana, for a while,” this guy said to me, “Why, my cousin lives in Chicago! Frank Trimball. Surely you know him? I’ll ask him about you. What’s your name?”

I told him my name and heard a bellow from somewhere within the throng: “David Graham from Urbana, Illinois?”

I must’ve responded, Sue, because the next thing I knew, I was on the ground with a stinging cheek and grit in my eyes.

I heard someone say, “What’d you do that for, mate?” and I stood up, still reeling, to see a stranger, his fists clenched, his mouth twisted.

“That was for falling in love with my wife.”

Dizzy, I didn’t react quickly enough to avoid the second punch.

“And that was for making her fall in love with you.”

I spat blood. “Who the hell are you?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

“Elspeth’s husband. Or have you gone after so many married women you lost track?”

You really didn’t think I could let that comment slide by, now, did you, Sue? Of course I went after him. What followed could only be described as an old-fashioned schoolyard brawl.

It seemed to go on for ages, but it was probably only a matter of minutes before we heard shouts in German and the others finally succeeded in pulling us apart.

We collapsed in the dust, panting, and the crowd dispersed. Truth to tell, we were too tired, too hungry, and too demoralized to do much more.

“Why did you leave her? Why didn’t you write?” I had to ask, for your sake. “She thought you were dead.”

Iain knuckled his nose. His hand came away bloody. “She had you.”

Sue, he knew. The whole time. He found your letters, knew you’d been writing to me in secret for years. He divined all the hints between the lines that we both later found. He guessed how we felt before either of us admitted it. Why do you think he joined up so quickly? Why do you think he was so eager to get to the front? He didn’t feel he had anything more to lose.

I don’t know yet what this means for us. I’m still wrestling with my own conscience, so I understand if you don’t write back right away. If you want to write to him, he’s at the same address.

David

Isle of Skye

18 June 1917

What a horrible joke that was, Davey! I fainted cold on the floor when I started to read your letter. Brave Allie had his coat on, ready to run to town in the rain for the doctor, when I came to and reassured him that it was nothing but a mean joke.

It was, wasn’t it? Iain can’t be alive. All those letters I received confirming his death. My separation allowance turned into a widow’s pension. How could the War Office be wrong in this?

How am I supposed to feel? My husband joins up and heads out to battle as a grand attempt at suicide. He doesn’t write; he doesn’t come to see me. He’s been prisoner for over a year now, without a word to me or to his mother that he was alive. Is he surprised I fell in love with another man? Wouldn’t any woman do the same?

Oh, Davey! I can’t go through this. I can’t go through all of this.

Sue

Kriegsgefangenen-Sendung, Postkarte

June 23, 1917

Sue,

Tomorrow I spread my wings. It may be a while before I write again, but don’t worry about me. You are the blossom that I fly toward.

I miss your smile.

Davey

June 24, 1917

Sue, my dearest girl,

If you’re reading this, it means that Iain has gotten through. I know it must have been a shock to find him on your doorstep, resurrected from the grave, so to speak. But I once made you a promise that I wouldn’t stand in the way once he returned home to you.

I’ve written a fairy story for you, Sue. I trust that it makes clear what I cannot. Always know that I love you.

Forever yours,

David

THE FISHERMAN’S WIFE

There was once a fisherman who had a beautiful wife named Lucinda. He’d sail off for weeks, following the fish, and Lucinda waited back on the shore, dangling her bare feet in the waves and making his nets. She wove and knotted the strong silvery threads and, as she wove, she would sing. She sang lonely songs of the sea, spirited sailing shanties, and achingly beautiful melodies that sounded as if they came from the mermaids themselves. But as she gazed out across the water, eyes fixed on the horizon for her husband’s boat, each of her songs was tinged with sadness.

Lucinda was so lovely and her song so pure that a water sprite had fallen in love with her. Every day while she sat by the water knotting her nets, the sprite floated nearby, watching her and growing more in love. With each crystal tear that Lucinda shed into the sea, the sprite swam a little closer, wishing there was a way to make her smile. He became determined to win her love and bring her to live in the sea with him.

The sprite swam out to sea, in search of the most precious gifts he could find, things Lucinda had never seen in her humble land, things that would make her realize there was more to the world than her little stretch of shore and the empty horizon. Once she saw how far the sea reached and how much hid beneath the waves, she’d come with him.

He dove to the deepest depths and found the most beautiful conch shell he could, large and creamy white, with a faint glow of pink and pale blue radiating from the inside. He brought it to Lucinda with a shy smile and was pleased to get one in return.

But she refused the gift, saying, “If I want a beautiful shell, I only need to walk along the beach and choose from the shells scattered there.”

“None will be as lovely as this conch shell from so far away.”

“They will be lovelier because they are right outside my door.”

The next day, the sprite danced through the waves until he found the most dazzling fish, with trailing fins of bright blue and yellow. He caught it up in a glass bowl and brought it to Lucinda, who smiled but answered as before. “If I want to see a dazzling fish, I only need to look into the shallows of the bay.”

“None will be as dazzling as this fish from beyond the waves.”

“It will be even more dazzling because it is right outside my door.”

Undeterred, the sprite swam all day and night to a beach in an exotic land ringed with waving palm trees and the smell of fruit. The sand along the beach glittered pure white. He scooped up a measure of the sparkling sand and brought it to Lucinda. But, as before, she answered, “If I want to see glittering sand, I only have to look down at this beach.”

“It won’t be as glittering or as pure white as this sand I found for you.”

“It will be even more glittering in my eyes because it is right outside my door.” She gave the sprite a kind smile. “The sea is yours. You go with the current, traveling across the waves to faraway places. But the sea isn’t mine and never can be. My home on the beach is more precious to me than any of the treasures in the world.”

The sprite swam furiously away. He didn’t understand how, with all the magnificent treasures he’d offered her, with the life he could give her beneath the sea, Lucinda still preferred the company of a mere fisherman and their simple life on this simple shore. The song she sang from the shore, soaring on the wind, was one of yearning and loss.

Rejected, the sprite struck the surface of the water, causing a storm to rise up in his anger. Rain streamed down, hiding the shoreline behind a curtain of gray. Out at sea, a tiny fishing boat bobbed in the roiling water. As the water rose, a water horse—bare-chested, sharp-fanged, seaweed tangled in his mane—strode up the crest of a wave. White spray behind him, the water horse flew straight toward the boat.

The fisherman, pulled beneath the surface, could never come home. The sprite would never have to fight for Lucinda’s love again. But her song rose above the thunder and crashing waves, and the sprite knew what he had to do. He dove beneath the surface.

He made it to the side of the boat just as the water horse reared up with saltwater dripping from clawed hooves. The sprite kicked his legs and shot out of the water like a fish, between the water horse and the fisherman crouched on the bottom of the boat. The claws of the water horse sank into the sprite.

With all of his power, the sprite blew a wind that pushed the little fishing boat back toward shore. He knew that no gift could draw Lucinda away from her home. But, by sending the fisherman back to it, he’d found the only gift that mattered.

Isle of Skye

17 August 1917

Davey,

This man—this stranger who appeared on my doorstep—is not my husband. When he left three years ago, my husband was strong and arrogant and preoccupied. The smouldering in his eyes that I mistook for fanaticism I now know to be the smouldering of jealousy. But this man, this strange man you sent to me—he’s thin, nervous, starving, apologetic, tentative. He’s none of the things that Iain was. I don’t know who he is.

He said you planned some grand escape. That you stitched up fake uniforms and planned to just walk out of the front gate of the prison camp. That he was the only one who made it.

I want to know, what right do you and Iain have to make my decision for me? What would make you think I would choose to take him back? What would make you think I wouldn’t be waiting for you?

I don’t know what to do with him. He sits in the cottage all day, seemingly ill at ease. He smokes and twitches and weeps when he tries to make love to me. When I pull on my boots to go outside, he grabs on to my apron, as if he expects me to walk out the door and never return.

I’ve thought about it. But, really, where would I go? I don’t know whether you’re still a prisoner. I don’t know why you sounded so cold in the letter you sent with Iain. I don’t know if you are still in love with me. I don’t know if you will even open this letter and read it.

Every time I’m in Portree, I stop in the Catholic chapel. I pray you are safe, wherever you may be, and I pray that everything will right itself. Nothing is the way it should be now.

Davey, I need you. You have no idea how much I need you. Nothing is right without you. I need to make my own choice.

Sue