I hope I have made myself clear. I have no interest in going to such extremes, but I will do what is necessary to protect the interests of the LDT.
Sincerely,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Evie to Thomas
18th December, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
What can I say that hasn’t already been said? I wish I had some words that could cheer you up, warm your feet and hands, and bring solace to your broken heart. You must not trouble yourself with the actions of the other men. Stay true to your own principles. While I cannot understand the urges of men, nor the despair you must endure every day, I can remind you of those who miss you and think of you and long for you to be home.
And I can also tell you how very touched I was to know that you thought of me when you saw that beautiful journal. I will cherish it, and I promise to fill it only with happiness and hope, not with sorrow. Sorrow has no place inside something so beautiful. The lace handkerchief I will keep in a drawer until such time as I can wipe away my tears of joy when I learn that the war is over and we are victorious and you are returned to us safe and well.
I think of you every day, Thomas Archibald, and I know you will endure. Cast aside those dark thoughts. Cast aside your fears and hunger. You must stay strong. I absolutely insist.
Write soon and often. I become very irritable when I don’t hear from you for a while.
Yours in hope.
Evie
XXX
From Evie to Alice
18th December, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
A sad note to let you know that Tom’s father died at the start of the month. Poor Tom is dreadfully upset and seems without purpose or hope. I feel helpless with him so far away with only his worries and the enemy for company. He writes of strange things: prostitutes and the inappropriate behaviour of the troops. And yet he sent me the most beautiful journal, decorated with birds, and a handkerchief—for my tears, he said. Did you ever hear such a beautiful sentiment?
I’m more confused than ever. One moment I dare to believe Tom has feelings for me. The next, I seem to be nothing but a friend to him again. I write little hints in my letters to him, giving him an opportunity to declare any feelings for me, but he either doesn’t notice them (you know how very useless men can be in matters of subtlety), or chooses to ignore them. I keep his letters under my pillow now. Like the princess disturbed by the pea beneath her many mattresses, my sleep is disturbed by his words. While he struggles to sleep in restful peace, so will I. And among it all is John Hopper with his interesting conversation and Turkish cigarettes and expensive cologne and ambitions. He means to run half of Fleet Street, I’m sure of it. He makes it ever harder to resist his charms.
Where are you now? Can you say? I pray that you were nowhere near the gas attacks on the French troops. It is hard to believe we will soon mark our second Christmas at war. Do you remember Lloyd George’s rousing speech, “The war to end all wars”? They said it would be over by Christmas. They didn’t say which one though, did they?
My bones ache with cold and anxiety. Papa and I scour the papers for the names of the Missing, Wounded, and Dead every day. How easily we pass over the unfamiliar names. List after list. Page after page. And yet every one, every single name, is a person, a much-loved son, brother, husband, lover. I was so angry yesterday I took the newspaper to the top of Richmond Hill and shouted out each name to the wind. I don’t know how many there were in total, but I was there for a long time. The wind carried their names away over the meadows. I hope they soar on the breeze for all eternity. Gone, but never forgotten.
Wishing you a very happy Christmas, and wishing us all a brighter, happier, and victorious New Year.
Write soon—and remember that the brake pedal is in the middle.
Much love,
Evie
X
From Alice to Evie
24th December, 1915
Somewhere in France
My dearest Evie,
Thank you for sending news of Mr. Harding. Such a shame for Tom to miss his father’s funeral. And I’m sorry you feel Tom’s absence so keenly. He will survive! Say it every day in your heart and aloud on that hilltop. We have to believe passionately, with all our might, to will things to happen sometimes. You have never lacked will and optimism. Don’t bow to the shadows now, my girl. We need our Evie to be strong, and inspire others with her new column.
You should see me drive this ambulance. I’m a natural now. I barrel over the roads at top speed, dodging gunfire and all else. We load the wounded carefully from the field hospitals and I race to the hospital train with one thing on my mind—cheat death! Sometimes I’m successful, sometimes I’m not, but I try like mad. As thrilling as it is, I find myself dreadfully homesick. I would give anything to be home for Christmas this year.
Chin up, love. We’ll get through this. Happy Christmas.
With love,
Alice
From Evie to Thomas
24th December, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
No word from you for a while. I suspect it is far too cold to hold a pen.
Even though I know this won’t reach you in time, I wanted—once again—to wish you a happy Christmas, and to let you know that I am thinking of you, and will think of you especially on the 25th. When I hear the carol singers in the town square I will join in, and sing for dear Will and for you, and for all the brave men fighting, and I will pray for happier times and victory ahead.
With fondest wishes, and three cheers for the Allies.
Evie
X
Paris
20th December, 1968
An early morning fog lingers on the Seine, painted rose-gold by the frail winter sun. These were her favourite times: just after sunrise and just before sunset. The bookends of the day, she called them. She had so many elegant ways to look at things. She taught me to see the world so differently.
But my thoughts this morning are with Will. My childhood friend, my counsel, and my conspirator. The man who stood shoulder to shoulder with me when we went over the top the first time. His presence was a blaze of light in a bleak world. Of us all, why did he have to be the one to go? I have never understood the choices Fate made on the battlefields.
Margaret fusses with the blanket wrapped around my legs. She mutters about my not catching a chill before she resumes her position at the helm and pushes me on. The indignity of a wheelchair is unbearable for a man with such pride, but if it is the only way I can get to the places I want to go, then so be it.
We make easy progress, it being early yet. Pigeons strut and coo as we go. The snap of their wings as they take flight brings me back to the trenches and the carrier pigeons we took to the Front in wicker baskets, to dispatch with messages back to base. I had always thought them nothing but vermin, but I suppose everyone finds their true calling in times of war. Even the brave pigeons were decorated and hailed as heroes.
Apart from the birds, all is silent along these Parisian boulevards. Cars don’t yet clog the streets. Only a single bell rings in a nearby church tower. The quiet hours are a gift, I think.
I feel for the cuff links in my pocket. She wanted me to leave them at his grave, but it is too difficult a journey for me to travel out of the city to the military cemeteries, especially with the heavy snow. I hope my solution would please her.
Margaret buys Christmas roses from the flower market and it is among the velvet petals that I place the cuff links. I leave them at the Arc de Triomphe, at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It is the best I can do. With misty eyes I look to the tomb and read the inscription.
Ici repose un soldat mort pour la patrie. 1914–1918
Margaret lays the roses at the foot of the stone slab, beside the eternal flame, and for the last time I wish dear Will a Happy Christmas, and the fondest of farewells.
&
nbsp; “He was one of the bravest men I ever knew, Margaret.”
She dabs at her cheeks. Tears glisten in the sunlight. “I know, Mr. Harding. I know.”
But she doesn’t. Nobody can, unless they were there. Only those of us who lived those days will ever truly know. It is a sorrow that has never left me, and I am glad of this place, this tomb, this eternal flame. A reminder of what was lost. A reminder, so we will never forget.
It is why I am grateful now for the letters. They, perhaps, are the starkest reminder of all.
Back at the apartment, with the fire crackling in the grate, I sit up in bed, my head propped against too many pillows, and I read on . . .
PART THREE
1916
“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.”
—John McCrae, “In Flanders Fields”
From Thomas to Evie
1st January, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I hope you enjoyed Christmas, or rather, that you made the best of it, given how things are. I know your family will have struggled this first Christmas without Will. I thought of you often.
Thank you, as ever, for your encouraging and kind words last month. A heavy cloud has hovered over me these last weeks, and I’ve been unable to shake it with Father’s passing. Another Christmas at war exacerbated things, but I’m breathing easier now that the festivities, and the incessant reminder of all I have lost, are behind me. A new year lies ahead. Though I am losing hope every day that I will ever return to England in one piece—or at all—at least time marches forward, paying no heed to the follies of men. There’s something oddly comforting in that truth. The world goes on. Once more around the sun we will travel.
On a lighter note, you won’t believe this but I ran into Alice Cuthbert! She was at the field hospital, ordering everyone about like a mother hen. I believe she may have found her calling in life. She was her usual charming self, though her immediate optimism has dimmed a bit. No one can escape the gruelling realities of war. Nonetheless, we shared a few stories and fond memories of happier times and raised a Christmas glass to absent friends.
Would you mind sending on a new pair of gloves? We’ve been told we’ll be on a long march in the coming weeks and mine are shredded and too thin. Trying to ward off the infernal frostbite.
You’re a star, Evie. About the only light I see in these endless nights.
Yours,
Tom
From Evie to Thomas
10th January, 1916
Richmond, England
Dearest Thomas,
Happy New Year!
As always, wonderful to hear from you. I thought of you often this past week and am much cheered to hear that you and Alice found each other and shared a glass of something. Fate works in strange ways, doesn’t it. I can easily picture her bossing everyone around, charming them all with that smile of hers. I imagine her easy company made for a wonderful Christmas gift. I only wish I could have shared that moment with you both.
As you suspected, Christmas was a rather subdued affair here. Our eyes were all drawn to the empty chair where Will used to sit. It isn’t right without him here, without his laughter and teasing. I don’t think I will ever get used to his absence. I feel it like a shadow has settled on my heart. I was glad when Boxing Day arrived and the few remaining staff were given their gifts and we could move on.
No other news as such. Nothing much happens during the festivities, does it? I’m working on my next column. Hopper is terribly enthusiastic about it all. He says he has plenty of ideas for future topics should my well of inspiration run dry. By the way, did I mention I get “fan” mail now? Or rather, Genevieve does. It is hard not to feel a little important when you realise your words have reached out and really touched someone—helped them even. It makes me more determined than ever to keep writing.
I have enclosed a package of new gloves, socks, tobacco, tea, and brandy. What more could a fellow want?!
Write soon, dear.
Yours,
Evie
X
From Evie to Alice
11th January, 1916
Richmond, England
Happy New Year, dearest girl!
What news from France? I had a short note from Tom yesterday—he tells me you two happened upon each other and shared a Christmas drink. How was he, Alice? How did he look? Was he in reasonable spirits? I envy you to have spent that time with him. Please write and tell me what—if anything—was said, because if I know you at all I suspect you won’t have been able to resist the chance to meddle and draw something from him with regard to his affections (or lack of them) for me.
I must tell you that the falling of the snow, the fire in the grate, memories of Will, and a large sherry got the better of me and prompted a great outpouring of emotion. I wrote a rather sentimental letter to Tom on Christmas Day. I meant every word, but now I cannot find the courage to send it. For the time being I have placed it for safekeeping inside a beautiful journal he sent me, along with a lace handkerchief. Perhaps it is best there, and not in his hands. Unless, of course, you have news for me?
Did you mark Christmas at all, apart from your drink with Tom? It was a wretched affair here. The jolly gatherings I remember so fondly seem to slip further and further away. I wonder if we’ll ever know true happiness again. Of course, I wrote a thoroughly uplifting piece for the newspaper—life must go on, it is our duty to keep our spirits up, that sort of thing. I have never felt less connected to my words. It was almost as if someone else wrote them for me. It’s so desperately hard to believe in these endless sentiments of hope.
How is your ambulance driving? Are things improving there at all for the Allies? We hear such conflicting reports in the newspapers and in letters from the Front. When the men come home on leave they have such terrible stories to tell. What of the brave animals, Alice? Do you see the horses and dogs? I hate to think of them suffering, but I hear the most dreadful accounts of horses drowning in the thick mud. Is it true? The fields are so empty here. One could almost forget how many beautiful creatures used to run free on the land. All of them gone, except for the ones that were too old and lame to be of any use in the first place. I wonder whatever became of Will’s beloved Hamlet and Shylock. I hardly dare imagine.
In other news, the conscription act has been passed so it seems that all the men we have left must go to fight, apart from those who are married. John Hopper tells me he has been asked to remain on war duty at Wellington House. He is itching to see some action, and is damned frustrated by it all. I don’t wish to sound unkind in encouraging him to go, but I hear so many stories of men finding all manner of clever ways to get around the system and sign up, regardless of height and age restrictions and health. The army are desperate for any man they can get at this stage. I’m sure Hopper will get his chance soon.
Well, I must close. I am due to report at the post office shortly and the postmistress does not tolerate tardiness.
I will write again soon.
Stay safe.
Evie.
X
From Thomas to Evie
20th January, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Thank you for the gloves and socks. I bow to you in gratitude. And the tobacco and brandy! I’ll make good use of them.
How are things at home? Your column is going well, I hope. I’ve heard some disparaging reports from Jack Davies about the state of affairs in the office at the LDT, and wondered what you make of it all. I wrote to him, urging him to take the reins when he can, Hopper’s authority aside. He might be a blustery old bird, but he’s one of the best damn editors in London and I trust his opinion. I hope the hullabaloo isn’t affecting your writing, at any rate.
I would t
ell you more of what’s happening here, but it’s so black, I fear you’d stop writing to me. You’ll have to settle for a few lines of poetry from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night instead:
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Alice to Evie
28th January, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dearest Evie,
Happy New Year, darling! I have only a few quick minutes to write. We’ve been working flat out the last week, and short staffed. I keep hoping the Americans will join us. We’re lacking supplies, ammunition, men . . . and we desperately need more nurses. It’s a mess here. Sanitary conditions in the huts are truly awful, and even the duckboards we walk on are now covered with mud. I’ve taken more than my fair share of spills. You wouldn’t believe the state of me. I am well, though, and missing you!
Tom is thin as a twig, poor fellow. I got the feeling he doesn’t eat much, even when there’s enough rations to be had. Melancholy seems to press on him, Evie, and in truth, I fear he may be suffering from some sort of emotional or nervous distress. I encouraged him to apply for leave. And his reply? “Why should I go home when my demons will follow me there? I would think only of my men that I leave behind to face their doom.” Goodness, I encouraged him to drink a large glass of wine after such a speech. I mentioned that you would help restore his spirits. He looked at me then, from hollow eyes, and said, “I wish she could save me, Alice. I feel myself slipping away.”