by Hazel Gaynor
One final thought before I close. I wonder whether Will’s lovely Amandine heard of his death. I imagine not, with everyone moving around so often. Would there be any way to get word to her do you think? He really was terribly fond of her, and I would very much like her to hear the news from someone who knew Will, rather than from a list (although it may already be too late). Still, I would like to try. Do you think it might be possible to send her a few lines through those you know in command? I know it would mean the world to Will if you could.
Stay safe, dear boy, and do write often to let me know you are well.
Yours, Evie.
X
P.S. New socks enclosed. Don’t be too hasty to put them on. There is a packet of Virginia tobacco inside each!
From Thomas to John Hopper
12th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear John,
Greetings, cousin. I trust you are well and that Hopper Enterprises flourishes under your astute supervision. I write to you from the trenches out of concern for my father. His illness isn’t retreating (the doctors tell us it is a cancer), yet he has stubbornly refused both mine and his bookkeeper’s suggestions to apply for your assistance. I’m afraid I must overrule him at this juncture. In short, I am worried about both him and the future of the newspaper, but there isn’t a bloody thing I can do from here.
Charles Abshire is a competent fellow with the books, but he’s a gentle soul. I worry he may need someone to look in on him, ensure all is running like an oiled machine at the LDT. Our Editor-in-Chief, Jack Davies, is a tough old bird and runs our reporters hard. He needs some guidance from time to time, or some boundaries laid, shall we say. Could I ask you to pop by Fleet Street, see to things and report back? As you well know, the Press Bureau is coming down hard on anyone who pushes the boundaries of war reporting too far, and Davies has never been one to listen to authority. All in the family, I say.
I would owe you a great debt that I will repay the moment I am able.
Regards,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Thomas to his father
13th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),
Forgive me, but I’ve taken the liberty of contacting cousin John. I know you don’t see eye to eye with the Hoppers, but I thought it time to put the family feud aside. This appears to be an emergency—me, on the battlefield in harm’s way on a daily basis, and you, laid up indefinitely. I’ve asked Hopper to look in on things. (Charles, I thought you might like some assistance since your workload has increased tremendously.) I’ve warned him about Jack Davies as well, and have also written to Davies to tell him to treat the man with a modicum of decency.
Please send word of your condition. I find myself more and more worried for your welfare, Father. Take care of yourself.
Your son,
Tom
From Evie to Tom
14th July, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
I find myself waking to another “Letter to Tom” day, so consider yourself a lucky fellow to have two letters on their way to you. You see, I am anxious to share some rather exciting news with you. It concerns your cousin, John Hopper, so grit your teeth and bear with me.
John made a very interesting proposition over dinner last night. I was telling him how frustrating it is to always read the news from a male perspective, and that I would be far more interested to read about the war from a woman’s point of view. I’m afraid I found myself talking rather too passionately about Nellie Bly, whom I greatly admire (she is reporting for the New York Evening Journal from the Eastern Front, Nellie Bly being a pseudonym). Anyway, my comments to John about the newspapers offering a female perspective on the war were really just casual observations made over too many glasses of wine, but he rather took to the idea and suggested that I might be the one to write such a thing. I laughed at first, but by the time we were having dessert I realised he was entirely serious. He doesn’t know why anyone hasn’t done it sooner, and that since women are reading the newspapers more than ever with the men being away, it makes perfect sense to have a woman write about the war.
I said I would sleep on it before agreeing. What do you think? Is it absolute folly, or fate? Please tell me what to do, Tom. I have always trusted your good sense and calm judgement of a situation while I flap about like a headless chicken.
If I do take John up on his idea, I quite like the column title: “A Woman’s War.” Of course I’m thrilled at the prospect of writing my own column (quite the step up from the parish newsletter), but I worry I shan’t be able to think of anything interesting to say, other than to make a few remarks about the temporary demise of the suffragists and the dangerous work conditions faced by the “canary girls” in the munitions factories.
I’ve been trying to think what Will would advise, and in his absence, I find myself asking, what would Tom advise? It is, after all, something I’ve always wanted to do—write—and if I can find anything good to come from Will’s death, it is a renewed determination to grasp every opportunity life throws at me. At the very least a column would take my mind off things and stop me eternally stewing on what might have been if this wretched war had never started. Please tell me—honestly—what you think I should do. I value your opinion and good sense, especially at a time when my heart is already running away with me towards Fleet Street and the clatter of the printing presses.
I hope you are able to find some small moments of comfort and happiness. We hear reports of divisional concert parties and troop entertainment. Do you have time to enjoy any of that? And what about the French towns. Is there anything pretty left to look at? I’ve always imagined the French countryside to be full of rustic churches and terra-cotta-tiled barns and farmhouses. Please tell me it is still, that somewhere you can find a little beauty to cheer you and brighten your day.
Do write often to let me know you are well.
Yours,
Evie
X
P.S. I finished Miss Jennifer Wren, my first sketch, and have enclosed for purposes of decorating your dugout. I do hope you like her. I’ve become rather fond of her these past weeks. I hope you might care for her as much.
From Thomas to his father
20th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),
I will not apologise for having John look in on you and the press, regardless of your admonitions. We both need the assistance at this point, and he accepted my proposal willingly. I know his history of bullying the competition, but I can’t imagine he would do such a thing to the LDT when it isn’t formally his business, and especially when doing so would mean I could lose my inheritance. Have a little faith, Father. Neither you nor I have given Hopper permission to take over completely. If he tried, Jack Davies wouldn’t keep quiet about it. We both know our editor would be on your doorstep first thing. Hell, he might even write to me over here.
If you are truly worried that John will try to take over, consider reinstating me as coexecutive alongside you. As you know, I have other plans for the future, but I won’t make any serious decisions until I’m home and settled and better able to find the best solution for us both. I won’t let your pride and joy falter into ruin.
Please be well.
Your son,
Thomas
P.S. If there’s more to this family feud that I should know about, now is a good time to tell me so we can approach the issue in the most resolute way possible. No more secrets.
From Alice to Evie
21st July, 1915
Brighton, England
Dear Evie,
Please forgive me. I know that weeks have passed since Will’s tragic death but I haven’t written to give you a little space, dear. Every time I put pen to paper I felt all I had to say was so silly and pointless. I hope you have recovered from the shock
. You know—life and all it throws at us.
Did you receive the journal and book of poetry I sent? After my last visit and darling Will’s passing, I’ve been unbearably restless. And you know how I can be when restless—spending all Father’s money and drinking one too many gins. I had a particularly dark evening three nights ago where I suddenly felt like such a useless, silly thing sitting here in Brighton, worrying about zeppelin raids. It doesn’t suit me to be so melancholy. So I’ve done it. I’ve signed up as a VAD nurse. I lied when they asked if I had spent at least three months in a hospital, but really, why can’t I learn in France? I hope they’ll let me try a few of the “easier” less gruesome tasks, but at this point, I’ll do anything. So tomorrow, I’ll wave goodbye to my roommate Margie with a final salute and head into my future.
I’m thinking of you, my favourite girl. I hope you’re holding your head up.
With love,
Alice
X
From Thomas to Evie
25th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
As always, thank you for your letters. They are like a hot loaf of bread for a starving man. (Good God, does hot bread sound divine!) You can’t know what your words mean to me these days; far more than ever before.
You were right in your letter—I’ve been terribly down. It isn’t just Will’s death. It’s the fear that is my constant companion, the stench of bodies left for the crows and the rats. Also, it’s the continual sense of trouble brewing at home. Father shows no signs of recovery and he yelled at me via post if that is possible, and let me assure you it is. The paper may be in trouble, both from falling profits and an old family feud. Father isn’t thrilled John Hopper will be looking in and neither am I, but he is the only choice. And then he laid the guilt on rather thick that I shouldn’t abandon his business and him. At some point I need to get home, sort this out.
There’s a rather nasty battle raging in , from what I hear. The French are leading. You can mark that on your map if my superiors don’t strike out the name. I know better than to state where we’re headed, but since this battle is already going on and surely in the news, I assume it’s fine. To be frank, I’m praying they don’t call us in for reinforcements.
My friend, I would be thrilled to have you join the staff of the LDT—you have my complete consent. “A Woman’s War” is a tremendous idea, and you’ll be brilliant. You should use a pen name to protect your identity (like your Nellie Bly). What do you say to Josie Hawk, or perhaps Genevieve Wren? There we have our brave journalist, snapping up the latest news for her faithful audience. Tough, yet feminine enough for our heroine. You’ll see my crude sketch of a war hawk on the back of the letter. I’ve even given it a helmet with a ribbon. An impetus for a laugh, I’m sure, but I’m not the artist you are. At any rate, congratulations are in order! Little Evie is going to be a star journalist. I’d ask you for your autograph, but I’ve already had the pleasure of seeing it on every letter. (Really, I’m very pleased for you.) Just beware of Hopper, would you?
I see you’re putting your drawing into practice. I sliced the envelope open along the top with a knife to preserve the trio of wrens you drew on the flap. It’s tucked neatly inside my notebook now, for safekeeping. Did you know wrens symbolise strength? I wonder which bird will be next. Perhaps one that symbolises dinner. I’m starved.
Did you read the Report of the Committee on Alleged German Outrages? I heard it’s a real dinger; lists all the wretched things the Germans are doing at war and in the towns they’ve captured. Not that I need to read the account, since I see it firsthand, but I wonder at the word “alleged” in the title. Maybe the newspapers have become too loose in their fact gathering. It’s hard to say since the journalists don’t seem to be allowed near us out here. I hope your column brings the truth to light.
I sent a telegram to Amandine Morel at the field hospital back in , to tell her of Will’s death, but the reply I received said that she had taken ill and returned to her home in Paris. I hope the telegram was forwarded on to her, poor girl.
Do keep me informed of your writing successes. I am so very proud of you. You’re like a sister to me, and I want nothing more than to see you happy.
Your friend,
Tom
P.S. Have you heard any news of the Americans joining the war? We talk about it constantly here.
From Thomas to John Hopper
30th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear John,
Greetings from the Front. I wanted to commend you on your suggestion to add the column “A Woman’s War” to the LDT. Miss Elliott has a natural talent and quite the passion for writing. I can think of nothing better to encourage a family friend, as well as expand our anemic circulation figures. I trust that you and Jack Davies will monitor Miss Elliott’s articles for proper tone and content. However, in the future, would you do me the honour of informing me of any other changes you have in mind first? I’d like to be involved in the decision-making process while my father is ill, before new directions are implemented.
Also, take care to see all articles meet the standards of the Press Bureau. Abshire tells me more and more papers are being issued with “D” letters for violating the bureau’s standards of reporting about happenings at the Front. I am not certain I agree with this sort of monitoring, but who am I to say when I’m so far afield. We must do what they ask to protect the interests of the paper for now.
Sincerely,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From John Hopper to Tom
5th August, 1915
London, England
Dear Thomas,
Thank you for your letter. Rest assured I have the paper’s—and Miss Elliott’s—best interests at heart. I must say you kept her rather well-hidden. She is quite the tonic, not to mention very easy on the eye. If it pleases her to write a few little lines every now and then, I am happy to give her a go. If her views on war don’t quite hold up to the quality of our male journalists, I’ll have her write up some wartime recipes, or items on household thrift. Something a little less challenging.
Don’t worry about the paper. You get on with defeating the Germans and I’ll keep the presses running here.
Sincerely,
John Hopper
From Evie to Tom
5th August, 1915
Richmond, England
My dear Tom,
Thank you for replying so quickly. I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear of your approval for the column (not least because I have started working on ideas for the first piece!). Your encouragement means everything to me, since you’re the only one who really understands my desire to write in order to make sense of the world. Alice is all enthusiasm for the idea, too, but Alice would be all enthusiasm if I told her I was going to put on a uniform and rush into battle. I can’t tell Mama (she will entirely disapprove), and although Papa will be more supportive, I think it best to remain anonymous for the time being. I do like your suggestions of a pen name. Josie Hawk has quite the ring of derring-do about it. More like the heroine of a Girl’s Own adventure story than a respected journalist though, don’t you think? I think Genevieve Wren is the one. A wren for strength. Isn’t that what you said?
As for the report you referred to, yes, I did read it, although I rather wish I hadn’t. Alleged Outrages or not, it makes me furious to hear of the Germans’ disgraceful activities.
To the rest of your letter. Hot bread? Really? Never did I think I would see the day when you were fantasizing about a loaf of bread. Do you get nothing decent to eat at all? It makes me cross to think of you all starving. Men need a full stomach to march on. Even I know that. I have sent chocolate and cough candy. I remember how fond you are of both.
How strange that we have known each other for so many years and know so many little things about each other, and yet only in these past months, since writing to you, do I feel that I’ve really begun to know you at
all. Letters make one uncommonly honest, don’t you think? I’ve told you things in words that I would have been far too shy or distracted to tell you in person. I wonder if I will have anything to say to you at all when we see each other in the flesh again. Will it be soon? Any news on home leave? Or will it be Christmas at the earliest? At this rate, we will have to settle on Christmas in London and make do with a decent French restaurant. There are already concerns here about food shortages. Mama is sure rationing will become compulsory before much longer.
I’ll be visiting London next week for lunch with John Hopper. He wishes to discuss my first piece for the new column before I send it to the editor. Davies, isn’t it? If I remember correctly you have great respect for him. I hope my piece will impress.
I also plan to look in on your father while I’m there. I should like to see him. It has been too long. I’m sorry to hear you are still so worried about things back home. It seems dreadfully unfair for you to have matters of business to worry about when you have so many greater worries facing you every day. It would seem to me that Abshire (although well intentioned) isn’t really up to the job of running things until your father recovers. I’m sure John will do a much better job, family difficulties permitting.
Yes. The wrens. I found myself doodling on the envelope as it was the closest thing to hand. The time passes quickly beneath the nib of my pencil, and there’s a lot to be said for that. I had no idea the wren is a symbol of strength. It was purely through my own laziness that I selected the smallest bird to draw first. Now I know that each bird has a weightier meaning I will have to choose my next subject very carefully or you’ll be drawing (excuse the pun) all manner of erroneous conclusions. All this talk of birds and symbolism has driven me to my poetry books. I’d never appreciated how often the bird is written about. Dozens of works jumped from the page. I like this one by Thomas Hardy. Lines from “The Darkling Thrush.” Are you familiar with it? It fits my mood perfectly today.
