Letters from Skye

Chapter Seven Elspeth

Isle of Skye

5 November 1913

Davey,

I reread what I sent you last week, and I wanted to write again quickly, before you have a chance to respond. Although I still stand by everything I wrote in my earlier letter, I wish I had written a bit more gently.

I think you were wrong in what you said, about women having this mythical innate “motherness” inside. But, Davey, you’re still young. I keep forgetting that. You’ve never been married, never had children of your own. You could very well feel this way for the rest of your life, but I can’t hold you responsible for your beliefs right now. I’m sorry for expecting so much of you.

There! That’s done. You should know that I don’t often apologise or recant words spoken in anger. And by “often,” I mean “ever.” I hope you’re not too cross with me.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

November 22, 1913

Dear Sue,

I wasn’t sure how to respond, and so I’m glad you wrote again. I truly didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t have many women in my life. I have my mother and my sister, Evie, two of the most capable women I know. Evie couldn’t wait for the day when her firstborn came into the world, and she just knew how to hold and feed Florence. And the other woman in my life, Lara, is counting down the days until she can get to running her own household. I swear, that girl has been dreaming about trousseaux and supper menus since she left the nursery.

You will be interested to know that I am officially an engaged man! I suppose as officially as one can be. I’d had poetically romantic notions about dropping on one knee and presenting a pearl set in gold, but Lara took one look at the ring and me and politely requested a band of diamonds. She loves to flash it around, as if to say, “He isn’t a doctor, but we’ll get by.” No concrete plans yet for the wedding, but it will probably be a longer engagement. Lara has about two and a half years left before she graduates, and I wouldn’t dream of adding the distraction of a wedding to her schoolwork. I can’t count on anything modest or subtle, not with Lara and my mother planning it.

I suppose I should get my traveling in before the wedding, if I have only a few years left of bachelorhood. Perhaps I should come out to Oxford to visit Harry, the obliging friend who’s been sending me your books. He’s almost finished with his studies there, and I have a holiday coming up at the end of this term. Once that ring is on my finger, my traveling days may be over!

Isle of Skye

13 December 1913

David,

I’m so glad you aren’t cross with me. You may find this funny, but I don’t have many friends, at least not many who read poetry, ride cattle, or wear atrocious checked jackets. Why would you keep writing to a raving Scottish woman from some remote island in the Atlantic? At the risk of sounding horribly sentimental, I would quite miss your letters if they were to stop.

Officially engaged? My, my, but you are growing up, dear boy. Though perhaps I should lend you my rock-and-mineral guide, as you seem to have mistaken your Diamond for a Pearl.

I suppose we’ll have to add commitment to the list of things you approach without fear, wild boy. What does scare you? Certainly not the college administration. Perhaps your father?

My fear at the moment is that I will run out of ink before I’ve finished this letter. Horrid old pen!

It will likely be after Christmas when this reaches you, but I’ve made you one of my famous Christmas puddings (in miniature). Eat it in good cheer and have a marvellous holiday.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

January 12, 1914

A Happy New Year to you, Sue!

You’re right, you do make a marvelous Christmas pudding! It’s similar to the fruitcake my mother insists on making for us each Christmas. The woman doesn’t set foot into the kitchen all year, unless it’s to make a last-minute change to the menu. But every year, as the Christmas season approaches, she dons a lace-edged apron about as effective as a paper cake doily and waves all the staff out of the kitchen. Mother emerges hours later, hair floured, a smear of molasses on her cheek, and a shine in her eyes that could only be brought about by “sampling” the brandy, but victoriously bearing a fruitcake. It generally has the appearance, texture, and taste of a paving stone, but we must all eat a hearty slice on Christmas Eve.

The joy we had this year, Sue, was eating your delightful Christmas pudding. Both Evie and Hank insisted on examining the box you’d sent, to make sure I wasn’t holding out on them. Even my father begged for more. When my mother asked, with the air of a jealous mistress, how this pudding compared to her fruitcake, we were quick to reassure her, “Oh, the Christmas pudding is good, but it’s very… you know… British.” We left it to her to interpret just what that meant.

Did you have a peaceful holiday? Any more kettles this year? I regret to say that Santa Claus didn’t leave a kettle for me, but I did get a splendid new tennis racket. I can hardly wait until the snow thaws to go try it out. Evie stitched a beautiful bookmark that reads “A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.” And my father presented me with a watch, a gold number with a thick chain. He told me it was his father’s watch and his father’s before him. “Now that you’re a man, David,” says he, “and have some direction in your life, you’ll need something to help guide you. You know where to go, but now you will know when to go.” The whole speech was rather stodgy, but Mother was dabbing at her eyes and even Evie was sniffling. It’s a handsome watch but makes me think of my grandfather. I had been hoping for a wristwatch, something I could wear while driving, climbing, and cycling, without looking as if I had just stepped out of the nineteenth century.

My dad has been quite pleasant over the holidays. But I think you might be right; if I have a fear, it would be my father. I eventually did stand up to him about not going into medicine, but if I hadn’t done as poorly as I did my last semesters, I wouldn’t have had such an easy time of it. Even after all of his talk about me “becoming a man,” I still live under his roof, like a child, obeying his rules. He doesn’t approve of anything I do or anyone I do it with.

I’ve always found it funny that my friend Harry is the one person my dad should approve of but in actuality is the person he disapproves of the most. Harry has to be one of my oldest friends. We went to school together as children, pored over my father’s anatomy texts (more specifically poring over those pages pertaining to the female anatomy), went on our first dates together under the philosophy of “safety in numbers.” Harry’s family moves in the same social circles, he’s actually completing his medical studies, he’s absolutely brilliant, and he’s flawlessly polite. What could my father find fault with?

I suppose that a sharp mind can be wielded like any sharp weapon, and Harry can be quite disapproving of the snobbery he finds at many of the social functions we are forced to. He’s lucky that most of the people he mocks don’t catch his sarcasm and dry humor, or he wouldn’t be invited back nearly so often. It’s been quite a few years since Harry set off for Oxford. We write back and forth—not nearly as often as you and I write—but I’m looking forward to seeing him.

And a Christmas gift for you, dear Sue. A mottled black-and-pen, so that you’ll always be able to write to me.

Isle of Skye

28 January 1914

Already 1914, and the world hasn’t ended yet!

Davey, you misled me! This isn’t a mottled pen at all. It’s marbled through with red and black, just like a polished length of jasper. What better pen for a budding geologist?

I have a new set of chalks for Christmas, for drawing, but the rest of my gifts were unhappily practical—socks, three new spoons, a giant washtub. Tennis racket? I’ve never played, but it certainly sounds more exciting than a washtub.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

February 14, 1914

Dear Sue,

I’ve just gotten back from a ski trip to Ishpeming, Michigan, with a few friends, which is why I’m a bit tardy in my response to you. Not only was your letter waiting for me when I got home, but I also had a letter from Harry. He’s proposed that I sail over to England, go on a sort of valedictory tour of Britain with him, before sailing back to the States together. I don’t know the precise itinerary yet, but Harry is talking about heading up to Edinburgh in our rambles. This is probably a wild idea, but, Sue, you should come to meet me! I know, a bit of a lark, but you have until June to figure out a way to get yourself on that ferry. May I suggest a great deal of whisky?

Isle of Skye

10 March 1914

David,

Are you completely mad? You think you’ll be able to do what all my family and friends have been unable to do? My whole life, no one has been able to get me onto a boat. But you think you’ll succeed where others have failed? You think the lure of David is greater than the lure of university? My, but you are the cocky one!

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

March 26, 1914

Sue,

You forget, my father is a doctor. I have ether.

Isle of Skye

11 April 1914

My dear boy,

Not nearly enough.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

April 28, 1914

Dear Sue,

Plans are afoot! Itineraries are set, tickets are bought, rooms at the Langham in London booked, and I am ready to step on that boat. The question is, dear Sue, are you?

Surely you are just as curious as I am to see who is at the other end of that pen-and-paper. You’re both scientist and artist, realist and dreamer. Curiosity is your middle name.

Isle of Skye

6 May 1914

Dear David,

Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen my niece and nephews in Edinburgh. They would adore a visit from their auntie, wouldn’t they?

I will expect that ether posted with your next letter. Buckets of it.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

May 21, 1914

Sue,

Be still my beating heart! Can it be true? Sue is going to brave the ocean for me?

If all goes well, we should be arriving in Edinburgh on the sixteenth. I know I won’t be able to wait a moment longer than that. The seventeenth at noon? St. Mary’s Cathedral on York Place?

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS

SRP 5.55 EDINBURGH 25

18 JUNE 14

E. DUNN ISLE OF SKYE=

WAITED IN CATHEDRAL AS PLANNED WHERE ARE YOU

PLEASE REPLY=

Liverpool, England, United Kingdom

June 22, 1914

What happened, Sue? I thought we had a deal. Did that ferry prove too much for you? You’re lucky I’m not one to hold a grudge. But you do realize that, at the very least, you owe me an explanation! One that doesn’t involve a ravaging water horse.

The trip has been great. Harry and I have had years to catch up on. He’s not been the best of correspondents and, you may be surprised to hear, neither have I. You seem to inspire something special that makes me never run out of things to say.

Harry has got himself a sweetheart, Minna, a demure young lady who writes the most saccharine verse. I met her: very polite but quite flirtatious. She spent half the time discussing the weather and the price of tea in a precise, clipped accent and the other half trying to get Harry alone in the many corners of her parents’ vast house. She’s only eighteen, so no matter how much the rest of his anatomy was telling him otherwise, his head cooled long enough for him to decide not to pop the question just yet. He’s heading back to the States to start medical school and a savings account. In the meantime, he hopes (although not too ardently!) that she develops at least one other skill or passion aside from trying to maneuver him into the bedroom at every opportunity. Harry’s not holding his breath that Minna will be faithful, but we drank a toast to her trying anyway.

The cities we visited were lovely, but, truth to tell, I could’ve been back in Urbana and it would’ve been fine, as long as I was with Harry. Does that sound overly sentimental? He’s started smoking a pipe and writing poetry (is everyone a poet these days?). Aside from that, he’s the same old Harry, and we felt like little boys. I’m sure there were some occasions where we acted like little boys too.

We’re getting ready to board the ship, but I wanted to write so I could mail this before I left Great Britain. I have a few more souvenirs to buy before we leave. I asked Florence what she wanted me to bring her back from my trip and she firmly requested an English pony. I don’t think a pony would fit in my stateroom (that’s what I get for sailing second class!), but how could I refuse the wishes of my favorite little girl?

Harry is going to send one more cable to Minna and has offered to drop this letter by the post office for me, so I’ll close for now. I’ll be looking for a letter full of fervent explanations and humble apologies from you! No more secrets, Sue!

Isle of Skye

3 July 1914

David,

I must say, I was amazed to get a letter from you so quickly; then I noticed you had mailed it from England, so it didn’t have as far to go as usual.

You have every right to be angry at me, Davey. We had an agreement. Goodness, you traveled across an ocean to meet me. All I had to do was ferry across the sound.

What is my excuse, you may rightly ask? My old fear would be a handy one, for sure. But, alas, my fears in this case are sillier, perhaps even a bit more primitive. I’m afraid that, if we meet, the mystery will be gone. We might not get along the way we do on paper. What if our conversation doesn’t flow like this in person?

You were waiting in St. Mary’s Cathedral to meet an ideal of Elspeth Dunn. I didn’t want you to be disappointed with the real thing. What if you thought I was too short? Or too old? Or you didn’t like the sound of my voice? I just want to keep things the way they are, where I’m mysterious and, I hope, interesting.

I really did intend to come, though. Trust me in that, Davey.

As long as you think I’m keeping secrets, I have another one. But this one I’ll keep close for a bit, for I know that you won’t be able to stop laughing once you hear.

Harry sounds like a simply splendid friend. I would say that I hope to meet him someday, but I suppose I can’t do that without meeting you—and we’ve already gone over that!

P.S. I truly hope that not everyone has become a poet, else I’ll be out of a job!

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

July 15, 1914

Sue, Sue, you funny thing. Did you never stop to think that perhaps I worried about the same “what-ifs”? Avoiding a face-to-face meeting was to my advantage. You wouldn’t see how big my feet are or how clumsy I am when off the dance floor. I think you have a good opinion of me now (aside from my taste in jackets, I suppose). After all, I’m devilishly handsome. Wickedly clever. Witty and utterly brilliant. Why would I want to jeopardize that? All those illusions could vanish the moment we said hello. But for the elusive chance to meet you… all of those apprehensions pale in comparison.

We’ve been writing for, what, two years now? (I say that with a bit of nonchalance, as though I haven’t saved every letter you’ve ever sent.) Really, can there still be mystery after all of that time? We’ve told our deepest fears, confessed our secret longings. I know you, Sue, and I think you know me too. If I were sitting in front of you, saying this right now, I should hope my words wouldn’t mean less just because you disliked the sound of my Midwestern accent.

Think about when you first meet a person, Sue. You have to get past all the superficial nonsense, the appraisals of accents and checked jackets. An interrogation of appearance. After you’ve deemed each other worthy, then you can actually settle down to get acquainted, to begin those first tentative probes of the mind. Find out what sort of thing fuels the other—what makes them scream, what makes them laugh, what makes them tremble on the rug. You and I are lucky. We never had to worry about the first part, the visual sizing up. We got to go directly to the interesting bit. The getting to know the depths and breadths of each other’s soul.

I don’t know about you, but I find it refreshing. I am sick to death of having to worry whether people think I look old enough or respectable enough or whatnot. Always having to be polite and look interested. When I write to you, I don’t have to think about any of that nonsense. I don’t have to worry about my big feet. I can peel away the husk (if you will forgive a corn metaphor) and reveal the shiny kernels of my dreams and passions and fears. They are yours, Sue, yours to gnaw on as you will! Marvelous with a sprinkle of salt.

Now, after all that, you must tell me your new secret. I can promise that I won’t laugh. At least not loud enough that you could hear me from Chicago….

I’m starting to nod off and so pulled out my watch. I’m not going to admit to how early in the morning it is, but the streets have long been quiet. I hope you’re sleeping a bit more soundly than I am right now!

Isle of Skye

18 August 1914

Davey,

What is the world coming to?

Eight weeks ago, I stood on the pier, trying to find the nerve to step on that ferry. I kept my eyes on that horizon, knowing that if I went to meet it, to meet you, everything would change. Not necessarily in the going, but in the leaving. Women like me don’t go across the water to rendezvous with fascinating Americans. They wait at home for their husbands’ boats to return.

So I went back to my cottage, to reread your letters and pretend I didn’t almost get on that ferry. To wait for Iain to return from chasing the herring up the Minch. To think of a way to tell him that, after so many years, I was pregnant.

The day he came home, I was out hanging the wash in the garden, ankle-deep in mud. He stepped through the gate, dropped his seabag, and said grimly, “We’re at war.”

Everything felt so cold, Davey, my news forgotten. I asked who he meant by “we,” but he just handed me a newspaper.

Four days before, Great Britain declared war on Germany. While I had sat alone in my cottage, reading through old letters and fortifying my heart, the world went to war.

He said he was joining up as soon as he could pack. He’d only just come home and he was leaving again. And for what? What makes him think this war has anything to do with him? With our island? With us? “Our world has already vanished,” he said. “I can’t get it back, but I’ll sure as hell try to keep the rest from going to pieces.”

He was so calm, Davey. I remember looking over his shoulder while he was talking and noticing a gull flying, as if in slow motion. Even the sheep quieted. The whole island slowing down to listen to his pronouncement. As if it made sense! And I felt a pain deep inside; I was sure it was the proverbial “heart breaking.”

Later that day I found that I had lost the bairn I’d been carrying. A bairn unasked for, but, truly, not unwanted. I’d had time to grow accustomed to the idea, but now, gone, with just a feeling of emptiness left behind. Perhaps I was right all along. Perhaps the universe never meant for me to be a mother. Just like that, I lost my husband, my child, and the peaceful world I had known. The next week, Iain marched off with Finlay and the other Territorials for training.

Oh, Davey, I need a letter from you. I need a kind word, I need a funny word, I need a picture of you in a silly checked jacket. I need to forget that all this is happening.