Last Christmas in Paris
I told him you cared for him a great deal and would help him find his way, that he should lean on those who love him. I’m not certain he took my meaning, sadly. He is in a desperate way at the moment.
I must go, but sending lots of love. Oh, and the ambulance driving is still a great challenge, but I think I’ve finally mastered that devil of a machine. Just don’t tell anyone I’ve put a few dents in the bumper. I keep hoping no one will notice.
Alice
X
From Evie to Thomas
30th January, 1916
Richmond, England
My dear Thomas,
We are to have Shakespeare again, are we? Please try to find something happier. A comedy, maybe. Wasn’t A Midsummer Night’s Dream always a favourite of yours? Spend some time with Puck and Bottom and the fairies rather than stuffy old kings and raging storms. I don’t like to hear you dwell on death so much.
Alice wrote. She said you are finding it all rather difficult at the moment. I wish there was something I could do to help, other than send brandy and letters. I’ve enclosed a little volume of sonnets to help keep your mind occupied in the bleaker moments. Look to it when you find the going tough, when you feel you can’t bear it any longer. You can, Tom. I know you can—and you will. Even in the blackest hours remember that a new dawn is racing towards you. We must be victorious soon. Surely, we must.
As to the situation at the LDT, I try my best to keep out of the continual tussle for power. Honestly, you would think grown men would act with a little more dignity. Are you quite sure Hopper is the cause of the disruption? He speaks with nothing but passion and good intent whenever we discuss the LDT—or you. He only wants what is best for the paper, although I know he is ambitious and isn’t afraid to challenge the staff to go further in their reporting. I do know he finds Jack Davies rather impossible to deal with. Are you sure Davies isn’t spinning you a yarn? Playing on old rivalries between cousins? I shouldn’t give it another thought if I were you, Tom. Leave the boys to play in the schoolyard while you and all the real men fight it out on the battlefield.
All remains relatively peaceful here. The occasional hasty marriage and a baby born out of wedlock keep the gossips’ tongues wagging. The world keeps turning. Life goes on. We must take courage from that.
Never be alone, Tom. Know that I am thinking of you.
Yours,
Evie.
XX
From Thomas to Evie
22nd February, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Just a quick note as we’re packing up and heading out towards the river. We’ve got quite a march ahead of us. You may not hear from me as often for a few weeks, but I do intend to write when I can. Send up some prayers, friend. We’re headed into the belly of the beast and I’ll need all of your courage and strength behind me as I lead the battalion. I’ll be thinking of you.
With affection,
Tom
From Evie to Thomas
28th February, 1916
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
Godspeed, my friend. I so hate to hear of you heading out on a long march, but I know you will lead your men well, and bravely.
We hear the French are in a tense battle with the Germans at Verdun. Terrible losses. I pray you aren’t there, friend. I had a dream last night that you’d happened upon a comfortable French pension somewhere in the countryside far away from the sound of shelling and sniper fire. A wonderful old lady (Madame de Carteret was her name) fussed over you and made you a local peasant stew to warm your bones. She was terribly kind and you grew stronger every day on the settle bed beside the fire. You took to whittling wooden animals for her from firewood and Madame de Carteret was delighted with the little treasures you made for her. Her husband and son had been killed in Belgium, so she was glad of your company.
I hope it might come true, Tom, and that you might find such comfort and kindness. Do you remember how you were always scraping at a piece of willow with your pocket knife, insisting you’d carved an elephant or some such when all Will and I could see was a lumpy piece of wood? We were cruel to tease you but all those memories are my richest treasures now. Such carefree happy times. Perhaps you will whittle me a bird someday?
So many men are gone now. Only those who are married, or in reserved occupations remain—and the “conchies,” of course. How they can bring themselves to walk the streets while everyone else faces conscription bravely is beyond my comprehension. How can they be so selfish? Why should they be spared when millions will not be? There are lads as young as fourteen and fifteen who have forged their date of birth and gone out like brave men. We read reports of tribunals in the papers every day, some poor chap or other stating his case for refusing to take up arms. Some are sent out to do noncombatant work like stretcher bearing. Others are imprisoned for their morals. It truly breaks my heart when I see the shadows their mothers and sisters have become. They hunch over like hags when they walk, always looking at the ground, ashamed to look anyone in the eye.
Stay safe, my friend. I comfort myself with reading the many letters you have sent to me since the war started. Do you remember how naive we were? How this was a grand adventure and you would be home in weeks, if you ever got to see any action. Who would ever have thought so many months and years lay ahead, or that we would ever have so much we needed to say to each other. And there is so much more to be said, Tom.
I live in hope that another letter from you will be on its way to me soon.
Evie
XX
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
15TH MARCH 1916
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW
SENT: 17:22 / RECEIVED: 18:34
BATTALION DECIMATED. SURVIVING FEW JOINING ANOTHER. NOT LOOKING GOOD. WILL SEND WORD SOONEST. ACHING FOR HOME. TOM.
From Evie to Thomas
17th March, 1916
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
What anguish to read your telegram. I will pray for your safety, wherever you are. If this letter reaches you, please know that you are in all our thoughts. I cannot fight these battles for you, but I know you are a strong leader and that your men will look to you for direction and courage. Think only of that. Think of the men you have already saved, and those you will save yet.
You are so very brave and we are all so proud.
Victory will be ours soon and then a lifetime of peace awaits.
Yours,
E
X
From Evie to Jack Davies
2nd April, 1916
Richmond, England
Dear Sir,
Please find enclosed my latest column in which I address the issue of conscription. I hope you and the newspaper’s readers will find it satisfactory. Given the mutinous reaction of groups like the NCF since the Military Service Act came into law, and with recent news concerning the imprisonment of Edith Smith for printing an NCF leaflet without submitting it for censorship, I am rather nervous about this latest piece, and its subject matter. But perhaps now, more than ever, a column written by a woman and dedicated to women is very appropriate.
You mentioned previously that you would send on some of the correspondence “Genevieve” has received. I would very much like to see the letters, if they are not too numerous, or too damning of my opinions.
Yours sincerely,
Evelyn Elliott
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in London, Genevieve Wren
“We Who Are Left”
Conscription has seen the last of our men dispatched to war. Whatever our individual thoughts on the morality of compulsory conscription, fate (and politics) will always have the final say. Men of all ages and standing are gone.
The farmer no longer tends his crops. The bus driver no longer smiles a cheery Hello. The postman no longer cycles along the lane. We are a nation of women, and we that are left must now s
tand taller than ever before, dust off our pride, roll up our sleeves, and do our bit. We may think that we lack the skills, the strength, the physical ability to do some of the jobs required, but how do we know if we do not try. “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” We choose to learn how to fish, don’t we, brave women of Britain?
Just as our courageous soldiers must learn to fight and to kill and to survive, so must we learn to keep this country on its feet. To bring food into the home and maintain law and order on the streets and keep everything running like clockwork, ready for when they return.
I urge you all to find a way to help, however small it may seem. Together we can do extraordinary things and keep the home fires burning.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve.
From Jack Davies to Evie
12th April, 1916
London, England
Dear Miss Elliott,
As requested, please find enclosed a selection of “fan letters” for your attention. Your Genevieve Wren is causing quite a stir. There is a sackful of letters, so this is just a small selection for your perusal.
Regarding the other matter we discussed recently, I am still making enquiries. If it were up to me, I would be happy to dispatch you and your notepad to France right away. You connect with people in a way most journalists cannot. You speak to them as if you were having a friendly natter over a cup of tea. I have no hesitation in knowing that you would write with passion and honesty and be an enormous success. However, as you know, women and journalism are an unconventional combination. Put a war zone into the frame and we have a very difficult—if not impossible—path to navigate. I’m also meeting with resistance by those involved in the running of the paper—and with Tom Harding away, I can’t make a decision without the consent of someone in a position of authority.
I will keep trying—if you are still certain. I don’t need to spell out the risks to you. If I can’t get you there in any official reporting capacity, my only other suggestion is that you find a way to go over in some other—more acceptable—capacity (nurse, telephonist, etc.) and send your reports to me covertly?
I know you have dismissed the idea before, but if you are determined to go, it may be the only possible way. I’ll wait for your word.
Yours sincerely,
J.D.
Fan letter to Evie
Dear Miss Wren,
I have never written to a newspaper before, and I am nervous to do so. I have been reading your column in the London Daily Times and had to write to tell you how much I look forward to it, and how much your words mean to me. I have lost two sons and a brother in the war. My husband and two other sons are still out there. I have an elderly mother to care for and am lucky to have very kind neighbours, but the house—once filled with noise and laughter, and life—is so empty. I do my best, but it isn’t easy. Your words are a comfort to me. It is almost as if you know me, as if you are speaking to me personally.
I just wanted to let you know that you are helping many women with your honesty.
I don’t know who you are, or what your circumstances might be, but it doesn’t matter. Whoever and wherever you are, when I read your words you are right here with me in my humble little kitchen, and for that I am very grateful.
May God keep you and your loved ones safe.
Marjorie Barrow
From Charles Abshire to Thomas
20th April, 1916
London, England
Dear Thomas,
I urge you to check in with Jack Davies at the LDT. Neither he nor I have heard from you in weeks and I’m concerned both for the paper and for your welfare. Please respond at once.
Sincerely,
Charles Abshire
From Evie to Thomas
26th April, 1916
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
A month has passed now without any word from you and I’m terribly worried. It is so unlike you not to write for so long. You were so eager with your previous replies, and now the days drag with the quiet agony of not hearing from you, not knowing where, or how, you are.
Papa assures me you will be on the march and too exhausted to do anything other than slump into an exhausted heap. Mama says the best I can do is keep writing to you. And I will. Always.
I pray for your safety, dear.
Yours in hope,
Evie
X
From Evie to Alice
30th April, 1916
Richmond, England
Dearest Alice,
How are you? What news?
I am desperately worried. There has been no word from Tom for over a month now. Nothing since his telegram saying his battalion had been all but decimated, that he was joining another battalion and was on the march. I fear he may have been at Verdun from where we heard such awful news of casualties, and I cannot stop stewing on what you said about him being in a bad way when you saw him.
I feel very uneasy. I cannot eat, or sleep. I find myself imagining the very worst of things—that he is a POW at the mercy of the enemy, alone and afraid. Or worse. And yet I try to remind myself that if anyone can survive this war, Thomas Harding can. I must believe in him, mustn’t I? Now, more than ever. His absence, and his silence, makes my heart grow ever fonder. Meanwhile, I see John Hopper with increasing regularity. The stark disparity between their worlds twists my stomach into knots and makes me more determined to play some vital part in the greater cause. You will think me mad, but Jack Davies and I are hatching a plan for me to get to France and report back to him. I feel like a spoiled child here in my ivory tower, shielded from the realities of life. I must know it, Alice. In all its guises. It does not frighten me as it does Mama.
Please write, if even a few lines.
Yours,
Evie
XX
From Evie to Thomas
16th May, 1916
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
Where in the world are you?
I keep writing and writing and still no word from you. I scour the newspapers, but can find no news of you or your battalion. I hardly know which battalion you are with now. How can you simply disappear? How can I bear this dreadful silence?
I beg you to write. It is so dreadful not to hear from you and although I doubt you will receive this, I must write to you anyway just to let you know that I think of you every day and pray for your safety.
Yours, always,
Evie
X
From Charles Abshire to Thomas
1st June, 1916
London, England
Dear Thomas,
It has been weeks since your last letter, dear boy, and we are more than worried here in London. Please respond, even if via telegram or through someone else.
Godspeed,
Charles
From Evie to Thomas
4th June, 1916
Richmond, England
My dearest Tom,
How can anyone be so utterly lost? No word. Not even so much as a whisper from you. I find myself almost hoping to find your name in the newspaper lists now. Wounded at this stage would be preferable to missing. At least then I would know you were in the care of the nurses. I beg Alice to keep a careful watch, to be always looking for you, but she finds nobody with your name or number, nothing with which she can comfort my tormented heart. And still more recruits ship out. Married men are now under conscription. Only those on essential war work at home and the staunchest of objectors remain: stubborn in their defiance.
With the warmer weather I have taken to sketching my little birds again. Here, for you, is a kingfisher. Did you know they only have one partner for the whole of their lives? What wonders nature reveals when one chooses to observe it. I think him rather handsome and beautiful. What beauty there is all around us, waiting to be noticed. All we have to do is stop and look—and notice. How I would love to stroll with
you along the river and see the flash of a kingfisher’s wing.
I have added to my responsibilities as postwoman and am now a telegram messenger. You cannot know how heavy my postbag feels when weighed down with the dreaded telegram from the King. So often I must deliver a bundle of letters, the envelope simply marked “Return to Sender.” Will my letters to you be returned, I wonder? Will you ever return to us?
I continue to pray for you, and I will keep writing.
Evie
XXX
From Evie to Alice
10th June, 1916
Richmond, England
My dear Alice,
I must apologise for not writing in an age. I can hardly bear to put pen to paper. It all seems so pointless.
My heart aches with worry for Tom. Still no word. Three months now, Alice. Three whole months. It is the most awful anguish. Not knowing. Never hearing.
I have tried to distract myself with my postal duties and my columns and luncheons with Hopper, but I only find myself growing ever more incensed by the fact that he is still here in London, living in comfort and safety, while Thomas is nowhere to be found. I challenged Hopper on the matter and I’m afraid he became rather cross. He said he hoped I wasn’t turning into one of the bloody White Feather Brigade and that he will ship out as soon as his superiors will allow it, and why can’t people mind their own bloody business. He apologised profusely after (I think he’d had rather too much to drink). He says war makes madmen of us all and that he is frustrated to be deemed a coward when it is a matter out of his control. In the meantime, I hear rumblings via Papa that all is still not happy families at the LDT. Poor Tom would be horrified to know it. I wish there was something I could do.