Alice, you are right. When I think about Tom never coming home, I find an awful darkness where once a bright future beckoned. My anguish is not just for the friend I have known since I was a child. My anguish is for the man I have watched him become, and for the man I want him to be. I can think of nothing but him, of his smile, of his arms around my waist as we danced. What on earth will become of me if it is too late?
War makes me reckless with my heart so I posted the letter I wrote to him on Christmas Day. Should he ever receive it, it will leave him in no doubt as to my feelings for him. I hope I did the right thing in sending it. The fear of never seeing him again is suddenly far greater than the fear of rejection should he tell me he does not feel the same way.
Will you get home on leave at all? I feel desperately lonely and would so much love to see you.
And what absolutely dreadful news about Kitchener’s death on the HMS Hampshire, and all those who perished with him. Papa says it is nothing short of a national disaster. Nobody is safe, Alice. Not even those in the highest ranks. What hope can there be for someone like Tom?
Evie
X
Telegram from Alice to Evie
5TH JULY 1916
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW
SENT: 10:34 / RECEIVED: 11:36
TOM ALIVE AND WITH BATTALION! LETTER TO FOLLOW. ALICE.
Telegram from Evie to Charles Abshire
5TH JULY 1916
TO: CHARLES ABSHIRE, 34 LOVELACE GARDENS, BERMONDSEY, LONDON SE
SENT: 12:30 / RECEIVED: 13:14
TOM FOUND SAFE AND WELL. WILL SEND MORE SOONEST. EVELYN ELLIOTT.
From Alice to Evie
6th July, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Wonderful, stupendous, jolly news! I have found your dear Tom. He is alive and well! A doctor I’ve recently befriended sent word to a colleague at the location of some of the heaviest battles. Just as we feared, Tom was there, in the thick of it . By some miracle, he wasn’t badly hurt, just a wound in his arm requiring a few stitches. You must be asking yourself why he hasn’t written, but he is alive! Now for the more difficult news.
I’ve been told Tom is afflicted with a severe melancholy, the sort that makes one go numb, become listless. He’s having difficulties facing the day, doing his duties, poor fellow. I’ve seen this a lot among the soldiers who have been here for long stints, and given how he was at Christmas, I’m not surprised. At the they say the dead and wounded were in the tens of thousands. But he is alive! I say this again, because it is a marvel in this war. And his spirit will recover, in time. I’ve forwarded a note to a nurse stationed near him to prompt him to write. I told him all at home are worried sick and so forth. I’ve also enclosed an address on the inside flap of the envelope (must conserve as much paper as possible).
In rather sad news, my friend Private Rollins was killed. He was struck blind by an explosion, then wandered aimlessly through a minefield. Isn’t it the most pointless death you’ve ever heard? I’ve cried for weeks, but it’s a waste. It won’t bring him back. He was lovely, but I’ve moved on because I must.
More sad news. I’m no longer on ambulance duty. I rather preferred being behind the wheel to being based at a field hospital, but it seemed the many dents caught up with me.
Are you joining us here as a war correspondent? I would warn you of the dangers and urge you to stay at home, but I know it would be futile. Stubborn Evie Elliott will see it through. I know she will.
Keep me abreast of any news from Tom.
Alice
X
From Evie to Alice
19th July, 1916
Richmond, England
My dear Alice,
What incredible joy! What tremendous relief to know that Tom is safe! My hand trembles just writing these words. I have thought the worst for so long and to hear that he is alive answers all my prayers. Even when I hear that he is afflicted with a melancholy, I cannot be too sad. His melancholy will pass, I am sure of it. He is here, and that is all that matters.
I must write to him immediately, but I don’t wish to be insensitive. I have heard people talk of the men who are affected by their nerves and how they seem incapable of thought or speech. Do you think Tom will be considered bad enough to be sent home to recover? Please excuse all my questions. How frustrating it is to not know if the answers will ever come.
I was dreadfully sorry to hear about your private. Must we lose everyone? I will admit, however, that I’m relieved to hear you’re out of the ambulance. Far better to be in the field hospital. You must see the most ghastly sights. I just cannot imagine how you’re managing. You didn’t even like to see a grazed knee.
Although it seems of small significance now I know that Tom is safe, I must, of course, tell you that all is as well as can be expected here at home. I am still enjoying my job as a postwoman, although the weather has been horrid and Mama insists that I’ll catch influenza being out in it all. I haven’t, of course. Never have. Never will. She forgets that I have the constitution of an ox.
My column has become something of a sensation and—you won’t believe this—I get fan mail! Honestly, Alice. I know you will be laughing as you read this, but dozens of women write to the newspaper every week to tell me how much they enjoy reading my words and how helpful they find them. It is really quite extraordinary and very touching. Some of the letters would break your heart. Of course, I can’t reply. I don’t have the time for one thing. But I suppose it is rather nice to know that I am helping in a small way.
My editor is still trying to find a way to get me out to France so I can write from there with firsthand accounts. He thinks the only way I can get over is by joining up as a nurse, or some such. I feel that I can’t do anything until I hear word directly from Thomas. For now I must put thoughts of my own prospects out of my mind and get on with day-to-day things here.
Stay safe, and thank you, my dearest friend. You have bandaged a broken heart and I do believe it might, with the right care, make a full recovery.
Evie
XXX
From Evie to Thomas
19th July, 1916
Richmond, England
My dearest, dearest Thomas,
I had word from Alice that you are alive and safe and I am not ashamed to tell you how many tears of relief I have shed.
It has been torture not hearing from you, but I understand that you have been deeply affected by so many months at war and find it difficult to put words on paper. I would so very much love to hear from you but just to know you are not captured, or worse, gladdens my heart beyond expression. It is enough for me to know my letters are not disappearing into thin air. Have you been receiving them? I sent several these past months and I would love to know whether you received them.
Knowing you are alive gives me the courage to write on. Even though you might not find the strength to reply, please know that I think of you.
I will not burden you with too much news.
When you are ready, send me yours. I will be waiting.
Yours in hope,
Evie
XX
From Jack Davies to Thomas
22nd July, 1916
London, England
Dear Tom,
I believe you’re not in the best of shape at present, but I felt compelled to write again. Things continue to dissolve here at the paper between Hopper and me. I shudder to think where the London Daily Times will be by year’s end.
The bright side? The paper is generating serious revenue now. We have two columns about the war that are wildly popular. One hundred and fifty fan letters or more per week flood into the office. Many women are finding comfort and inspiration from our new columnists, including your friend Evelyn Elliott. I am glad for it, of course, but I am not thrilled Hopper now aims to push our columnists into dangerous territory in terms of the subjects they are writing about. The government wants the opposite, mind, and cal
ls for more propaganda. We quarrelled about it heatedly and I nearly got myself sacked. I must admit, I fear Hopper’s position here may be the end of my time at the paper. I mentioned this before, but the truth becomes more obvious daily.
I hope you’re safe, my boy.
Sincerely,
Jack Davies
From Captain James Edwards to Evie
30th July, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Miss Elliott,
I write to you on behalf of Lieut. Thomas Harding, 10th Battalion. Harding is suffering from nervous exhaustion and is resting, at present, in a field hospital. He sends his regards and wishes to send assurances that he is being well cared for and hopes to be back in action very soon.
I wish to add that he is a highly valued and much respected member of our company, and we all wish him a speedy recovery so that he can rejoin our continued quest for victory.
Sincerely yours,
Captain James Edwards, 10th Rifles Battalion
From Evie to Thomas
5th August, 1916
Richmond, England
Dear Tom,
I received word from your captain. Dearest boy, I am so greatly relieved to know that you are resting in a field hospital. After the horrors we heard about the battles at the Somme, and Verdun, I hardly dared hope to hear from you again. So many men fallen. All of England, it seems, is in mourning.
I hope you will soon be feeling a little better, but do not rush back into the fray. Take your time.
I drew you a bird today. I hope you like him. He is a wagtail.
Send word as soon as you are able. I will be waiting.
Thinking of you always.
Evie
X
From Thomas to Evie
10th August, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dearest Evie,
It’s me, Tom, your long lost friend. By the time you get this letter, I’ll be on my way to Scotland, to Craiglockhart War Hospital for Officers. It’s in Edinburgh, and I’m to be treated for emotional weakness while there. I suppose it is ironic that I have so often longed to return to the country of my birth. Never did I think it would be under such circumstances as this.
Please forgive my prolonged absence and all the worry and trouble I’ve caused you. If I could think or see straight these past months, I would have written line after line.
I don’t deserve your reply, but I saw these embroidered silk postcards (enclosed here), and I thought of you instantly. There were many varieties, but mostly of flags and patriotic sentiments. I thought the beautiful little butterfly suited my lovely friend.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Evie to Thomas c/o Craiglockhart Hospital
14th August, 1916
Richmond, England
My dearest bravest Thomas,
Your letter arrived and I cannot stop my tears. To see your name, your writing, your few words on a scrap of paper have made me the happiest girl in England.
There is so much I want to say to you but words seem so inadequate and my emotions so poorly expressed, and yet I had to write back to you immediately. I must catch the afternoon post. My hands tremble with relief at seeing your familiar script, and the beautiful silk postcard with the butterfly has captured my heart, and yet I feel such an ache there too, for you and your ailment.
For all these months of silence, time has dragged and now the minutes rush past too quickly and the post office will soon close. It feels as though I have thought of nothing and nobody these past months. Morning, noon, and night—even in my dreams. It was always you, Tom. I am sorry to gush (and please know that my cheeks flare as I do). It is so unlike the very private Evie of old to be such an open book, but to know that you are safe and on your way to the hospital in Scotland gives me the most intense sense of relief. They will have you back on your feet in no time, I am certain of it.
Now, I must run to catch the post—I am in danger of saying far too much if I write more.
I will pray for you. Dare I even hope we will see each other soon when I once thought you lost to me forever?
Stay safe, Tom. I will shout your name to the moon tonight. Look for me there.
Evie
XXX
From Evie to Thomas c/o Craiglockhart Hospital
16th August, 1916
Richmond, England
My dear Tom,
I hope this finds you safe and well in Edinburgh. I took the liberty of writing straightaway so there would be a few lines from a friend waiting for you when you arrive. Do you remember how eager I was to write to you and Will when you first set off for the training camp at Mytchett? I seem to recall my first letter arrived before you did.
I am sure you will soon rally under the care of the doctors there. You are in the best place, Tom, and while I know you will hate to be away from your men and are no doubt already wishing to be back among them, I pray that you can take this time to rest and recover fully. Others have stepped out for a while. Now it is your turn. Take all the time you need.
Send word when you are able? I will continue to write anyway. I hope that is acceptable. I don’t wish to overwhelm you.
Much love,
Evie
X
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
17TH AUGUST 1916
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW
SENT: 14:45 / RECEIVED: 15:27
ARRIVED SAFELY. PLEASE KEEP WRITING. YOUR WORDS ARE A BEACON IN THE WOOD. T.
From Evie to Thomas
23rd August, 1916
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
How are you? Is Scotland as pretty and wild as I remember? Having visited that part of the country when I was a little girl, I can picture you breathing the fresh sea air that blows in off the Firth of Forth. Are you permitted outside? Does the hospital have gardens and grounds for you to stroll in? I do hope so. I know how fond you are of the great outdoors and hate to think of you cooped up like a messenger pigeon in an airless ward.
I have enclosed some of your favourite cigars, which I hope you will be able to enjoy beneath the balm of a summer’s evening while listening to a nightingale sing. You see—in my imagination you are not really a soldier at war, damaged by its horrors. You are just the same old Tom, enjoying the breath of Scottish air against his skin. Until I can see you for myself, I have to paint such pictures.
Would I be able to visit, do you think? Are visitors allowed? Are women permitted in the hospital at all?
I asked Papa to look into the location of the hospital and he tells me it is not too far from my cousins in Leith. Perhaps I could ask my uncle to look in on you if it isn’t possible for me to come in person? Papa says the best way to help you recover is to leave you with the doctors who know best, but I am sure a friendly face would be the very best medicine of all.
Let me know? I would come tomorrow if I thought it would help.
I will pray for your good health. Do not trouble yourself with a long letter if you find it irksome and tiring. Just a line or two will suffice. “Dear Evie” is enough for me.
Yours,
Evie
X
P.S. I had a dream last night that we were in Paris for Christmas. You, me, Will, Alice. The snow fell in thick fat flakes as we strolled along the Champs-Élysées, the lights of the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance. It was the most perfect dream, Thomas. I know we will get there one day. I promise we will.
From Thomas to Charles Abshire
1st September, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Charles,
My letter is long overdue. I apologise for frightening you. The last few months I was in a very bad way. Recently, I was transferred to Craiglockhart War Hospital for Officers here in Edinburgh. It’s a specialist hospital for officers with neurasthenia, or a sort of war neuroses. I will be here for an indefinite period.
I’m afraid I’m in no position to do
much about the problems at home. Like Father, I place my trust in you. Please continue to keep me updated.
Sincerely yours,
Thomas
From Thomas to Evie
1st September, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Evie,
Thank you for understanding. I am a pitiful friend these days, but please know I hold you close to my heart. No one on this earth knows me as you do. Not anymore. They are gone, but I thank God you aren’t.
A few weeks here in Scotland and I am, at last, able to eat again. I’d lost my appetite completely, my head filled with horrors I won’t name, and the burden of my guilt for all the men who died at my hand, and those who are still at the Front whom I left behind. You wouldn’t recognise the scrawny man I’ve become. But I am slowly regaining my strength.
The doctors have been kind, but sometimes I wonder at their absurd treatments. They think a little golf and the occasional walk around the grounds will help. Hypnosis is another favourite of theirs. I don’t see how playing at sports or falling into a trance will empty the gruesome memories from my head. I’m too thick skulled for such simple measures. Yet I suppose it’s worth a try.
I am also commissioned to write as much as possible. Every battle, every terrible thing I can recall, I outline in a journal. The doctor discusses my notes with me. You’ve never seen a grown man cry so much (though I do most of it when the doctor has gone). I didn’t know I had so many tears. It’s a ghastly business, but somehow, I think it helps to get it down on paper.
It’s the shame that is the most difficult to overcome. You see, the reason I fell into this oblivion is because of something that happened back in March. We had just finished the morning hate (this is what we call “stand to,” or waking an hour before dawn to guard against an enemy raid of men sporting bayonets. A despicable thing). We had scarcely finished a quick breakfast when a grenade landed in the trench. It took a flash—just a flash, the shortest inkling of a second, yet the longest moment in my memory—to decide what to do. My commanding officer and several of my men sat nearby. If I threw myself over the grenade, they would be saved. It was the honourable thing to do. But I hesitated, and scrambled to my feet—too late. The blast killed all five men, blew a few rotting sandbags to hell, and all descended into chaos. I was spared; sprayed with shrapnel and lost my hearing for a few hours, suffered an excruciating pain and ringing in my ears, but I was spared.