Last Christmas in Paris
Page 12
Oh, Alice. It is ridiculous. Why must love be so complicated? I suppose I have only myself to blame for bringing matters of the heart into it at all. Why I can’t simply do business with Hopper and send words of encouragement to Tom, I don’t know. But apparently we cannot choose with whom, or indeed when, we fall in love. My feelings for Tom come as much as a surprise to me as they would no doubt be to him, were he ever to find out. And he mustn’t. This is to be our secret, Alice.
Do take care in that ambulance. You never were the best at direction and control when it comes to things on wheels.
Much love to you.
Evie
X
From Alice to Evie
22nd November, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Just a quick note to say, what a lucky girl you are to have choices in love. I am happy no matter whom you choose—I adore you and that’s what matters (even if you know my preference. Wink wink). I won’t be the one lying next to the fellow every day, devoting myself to him for all eternity, etc., and you would. Imagine such a thing! I’ve never thought myself the marrying type, in spite of my boy-crazed mind, but who knows? My private has made a full recovery and has become a bit friendlier than usual of late. I quite like it. More soon.
Alice
X
From Evie to Tom
25th November, 1915
Richmond, England
My dear Tom,
What an absolute fool I am. I just found a letter I had written to you a fortnight ago in reply to your latest—but I never sent it. I was wondering why there was no reply. Now I know. Things move and change so quickly in this damned war that when I reread my letter, my words hardly make sense anymore, so I have thrown it into the fire and started again.
What I wish to say is that I think you terribly brave to be in the midst of such awfulness. You say you ran—made a mad dash for it. That we always must. I agree with Will on this. We must make a mad dash for everything in life, mustn’t we? Why sit back and let it all pass us by? More than ever, I simply do not know what the world will look like when I wake up each morning. It all feels so fragile. Like silk beginning to fray, and once that thread begins to unravel, it is so difficult to stop it. War makes me question everything. It makes me feel brave and then foolish and then reckless with my emotions so that I don’t quite know who I am anymore.
I’m afraid I must tell you, that in the two weeks between my intended letter and this new attempt, your poor father has gone downhill rather rapidly. I’m sure Abshire has been in touch to tell you the same. I think he is giving up the fight, Tom. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I believe you must prepare yourself.
Wishing you some moments of peace among all that is so difficult.
Yours,
Evie
X
Telegram from Charles Abshire to Thomas
1ST DECEMBER 1915
TO: LT. THOMAS HARDING, RANSART, NORD-PAS-DE-CALAIS, FRANCE
SENT: 18:10 / RECEIVED: 18:45
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF YOUR FATHER’S PASSING. DIED PEACEFULLY. DID NOT SUFFER. WILL SEND ON A LAST LETTER FROM HIM. WILL STAY ON AT LDT UNDER DIRECTION OF JOHN HOPPER UNTIL YOU RETURN. GODSPEED. YOUR FATHER WAS ETERNALLY PROUD OF YOU. ABSHIRE.
From Charles Abshire to Thomas
2nd December, 1915
London, England
My dear Thomas,
My sincere condolences for the loss of your father. He was a great man and a wonderful friend to me. He will be greatly missed by many. As promised, I’ve enclosed the letter from him, which he dictated to me just hours before he died.
Best wishes,
Charles
Letter from Thomas’s father to Thomas
My dear son,
If I could muster the strength to laugh at the irony which has put me on death’s door, I would. My confounded illness crippled me, but God sent in the Germans to finish me off. I’d had too much luck in battle those years in the South African War, I suppose. Now my time has run its course, but I am at peace. Cherish the good as it comes, Thomas. It slips away when you least expect it.
I know our disputes in the past led you to believe I lost faith in you, but I never doubted your character for a minute, or your intelligence. You make the world a better place by being in it. Have courage, dear boy. You will survive this ghastly war because you are strong—all heart as your mother was—and you will live a rich life. War has a way of making everything on the other side of it all the sweeter. Do not think of our quarrels or your inheritance when you make your decisions about the future. No matter what, you must walk your own path, just as I have. Nothing could make me prouder. Please know I will be with you always, looking after you.
With all my heart besides,
Father
From Evie to Thomas
5th December, 1915
Richmond, England
My dearest Tom,
I am so dreadfully sorry. I heard the news of your father’s death from Hopper. He told me that Abshire sent word to you immediately. I believe he slipped away quietly in the end which, I suppose, is all that we can hope for when it comes. I hope you can draw some comfort from that, Tom, although I know you will be desperately sad to be over there and not here.
I will admit that I have been avoiding writing to you since I heard. There simply didn’t seem to be any words to express my feelings adequately. We have been here before, haven’t we? I seem to have used up any ability to write eloquently about death and grief. But each day since I learned of your father’s passing I felt ever more awful for leaving you with no word. So this is my best attempt.
The funeral was a very dignified affair. You would have been very proud. I know you and your father had your difficulties (what child and their parents don’t?), but when all’s said and done, you would have been—and should be—a very proud son. If nothing else, war must make us value life, with all its frustrations and disagreements. I find myself more forgiving of Mama’s “ways.” Sometimes I even feel quite fond of her.
And for all that I dearly love to receive your letters, I hate to learn of your skirmishes and the dreadful injuries that fall on your troops. I would ask you to be a little less descriptive, but that would be cowardly. I must know the truth of it from you because we hear very little of it in the newspapers. Everything is still bolstered by talk of bravery and victorious battles against the enemy. The government would have us believe you are all enjoying a jolly holiday over there. The headlines are nothing more sinister than “Making Steady Progress” and “A Day of Promise.” Cavell’s execution was, of course, used to stir up patriotic sentiment among those who haven’t signed up yet. Leaflets and posters are everywhere. “REMEMBER CAVELL.” “GO NOW!” Women are shamed into encouraging their sons and husbands to go. There is talk of conscription coming in the very near future. Hopper believes the act will be passed early in the New Year and then everyone will have to go. We will be a nation of women, alone.
I’m afraid I have no bird for you this time, but I am working on one and will send it soonest. When I study my field book or watch the birds in the garden, I find myself wishing I were a bird. And you, Tom. And all the poor souls out there. What freedoms we would have. What joy to spread our wings and fly away, to choose our own direction, to catch the thermals and soar. What are we compared to the birds of the air? We are but worms, tunnelling blindly through the earth. We, who think we are so superior, are the greatest of fools.
I may be silly to do so, but I still imagine our Christmas in Paris and pray, with all my heart, that this Christmas will not be our last. I imagine all the many peacetime Christmases stretching out before us, waiting to be filled with mirth and merriment and carolling and good brandy. I imagine a winter’s afternoon stroll along the Seine, just for the thrill of it. They say the light in Paris is extraordinary. I imagine a little sliver of it, resting in my heart, to brighten these darkest of days.
Yours in deepest
sympathy for your loss.
Evelyn
X
P.S. A few lines from Blake. Goodnight, my friend.
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest.
And I must seek for mine.
From Evie to her editor
6th December, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Mr. Davies,
Please find my latest column enclosed (John Hopper has seen it, but I would greatly value your opinion as to whether it needs a bit more work). I know you asked me to steer clear of matters of death or anything too morbid, but this is war, sir, and I’m afraid the two are rather unavoidable.
I have already lost my only brother in this war, and recently a very dear friend of mine lost his father as a result of the recent zeppelin raid on London. It isn’t enough, sir, for the mothers and wives and sisters of the dead to be expected to carry their grief silently. Therefore, I find myself encouraging us to talk about those we have lost.
I am heartened by the news that you have received several letters in support of my first two columns. Dare I consider them fan mail? I would very much like to read them and wonder if you might be so kind as to forward them to me.
I find myself more certain than ever that I would like to make a career as a journalist when the war is over and things are settled once again. I hear there are female reporters at the Front—Nellie Bly for one, reporting for the New York Evening Journal from the Eastern Front. Wouldn’t it be something to have a Nellie Bly all of your own, reporting for the LDT? I never was one for knitting, and the sight of blood makes me feel faint, so I am not really cut out for nursing either. Perhaps reporting on the war is to be my most effective contribution.
I had the misfortune of reading a book recently by the writer Arnold Bennett who is of the opinion that “journalists and women-journalists . . . [are] about as far removed organically from the other as a dog from a cat.” He believes “the female journalist” to be unreliable and to have a disregard for deadlines. He goes on to accuse “the female journalist” (as if we were all one person) of inattention to detail; a slipshod approach to spelling, grammar, and punctuation; and a lack of restraint in her prose. If you ever find yourself in this Mr. Bennett’s company, I might ask you to correct him on his “opinions” before giving him a firm slap on the cheek on my behalf.
I shall send more next week (female inadequacies permitting).
Yours sincerely,
Evelyn Elliott
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in London, Genevieve Wren
“Notes on Loss”
Life goes on, we are told. But I am not so sure.
Yes, we wake up each morning, we wash, we dress, we talk, we go about our day, we pray, we sleep. The endless repetition of the things we must do in order to survive. But I ask you, women of Britain, is this life, or is it simply survival? It appears to me that we do not fare much better than our men over there in the trenches when it comes to living life to the full. We endure. We fight. We survive. Soldiers all.
Life does not go on when our loved ones leave us. Life departs in all ways. The life we have known, the life we have anticipated, the life we hoped for—all of it disappears in an instant when the dreaded telegram arrives. “I regret to inform you . . .” Were any words ever more painful?
We read the condolences and the brief description of our loved one’s death. We sink to our knees and our heart aches with a pain—a physical pain—the likes of which we have never known. And yet we somehow stand up again, and we remember how to breathe.
We carry on.
Life, in another form, carries on.
We are encouraged not to talk about our losses, to lock them away behind closed doors and suffer in silence. We see it everywhere—in the pale faces of our friends and neighbours, in the reluctance to look each other in the eye—but we do not talk about it, or dwell on it.
We carry on.
We must stop this silence and talk and shout and scream and cry. I encourage you to talk about your loved ones, to share happy memories, to remember those fond little moments: a joke, a nickname, a favourite toy or book. We should not consign our brave men to a silent unspoken past where, in years to come, they will be forgotten, never spoken of. They deserve far more than that. They deserve our strength and our bravery. They deserve to be remembered. We must keep their memory alive through our words and our reminiscences, both in private and in public.
Our losses in this war will be the hardest we will ever have to bear, but we can bear it together, over a cup of weak tea or sitting beside the fire, where happy memories burn bright if we can find the strength to share them.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve Wren
From Thomas to Evie
10th December, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Thank you for your kind words about my father. I still didn’t know, until now, whether or not he had decided to leave the paper to me, but I’m relieved to discover all is in order. I’m not certain the direction I’d like to take, but I wanted the choice at least. I made him so angry that I thought he may well have left the business in its entirety to John Hopper instead. I’m hesitant to explain why he has taken issue with Hopper in the past since you are good friends and colleagues, so I will just leave it at that.
Sometimes I think about the young man I was before this all started. How could I have been so blind, so optimistic and clueless about the way of things? I didn’t have a care in the world outside cricket and my studies. At least I treated everyone with respect, women included. Speaking of treating women with respect, what happens out here on a daily basis is shameful. Prostitutes hang around the barracks and are bussed out to the field hospitals. I’ve seen quite a few French soldiers offer their sisters to the other men. It’s crass, I know, but a reality of war, I suppose. I can’t say I’m interested. I don’t know how some chaps do it. If they respected their mothers and sisters, they wouldn’t treat women the way they do. I’m not interested in much these days, I’m reluctant to admit. The view from here is rather grey, what with my father’s passing, and several more friends laid to rest this week. The only relief comes in sleep. When it comes, I’m so exhausted I don’t dream and I’m grateful for it. It’s an escape for a few hours.
I hope you enjoy the journal I sent. I bought it at a little shop in a nearby town. The monsieur makes the paper himself and his wife does all of the artistry you see on the cover and on the inside pages. The birds made me think of you. The handkerchief I enclose is for future tears. I hope none are caused by me. And I wish against all else that you are happy, safe, and hopeful, my strong, dearest friend. I’m not sure I can be.
Affectionately,
Tom
From Jack Davies to Thomas
15th December, 1915
Fleet Street, London, England
To Lieutenant Thomas Harding,
I write to you with dire news. Since your father fell ill, Charles and I have run the paper, which is to say, I have run the paper—until of late. John Hopper has inserted himself firmly into the LDT’s affairs.
Let me be plain. Your cousin is mucking about the office, creating small fires by insulting the staff. Only yesterday he dismissed several of my columnists without checking with me. The paper shortages mean we need to consolidate our columns, it’s true, but to do so out of hand without consulting the rest of us—and in such a manner! Also, he has threatened Charlie Abshire, and has plans to hire his own writers when we can expand again. The staff is outraged, and, frankly, so am I.
In short, Tom, we’re at war here on Fleet Street and all is bullocks.
You’ve always been an intelligent, industrious fellow. I have full faith in your ability to right things again. It’s time you were the man at the helm as your father always wanted you to be.
Please instruct me how to pro
ceed, or I may have a few choice words with your cousin, and you’ll have an Editor-in-Chief tossed out on his behind.
I await your reply.
Sincerely,
Jack Davies
From Thomas to Jack Davies
16th December, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your candour, as always. I didn’t want Hopper in the office at all, but had no choice with this bloody war. I’ll write to him immediately, remind him of his duties—and his boundaries. The last thing we need is him making a mess of things when the world is up to its breeches in horse shit, as is.
Do me a favour and keep an eye on Evelyn Elliott, would you? She’s a good friend and the thought of Hopper leading her astray makes me incensed. I might start my own war on Fleet Street if it comes to it.
Keep up the good work, Jack.
Sincerely,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Thomas to John Hopper
17th December, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear John,
It has come to my attention that columnists have been dismissed without consent, and the paper’s contents have been changed at the LDT. I have also been informed that animosity is at an all-time high among the staff. Hopper, I appreciate all you are doing to help in the office, but causing a mutiny with my Editor-in-Chief, insulting Charles Abshire, and making decisions about the paper’s future without me involved are not what I had in mind. Nor is it acceptable. Once again I ask you to consult me before making such decisions, and should I decline them, to respect my word in following through as requested. Should these grievous reports continue, I will seek help elsewhere.