Letters from Skye

Chapter Twenty-nine Elspeth

Edinburgh

25 October 1940

Dear Màthair,

Margaret has been searching for the first volume of my life; all along, I’ve been waiting for the second.

On the train back from London, I decided that was enough. No more waiting. No more second volume. What had it brought me? Nine thousand days waiting in the cathedral, a daughter who didn’t know the past, and a brother who didn’t want to. On the train I had Finlay beside me and Margaret following with the letters. And both were more important than waiting for a ghost.

But then Finlay left me in Edinburgh and I forgot all my promises. Without realizing, my feet traced their usual path to St. Mary’s. I wasn’t surprised to look up and see the carved doors. I don’t know if my waiting is a drug or a routine, but I couldn’t stop with nothing but bold words.

On Wednesday, I was there, in my usual pew, my little brown Bible on my lap, the “David Graham” scrawled in round childish letters inside the cover. As I always did, I traced the backwards “d” at the end of his name, and, as I always did, I promised that this was my last. Nine thousand days is a lot, but ten thousand is excessive. I had to be done. You see, Màthair, that evening I had started to see ghosts.

Only moments earlier, as I crossed York Place in front of the cathedral, I bumped into a man, right there on the street. And, oh, Màthair, my heart leapt.

That same sandy hair, the same hunched shoulders, the same thumbnail creeping up to his mouth. Eyes the brown-green of the hills in wintertime. I would’ve sworn on my soul it was him.

But a bus rattled past, horn blaring, and he touched his hat before hurrying across the street. I stood frozen for a moment longer, wondering how I could be so mistaken. I was sure it was him. But the traffic, hurrying home before the blacked-out streets grew dark, swerved around me, and I knew I had to give up.

In the cathedral, finger tracing the name in the Bible, I swore it was the last time. And, Màthair, I meant it.

I sat until the church grew dark, until someone slipped into the seat next to me: my Margaret, with a new green hat perched on her head. She’s moved from home, and I miss her already. Last week, when her Paul had leave, they married. A quick ceremony, an even quicker honeymoon in the Borders, and now she’s mistress of her own house. That night, when she slipped next to me in the pew, she wore a secret smile.

“I just came to deliver something.” She set an envelope, crisp and square, on top of my Bible. “A special delivery.”

Envelopes. Always envelopes in my life. I started shaking before I even saw the name on the outside.

To Sue.

My hands trembled and I dropped it twice before I could get a finger under the flap. I tore the envelope nearly in half.

The letter was short, written on one side of a sheet in scrawled pencil, the handwriting as familiar as my own.

The words blurred.

Margaret took my hands. “Mother…” She nodded towards the back of the cathedral.

A Highland lass expects to see ghosts. You taught me that. And yet, when he stepped into the candlelight of the aisle, my breath caught in my teeth. Of all the things I expected, not that, not there, not then.

It was him. Those eyes, startled wide. The thumbnail already creeping into his mouth. Looking the way he did the day we met. My Davey. Oh, Màthair, he came. He came.

Eyes brown-green, like the hills in wintertime, fixed on mine. My looking-glass self. Suddenly I didn’t feel a day older.

I stood, the little Bible falling from my lap. The letter crinkled in my hand. I stepped towards him, with Margaret, the war, and the whole rest of the world forgotten.

“Hi, Sue.” He held out his hand. “Here I am.”

I fell into his arms. “There you are, Davey. There you are.”