Last Christmas in Paris
I scour the papers daily for reports, but more often than not all I find are words of positivity and encouragement. “We are very close to victory.” “In our finest hour of this war.” “A day of promise.” It is so different to the picture you paint in your letters and all your talk of disease and near-starvation and Blighty wounds. It is hard to know whether we are reading any truths at all, or simply the words the government wishes us to believe. For that alone I think you must press on with your interests in the newspaper. Financial gain is one thing. To tell the truth is a far nobler prospect.
I try to cheer myself with your letters. It might sound silly but I have come to think of your handwriting as you. Each loop, each flowing curve and flourish is like looking at a familiar face. The contours and undulations so definite and unique. There is quite a substantial pile of letters now. I keep them bound together with a red ribbon. They must form a stack four inches high already (and a good inch higher than the pile of dance cards I kept from my debut season). I tell myself that before your correspondence reaches five inches in height, you will be home. Time, you see, can be measured in means other than the ticking of a clock.
What news of the nurses there? Alice Cuthbert is now serving as a VAD. Can you believe it? Our flighty Alice?! I imagine she will be a real tonic to the injured soldiers with those eyes and lips, and that wicked sense of humour of hers. Do you have time to think of such things as pretty girls? I expect you are as deprived of affection as you are of fresh bread. Hot bread and love. You will be ready to consume both greedily and without restraint when you get home!
I am still sketching—a jackdaw this time. Slightly gloomy in all his funereal attire, but handsome nevertheless.
Be safe, my friend.
Yours, Evie.
X
Telegram from Charles Abshire to Thomas
9TH SEPTEMBER 1915
TO: LIEUTENANT THOMAS HARDING, 2ND OXFORDS
SENT: 7:25 / RECEIVED: 7:55
FATHER INJURED IN ZEPPELIN RAID. TRANSFERRED TO HOSPITAL. WOUNDS DON’T APPEAR FATAL. LONDON HOUSE ALL BUT DESTROYED. ONCE DISCHARGED WILL STAY WITH RELATIVES IN RICHMOND. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED. ABSHIRE.
From Evie to Tom
9th September, 1915
Richmond, England
My dearest Tom,
I assume you have already been informed of the dreadful news that London suffered a zeppelin raid in which your father was injured. Bartholomew Close was one of the worst places hit, with many of the houses destroyed. He was lucky to have been spared the worst of the explosion (twenty-two are dead and over eighty wounded). I rushed to the hospital as soon as I heard. He is being remarkably matter of fact about it all, but he is in a pretty bad way I’m afraid.
Everyone in London is terribly nervous and calling for the government to bring in anti-aircraft defences. My hands tremble as I write these words.
Will you be able to come home on compassionate leave? It would give your father great strength to see you.
For now, I will pray for his speedy recovery, and for a swift conclusion to this damned war.
Yours in prayer,
Evie
X
From Evie to the Editor of the London Daily Times
10th September, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Mr. Davies,
Please find enclosed my first column for “A Woman’s War.” We had not yet settled on a nom de plume and I hope you will be happy with Genevieve Wren. I have taken the liberty of using the name in the enclosed, although you will, of course, have the final say. I found myself so stirred by the recent zeppelin raid on London that I rewrote some of my piece as a result.
I can come to your offices in London any time to discuss the progression of the column in person, although I understand I will submit all future copy to John Hopper for editorial clearance in the first instance.
Sincerely,
Evelyn Elliott (Genevieve Wren)
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in London, Genevieve Wren
“Waving the Boys Goodbye”
How long ago it seems since we waved our boys goodbye, off on their grand adventure to serve King and country and do their duty—heroes all. We were told it would be over by Christmas, but Christmas came and went and still our boys didn’t come home. Nor did they return to us that Easter, nor Whitsuntide, nor for the summer solstice. And still it goes on.
We write words of love and support—incredibly brave, terribly proud, onwards to victory—pages and pages, never knowing if our words will be read, or any reply will be forthcoming. Those of us who are lucky enough to find a letter on the doormat devour the words inside with the appetite of a starving man. Those of us whose doormats remain empty must somehow find the courage to step over them and go out into a world we no longer recognise. We smile at a neighbour, share news with the postwoman, thank the bus conductor in her smart uniform, but in quiet moments, when we’re alone, we ask the same questions: What is this war without end? How much longer will it be?
Questions without answer. Hope without fulfilment.
We have now passed the first anniversary of our nation’s involvement in the “war to end all wars.” Twelve months they’ve been gone—brothers, fathers, husbands, lovers, uncles, cousins, friends—and as we face the prospect of empty places around the dinner table again this yuletide, it is difficult to find the courage and resilience to go on. But that is what we must do. Courage and resilience are our weapons. They alone will help us fight this battle of never-ending dread. We must keep the home fires burning for when our men return to us.
In writing this column, I speak to all the women of Britain, whether in sculleries or parlours, farmhouses or country manors. I hope to share with you stories of courage and resilience, fortitude and heroism—small acts of bravery or kindness that may not lead to medals of honour, but are important nevertheless. With all the losses we must endure, let us never forget that the kindness of a stranger can help a person in more ways than we can ever know.
Do not feel that you are sitting idly by, knitting comforts or mixing another pudding for the Christmas parcel. Take a moment to comfort a friend. Check on elderly neighbours. Such small acts, when multiplied across all the streets and counties of our great nation, can become acts of immense importance. They can have as much impact as the bombs the enemy dares to drop on our cities.
A woman’s war may not be fought on the battlefield, but it can be won in small victories every day.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
From Thomas to Evie
11th September, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Thank you for alerting me at once about Father. Abshire informed me by telegram. I can hardly believe our misfortune. As if his poor health wasn’t bad enough.
Evie, I would never admit this to another soul on this earth, but I’m afraid. Not just about what’s happening out here in battle, but about losing my family, losing my livelihood. I can’t think straight.
I have applied to my superiors for a period of leave as soon as possible. Thank you for being such a good friend. It means more than I can say.
Yours,
Tom
From Evie to Alice
15th September, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
How are you? I am desperately worried. We were all rattled by the recent zeppelin raid on London. The warnings seem to go up nightly now. I say warning, but the sum total of that is simply a policeman pedalling furiously on his bicycle while blowing his whistle and shouting “TAKE COVER! TAKE COVER!” It is so frightening. I had to take shelter in the underground station just yesterday. The sight of those zeps looming in the distance is the stuff of nightmares.
Tom’s father was badly injured in the raid last week. I really don’t think he’ll pull through, although I can’t bear to tell Tom that, not after losing Will so recently. It w
ill destroy him to lose his father, too.
So, I am sorry that I am not in the mood for jokes or silly remarks about my alleged affections for Tom. All I know is that I would love for him to come home on leave. He hopes for the same and has put in his request.
I find myself growing weary of letter writing with nothing but bad news to share. And I grow ever-restless and more determined to do something practical to help. If somebody doesn’t dispatch me to the Front soon, I might dispatch myself. Mama was talking about arrangements for Christmas the other day and I’m afraid I spoke to her in a rather curt manner, telling her she was a fool to think of such things as place settings when men are dying in the thousands. She said people will die whether she plans Christmas or not, and that perhaps, by looking ahead she is offering some hope instead of dwelling in the past. If I wasn’t as stubborn as an ox, I might very well have conceded that she made a fair point before I stormed from the room and slammed the door behind me. But I am as stubborn as an ox and we haven’t spoken a civil word to each other since. I really don’t wish to be a difficult daughter, but it seems that I cannot help myself.
In brighter news, my first piece for the LDT went to print. The editor was quite impressed with my efforts. To be honest, I rather think he had alternative plans for me to write about knitting patterns or some such nonsense, and I’m rather proud to have proven him wrong. I’ve enclosed a clipping for you. Having worried that I wouldn’t have much to say, I found myself with far more words than I was permitted column inches for. I hope you enjoy it.
With much love,
Evie
X
From Alice to Evie
20th September, 1915
Somewhere in France
My dear Evie,
What dreadful news. I can’t imagine our beloved London is under attack. It shocks me still.
No matter how bad it is there, Evie, you don’t want to be here at the Front. The shine wore off quickly after several weeks of treating men for skin sores from the wretched mustard gas, and other wounds too gruesome to describe. I’ve also seen quite a few men suffering from nervous disorders. One poor fellow refused to follow orders and became hysterical, hallucinating and rampaging through the dressing station. He sprinted straight into the line of German sniper fire and was shot dead. Or so I hear. Thankfully I missed the shooting.
Bad news, indeed.
I understand if you feel you must be here to do your bit—I did, too—but be very certain, Evie, because I’ve already lost an innocence I didn’t know I possessed. I fear the experience will change me forever, and not in a good way. The only positive news I’ve heard is that the Americans are finally furious with the Germans, following the sinking of the Lusitania. All those innocent people dying. It makes me so cross to see how low the Germans will go. Tragic though it was, I hope the incident will see the Americans take up arms soon and join the Allied forces. After a solid year of fighting, there appears to be no end in sight, and we could desperately use some reinforcements.
There is a small piece of brighter news to share with you. I’ve made a new friend named Jeremy Rollins, a private from Birmingham, and he’s quite the ham. He makes me laugh every time I tend to him, and laughs are in rather short supply here. I met him at the dressing station. He has multiple bullet wounds, but appears to be recovering quickly, in spite of our limited Dakin’s solution (used as antiseptic), or sodium salicylate (painkiller). We’re hoping to get another shipment soon. Those poor buggers writhing in pain without any assistance. Sometimes I don’t know if I can bear it, darling.
Your mother is quite right about diverting our minds from this misery. You are too hard on her. Let her have her festive fun. What harm? You should try to have some as well. It isn’t good for you to be endlessly moping about that rambling old house. Could you do a little more at the post office? Do they need telephonists, or wire operators to take down the telegrams? Just a thought.
I’ll stop teasing you about Tom Harding—for now—though I think you should make jolly sure he visits you, as well as his father, if he does get home on leave. Nobody will expect you to have a chaperone with Tom being a long-standing family friend. Ask him to take you to Simpson’s for oysters and champagne, and dancing at The Savoy. Then tell me everything!
With much love,
Alice
From Evie to Thomas
25th September, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
Any further news on your coming home on leave? We are all so eager to see you. Your father has rallied a little. He is a very resilient man (the doctors think he is a marvel), but I would dearly love for you to be able to see him.
I had a dream about you last night (I probably shouldn’t tell you such things, but if war has given me anything, it has given me a keen sense of impulsiveness). The dream was so real I had to pinch myself when I woke up to be certain that I was at home in Richmond and not actually with you in Paris because that is where we spent the night, dancing beside the Seine (an accordion player provided the music). I wore my blue dress and you were dressed to the nines in black tie. We ate escargots and drank the finest champagne and the stars dazzled like a million jewels above us until the sky turned rose-pink beneath a new dawn. It was so beautiful, Tom. You recited poems of peacocks and turtledoves and I forgot that anything bad had ever happened in the world and in that moment it felt that if only every night could end, and every day could begin that way, nothing bad could ever happen again.
How annoyed I was to find myself waking to the murky drizzle of an English morning in autumn, with Paris—and you—so very far away.
With so much happening recently, I realise I never sent you a copy of my first column, so here it is (a little crumpled I’m afraid). Having tried for so long to have a piece published in the national press, I now feel rather shy and nervous about people reading my thoughts. I hope you like it. Your approval means a lot to me. Jack Davies was suitably impressed (I met him over a brief lunch with Hopper). He is quite a formidable character, isn’t he? Not one to mince his words. I found myself quite nervous and rather lacking in appetite. I now understand why he commands such respect throughout Fleet Street.
The months march on and the leaves in Richmond Park have turned their stunning golds and reds. Nature puts on such a stunning show at this time of year. I think autumn is my very favourite season. The fires are lit again and the tang of smoke in the air sets my mind longing for cosy evenings in the library. It won’t be the same though. Not without Will’s company. Or yours.
I do wish you could get home on leave. I often see men in uniform—rather gaunt looking—strolling arm in arm with a loved one. It is a heartbreaking sight—at once so encouraging and romantic, and at the same time so unbearable, as we all know they will be on their way back to the Front within a matter of days, and the heartache of separation and the pain of worry will begin all over again. Still, I imagine it is worth it for those few snatched hours of normality, and affection.
Do write soon. I will pray for news of your coming home.
With much love,
Evie
From Thomas to Evie
3rd October, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I have good news, at last! I’ve been granted seven days of home leave. First thing tomorrow I depart and will be in London, if all goes well, by early evening. Feels like a dream. I don’t think I can endure the anticipation. Though I must admit, I’m anxious about seeing Father in his current state. I’ll need to spend some time on his affairs, the books, and the newspaper as well, to which I do not look forward. You, on the other hand, I can hardly wait to see. If you’re available that is, Famous Journalist Adventuress, Miss Genevieve Wren.
With warm affection,
Tom
P.S. That dream of yours will come true, if I have anything to say about it.
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
5TH OCTOBER 1915
TO
: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW
SENT: 18:35 / RECEIVED: 18:55
IN LONDON. WILL VISIT MORNING AFTER NEXT. IF NOT SUITABLE, SEND WORD C/O ABSHIRE. WILL BE WITH HIM TOMORROW. I’M THE CHAP WEARING DRY SOCKS, AT LAST! TOM.
Telegram from Evie to Thomas
6TH OCTOBER 1915
TO: LT. T. HARDING c/o ABSHIRE, 34 LOVELACE
GARDENS, BERMONDSEY, LONDON SE
SENT: 09:13 / RECEIVED: 09:37
TERRIFIC EXCITEMENT HERE. DESPERATE TO SEE YOU AND YOUR DRY SOCKS. UNTIL TOMORROW. E.
From Evie to Thomas
7th October, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
How ridiculous I am. The dust thrown up by your car tires has barely settled on the driveway, and here I am, writing to you. Old habits die hard.
I cannot think of anything to say that wasn’t said over the past few hours, other than to say, again, how absolutely wonderful it is to see you. To see you! It hardly seems possible that you were here. To wrap my arms around you and feel your bones was such a delight. But my goodness, how many bones you have. You are too skinny by far. We must put some meat on them before you even think about going back. So, what do you say to Simpson’s for lunch one day? Their roast beef is extraordinary. You can order two portions because one will clearly not be sufficient.
What a joy it is to have you back. I feel ten years old again, and were it not an unbecoming thing for a lady to do, I would turn cartwheels in the library.
E
X
P.S. I am inspired to write a column on the joy of a soldier’s return. It will give others hope, do you think?
Telegram from Evie to Thomas
8TH OCTOBER 1915
TO: LT. T. HARDING c/o ABSHIRE, 34 LOVELACE