by Hazel Gaynor
I was very sorry to hear that your father is unwell but he’s a vigorous man. I’m sure he’ll recover in no time, so please try not to worry.
By my own admission, I have been a terrible patient. Fidgety and irksome, longing to bring Rusty out of hibernation and cycle off down the lanes. Mama tells me everyone is delighted to see me well again and back on my feet. Surprising, really, to know that I can cause her as much trouble when I am bedridden as I can when I am up and about.
To punish me, she’s invited your aunt Josephine to dinner next week. Josephine’s eldest—your cousin, John Hopper—is to accompany her. I fear meddling may be afoot. I will have to make sure to be on my very worst behaviour and portray myself as being entirely unmarriageable. You’re not especially keen on Hopper if I remember, although I thought him agreeable enough when I met him briefly once before.
Awful news about more bombing raids. This time in Great Yarmouth and King’s Lynn. Four people killed and over a dozen injured. Zeppelins did the damage. I hate the thought of them creeping silently over us while we sleep, like monsters in the dark. I read a newspaper report that suggested they are being launched from a secret base in England. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’m frightened, although Papa assures me they won’t come to London—just the coastal towns. Still, I can’t sleep. Every sound wakes me and I rush to the window to check for zeps overhead. I suspect this was the cause of my illness. More worry than any disease.
I did, however, use the time in my sickbed to reacquaint myself with that volume of Blake’s that you mentioned. How funny of you to remember it. He wrote such wonderful words. “Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” And I found these lines from “Love’s Secret,” underlined. “Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind does move, Silently, invisibly.” I wonder whose unrequited love I was lamenting at the time. Silly notions of a lovesick schoolgirl, and yet reading such sentimental lines gives me hope that love and kindness will conquer in the end. I see so many hasty marriages taking place—men hoping to evade duty at the Front and young girls clinging to their marriage vows as if they were a shield to protect their loved ones. I find myself wondering if real, honest love can flourish in times of war, or if we are all just grasping desperately to the slightest suggestion of it, like drowning men clinging to life. What do you think, Tom? There’s something to ponder while you lie awake at night, unable to sleep.
I was greatly cheered by the news that you had a short truce on Christmas Day. Can you really smell the enemy’s breakfast cooking? Are you that close? I imagine you all miles apart, not practically neighbours. How awful. I can’t imagine the terror you must live in, but I know how very brave you are and that those under your command are lucky to have you. I suspect you have them all shipshape and well presented—and improving their knowledge of Chekhov and chess, no doubt. You will lead them well, Tom. I know you will, even with poorly knitted socks and unhappy toes.
Are the rats a dreadful nuisance? We hear rumors of infestations bothering the men in the trenches. Do you remember the one we found in the woodpile that summer at Granny Kent’s? I squealed so loud that you and Will came rushing to my rescue with the peashooters! Such dashing heroes.
Our own infestation of vermin is under control thanks to Tennyson (the new cat). He came with the highest accolades and I must tell you that he certainly lives up to them. He looks like a brute with half of one ear missing but I find myself becoming quite fond of him. Perhaps we all must find something to attach ourselves to in such unsettling times. Sometimes, I feel I could be blown away on the breeze like a dandelion seed if I don’t grasp hold of something solid and permanent and unchanging. No wonder we all flock to church every Sunday. There is a comfort in such permanence as that offered by the centuries-old walls and a vicar who is nearly as old.
The Language of Stamps, you clever boy! Of course I know about it, but hardly thought you would bother with such a thing! Your message was “forget me not.” Impossible, Tom. I’ve known you too long for that! I’ve sent a message back. Be sure to check your envelope.
Well, I will sign off for now because I have a cramp from writing so much and I have a charity luncheon to dress for (another fund-raiser) and then I’m going up to London to hear an address by Emmeline Pankhurst. You will remember her from the suffrage movement she and her sister started before the war. They have called an end to their militant activities and are focusing their efforts on galvanising the women of Britain to help in the war effort. I’m intrigued to hear what she has to say. I’m hoping to convince Mama to come with me on the pretence of buying a new hat. I’m hopeful that if she hears others speak with passion about the necessity for women to do their bit, she will acquiesce in her refusal to let me even discuss the matter.
Do write soon. I hate the days and weeks that pass without word from either you or Will. I never had to wait for anything in my life. I’m not very good at it.
Your friend,
Evie Elliott
P.S. I hope you like the gloves (despite the lack of fingers). A new knitting venture of mine. I recall that you have rather large hands, although looking at these I find it impossible to think of anyone having hands quite that large. I hope they will be of some use to you, if only for the unravelled wool, which I’m sure you’ll be able to find some clever use for.
From Evie to Will
15th February, 1915
Richmond, England
My dearest Will,
Mama insists I write to you again. She can hardly bear to put pen to paper herself. It upsets her so much and sets off one of her headaches. We hear regularly from Tom, so at least we are assured that you are alive and well but you really must send word to Mama. She worries so, and you know how fragile her nerves are at the best of times. Please write a few lines to her, even if you can’t find time to write to your favourite little sister who misses you dreadfully and still finds herself wandering aimlessly into your room for no other reason than to somehow feel closer to you.
We think of you every day and you are always in our prayers. Stay safe, brother, and remember we are all very proud of you.
Your ever-loving sister,
Evie
P.S. I have the most marvellous gift for you when you come home!
From Thomas to Evie
25th February, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I apologise for the delay in replying, but things have been busy here. There are few moments I can truly relax, most of them when I fall into an exhausted sleep, unable to hold it together another moment.
I’m relieved to hear you’re safe. I abhor the thought of those damned Germans raiding London. You can understand now, what it feels like here, if only a little. Be safe my friend, and well. You must be brave for others when the zeppelins come. Your family and friends need your strong spirit to see them through.
As for talk of love, I never took you for a cynic. Paul Humphreys really broke your heart, didn’t he? There are plenty of romances built on sturdy foundations. Look at Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. She mourned his death for decades. Romeo and Juliet? I know you’ve read that one at least a dozen times. How about your parents? I’ve never seen an old couple so in love. Remember the day we were playing pontoon? They came into the study, and we hid under a blanket behind the sofa. When they started kissing, I blushed so hard I think every last freckle on my face burned up. Come to think of it, where was Will during all of that? Sometimes he disappeared to God knows where.
What they say about rats in the trenches is true. They’re bigger than any I ever saw in London. Those were charming country mice in comparison. These rodents are well fed, practically the size of a small dog. The men take turns using them for target practice. I know how you like the hunt yourself, or I wouldn’t mention shooting the filthy things, but then, you never were easily frightened, were you? I can see you in my
mind’s eye now, dark hair flying out from under your hat, gun in your hands. You were certainly made from a different mould to other girls, except maybe your friend, Alice. Your poor mother wanted nothing but a well-bred society lady. You’ve given her far more than she bargained for—good for you.
Are you writing again? I hope so. What’s the latest from town? Tell me about Mrs. Pankhurst and the luncheon. I imagine tea cakes, marmalade and scones, ham slices, and all the buttered carrots you can eat. My stomach is groaning just writing these words. When I come home, all I’m going to do is eat. I’ll eat until I’m fat as a sow, and enjoy every minute of it.
I suppose I should ask how dinner went with John Hopper. Did your mother take to him as you suspected? He’s a handsome devil, but be careful around him. He’s not known for treating a lady well. Do take care, Evelyn.
I badgered your brother to write. (See letter inside.)
Your friend,
Tom
P.S. My knowledge of the stamps is limited to say the least, but your brother assures me the positioning of your last means you think of me. I should think so, too!
From Will to Evie
Dearest Favourite (only!) Little Sister,
Please give Mama my love. Tell her I’m as safe as can be expected out here at the Front. As luck would have it, for the next three days I’ll be away from the main action and staying at billets in a local town. Looking forward to bathing and shining up nicely for a change, enjoying a small piece of the normal life. Small accomplishments are rather important these days. I’m not sure how much longer I can put on a happy face. I’m missing home, and you.
Your brother,
Will
From Alice to Evie
26th February, 1915
Brighton, England
Dear Evie,
I had a smashing time with you last weekend—it always cheers me to see your face, and I was happy to see you back on your feet, cold banished. We really should make the effort to see each other more often. Brighton isn’t the moon, after all, and neither is Richmond. Either of us can take the train whenever we like and be together in no time at all. Shame on us for making excuses. No longer!
To continue our discussion, I think it’s important we get involved in the war effort somehow. I don’t especially want to be a nurse. I’m not cut out for it. Far too clumsy for a start. I’d no doubt kill more men than I would save. But there must be something we can do to help, even if it’s here at home working in the munitions factories. Let’s put our heads together, shall we? Perhaps I’ll register with the Labour Exchange. See what comes of it.
Thank you for your invitation to go cycling next month, but you know me, I would rather be run over by one than be caught dead exerting myself. I’m sure you’re adorable on Rusty, just the same. Instead, I’m learning to drive and I’m quite good! If my mother knew, she’d have an absolute fit. Billy Peters, a friend of my father’s, has been kind enough to teach me in exchange for a few dinners out. I think it cheers the old bugger up a little! A win-win, wouldn’t you say?
All my love,
Alice
X
From Evie to Will
28th February, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Will,
How lovely to get a few lines from you. I know it must be awfully hard, but please try to remain strong in spirit, even if your body is battered and bruised. You, Will Elliott, already have the heart of a lion. Now you must find the temperament of an ox to accompany it. You can bear this. I know you can.
Mama was so relieved to hear from you. She says to remind you that we could not be more proud. You serve your King and country—what greater glory could there be? I know you will have dark days, but I know you, when this is over you’ll be grateful for all of the goodness and long life before you instead of looking back on those difficult days. Also, I can feel spring is on its way, bringing brighter and warmer days to cheer us all. Everything seems worse in the winter. You must keep watch for the first spring flowers. Tulips, perhaps? Do they grow in France? Think about the tulips, Will, and keep faith in yourself. You command your own destiny. Not the enemy. Only you.
Stay safe. I will write again soon. Send word with Tom if there is anything I can send to help you feel more comfortable.
Your ever-loving sister,
Evie
From Evie to Thomas
1st March, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Tom,
Pinch, punch, first of the month! Goodness, I think this must be the first time I’ve managed to get those words out before you. Perhaps there are small victories to be won in wartime after all.
March already. You and Will have been gone six months. Half a year. It feels more like half a lifetime. How much longer must we endure this, Tom? How much longer until the enemy is defeated and you can return to England, victorious? Perhaps you’ll be able to apply for leave soon? It would be wonderful to see you. I think of you every time I see the soldiers on the trains, their uniforms still caked in mud. Some are home on leave, some are recovering from wounds, and all are ever-anxious to return to their brothers at the Front. They look so strange to me. Like ghosts, almost. So different to the hale and hearty men who left last summer.
At least there is some joy to be found in the improvement in the weather. Rusty the bicycle has emerged from hibernation! I took advantage of a pleasant day yesterday and set out for a long cycle in Richmond Park. I forget how beautiful it is when I haven’t been for a while. I pedalled to the top of the hill and took in the view across Petersham Meadows and along the Thames all the way to the city. It looked so peaceful and I felt so safe sitting on my lofty perch. I imagined I could see all the way to France and I waved to you all and sent you good wishes on the breeze. I hope you know how often we think of you all; how often we take pause in our day to reflect and to pray for your safe return.
Mrs. Pankhurst was marvellous. She’s a formidable woman and I was stirred by her words. She spoke of the need to support the government and has agreed to step down her campaign to secure the vote for women in order to focus on encouraging us to get involved in the war effort. She and her daughter, Christabel, are lobbying to bring about involuntary conscription. It is hard not to support her when you hear her speak in person. With every new report of heavy losses at the Front, and with the NCF (No-Conscription Fellowship) pacifists having recently opened an office on Fleet Street, one really doesn’t know what to think anymore. Papa says the NCF’s operation is a disgrace and will be shut down.
You also asked about my writing, and yes, I have started again. All I seem to do these days is write in one form or another. I take comfort from it, but find it infuriating at the same time. I pour my emotions into my journal, write lines of poetry, and yet nothing changes. I can express all the anger and fear and hope I have within me, use the most beautiful words in the English language, or write a stream of muddled rambling thoughts—it makes not one bit of difference. They are, after all, just words on a page. No matter what I truly think of this war, I cannot stop it.
I took my journal to Richmond Hill this morning and read my words out loud, shouting them into the wind, imagining them being heard across London and printed in the newspapers so that everyone might know how I feel about this war. It makes madmen of us all, Tom. Of that I am certain.
As for the examples of true love you shared in your last letter, I will admit defeat. Who could ever denounce Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers? You are perfectly right. I must not become cynical. I must believe in the inherent good within people. Not in the evil that drives them to war.
What news of your father? I hope he is feeling much better.
Stay safe, dear boy.
Write soonest.
Evie
P.S. I forgot to tell you about the dinner party with your cousin. I don’t know why you are so down on Hopper. He was perfectly charming (I’m sure Mama would have me marry him tomorrow), and I found myself enjoying his
company immensely. Then again, I am so starved of male companionship I suspect I would have enjoyed an evening with the gardener. You are too hard on Hopper. I can find nothing bad to say about him, I’m afraid.
From Will to Evie
10th March, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Favourite Little Sister,
You didn’t even have to harass me and I’ve written. Surely there should be another surprise awarded for that?
I’ve been bursting with news and couldn’t wait any longer to tell you—something you never thought you’d hear, I bet. I’m in love with a beautiful French girl named Amandine Morel. She’s a nurse stationed at the field hospital close to the reserve trenches, so I see quite a lot of her. I can hardly think of anything else. I know—I’ve gone mad!
Don’t tell Mama. Things have a proper order and war has thrown us all off-balance. I’m not ready to make any big decisions yet, but I thought you might like to know that all is not doom and gloom here. Pass on my love to the family.
Yours,
Will
From Evie to Alice
14th March, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Alice,
Lovely, as ever, to hear a few lines from you and yes, you are absolutely right, we must find a way to get involved in the war effort. The longer it goes on the more helpless I feel. So much so that I did something about it today and made enquiries at the post office, and guess who is to become a postwoman?! Rusty and I will soon be flying around Richmond delivering the post. I’m terribly excited. With all the letters I’m writing and receiving I know how important those few lines can be. To be entrusted with their safe delivery to loved ones and fretful mothers and lovers—it makes me feel prickly with pride. I start next week. Imagine it, Alice. Me, a postie!
