I plan to write to Amandine this afternoon to try to make some sense of things. I only hope I am doing the right thing.
Happy Christmas, darling.
Evie
XX
From Evie to Amandine Morel
29th December, 1916
Poplars, Richmond, London SW, England
Dear Mademoiselle Morel,
My name is Evelyn Elliott and I am the sister of Will Elliott, whom I believe you knew briefly while working as a nurse at the Front before his sad passing. I recently came across some of Will’s personal effects which were returned to my mother after his death.
Mademoiselle Morel, I write to you now because I need to know if the things I read in Will’s letters are true. If so, I would very much like to offer you my assistance, and my sincere apologies on Will’s behalf for not getting in touch sooner.
Perhaps you could write to me at the above address. It is very forward of me to ask, but if you would be kind enough to write, and perhaps to allow me to visit you in Paris at some stage when the war is over, I feel I would be doing my duty to Will as a sister, and to you as his very dear friend—and more.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Evelyn Elliott
Paris
21st December, 1968
The gardenias lend the most wonderful scent to the room. Margaret remarks on them as she refreshes the vase with water, removes any browned petals, and breathes in the velvety perfume of the blooms.
“Hothouse flowers,” I say. “The privilege of the wealthy.” It is an extravagance I have indulged in every Christmas. An extravagance she took such pleasure from.
Margaret laughs and tends to the flowers as she tends to me: gently, respectfully, and with good humour. She cannot know of the memories the flowers conjure.
I am as patient as I can bear to be while she turns her attention to me. It bothers me that I must lie here, all needles and tubes. It bothers me that I cannot see Paris as I would like to: the cafés, the gardens, a hearty serving of Burgundy beef; strolling with her arm in arm along the tree-lined boulevards; sipping a café crème or savouring the aniseed tang of a pastis beneath the red-and-white-striped awnings of the cafés in Montmartre. I’d almost forgotten how much I love it here, almost forgotten how much I love life. But this time—my last—I must be content to observe Paris from my apartment, while my tired body limps on and I get ever closer to my final days. Margaret talks about returning to Paris in the spring. I tell her it is beautiful, and encourage her to come back.
“We’ll both come back, Mr. Harding!”
My smile conceals the fact that I know I will not see the beauty of a Parisian spring again.
Through the tall French doors of the apartment bedroom here in the sixth arrondissement, I can look out over the rooftops towards the famous tower, watching it fade as the night envelops it. I think of how she longed to see it, the look of childish excitement on her face when it first came into view. Somehow it feels right that everything should come full circle—here again, amidst the souls of so many friends, the soul of my former life.
They tell me I suffer from a cancer of the lungs. It seems ironic to me that I have survived two wars and several shattered bones. I even evaded the terrible Spanish Flu epidemic that tore through the clearing stations at the end of the war, and then through Europe, and very nearly tore my world apart. And yet it is my ability to breathe—the most natural thing in the world for a man to do—that will take me in the end.
I grumble as Margaret administers various medication. I am not a good patient and yet she does her best to keep things cheerful. “I’ll be finished soon, and then you can continue on with reading your letters.”
I turn my eyes away from her, back to the window. I don’t want to be inside. I want to be sipping vin chaud in the Lilac Garden of La Closerie des Lilas. I want, so much, to be the vibrant young man I once was. I wonder, did I ever truly appreciate my good health and my ability to breathe without a struggle? The arrogance of youth takes everything for granted. Everything, that is, until you find yourself at war, pushing your bayonet into the enemy’s chest before he pushes his into yours.
At the sound of the telephone, Margaret rushes from the room. I prop myself up so I can see the people of Paris below. They rush about, scurrying home to be out of the biting wind. Margaret’s voice drifts through the hall and I close my eyes, straining to make out her conversation. She gives little away. I hear only the name, “Delphine,” and a melodic stream of passable French.
When she returns, she sets a tea tray on the table beside me. “You need to eat something. It’s been hours, Tom. And don’t try to hide your food in the bin again.” She fixes me with a glare.
“What did she say?” I ask, ignoring the fresh pastries and tea.
“Everything has been arranged as planned.” She smiles then. “Delphine is happy you had a comfortable journey and is looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.” She fusses with the curtain, pulling it so the folds hang straight. “You must be looking forward to seeing her,” she adds.
Delphine, the gift that none of us expected to discover.
“I am, Margaret. Very much.”
She notices the letter I have in my hand. The final precious letter—the one I promised to read here, in Paris. The one I will read at the end.
“You always said she wrote such beautiful letters. You must be longing to know what it says,” Margaret remarks.
I rub my fingertips across the sealed envelope; across her elegant handwriting. “I waited a long time for so many of her letters, Margaret. I can wait a little longer now.”
Margaret plumps my pillows and says she will check on me in a while. She pulls the door closed behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the scent of the gardenias that take me back to the first time I went home on leave and she wore a gardenia in her hair. She had beautiful hair, like ebony silk. It seems ludicrous to me now that I never noticed it before those autumn days we spent together. It was as if I noticed everything about Evie for the first time that week.
I pick up the next bundle of letters, neatly labelled “1917,” and let her words take me back there . . .
PART FOUR
1917
“He simply felt that if he could carry away
the vision of the spot of earth she walked on,
and the way the sky and sea enclosed it, the
rest of the world might seem less empty.”
—Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence
From Thomas to Evie
1st January, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Happy New Year, old girl! I hope you enjoyed your Christmas feast and your mother’s party. I thought of you often, envisioning you dancing and entertaining the guests. I presume Hopper was there, making a nuisance of himself. You mentioned your mother was planning to invite him.
I find myself in reasonably good spirits. I think, perhaps, 1917 will bring good things and I’ll get home for good. At the very least, I plan to apply for leave again in a few months.
Speaking of leave, you wouldn’t believe what some of the men are doing. I caught Sergeant James chewing cordite pulled from his rifle bullets to give himself a fever. Shortly after, the nurse gave him a few days off to recover. I was furious! But what kind of man would I be to rat out anyone who needs to get away from it all for a while. I’d be seen as the enemy and we have plenty of those as is. One learns to turn a blind eye.
Could you send some books? I’m desperate for new reading material. The long hours between action means too much time to ruminate on things and I’d rather lose myself in good literature. Many of us swap books and Nurse Rose has given me a few, but we can’t carry too many at a time, or our packs become too heavy. I’ve read Prester John by John Buchan several times, and a couple of Nat Gould’s horse racing novels. I’d like to read more of Gould and something by your William Blake or Palgrave. Perhaps
H. G. Wells?
Did I tell you about The Wipers Times? It’s a satirical newspaper, written by the soldiers. Two men found an old printing press and started it up from the Belgian town of Ypres. News from the trenches, if you will. It is darkly humorous and quite often lampoons those in command. You would laugh at the section called “Cupid’s Corner,” an advice page for those with “difficulties relating to ‘affaires de cœur.’” I read a poem called “Moaning Minnie” that stuck with me (a Moaning Minnie is a German mortar, or sort of cannon/gun), and chuckled a little at the derision, but while the magazine is an amusing diversion, it isn’t a literary meal, if you know what I mean. I need a few books with heft and look forward to what you send.
I’m glad you’re back to your drawings. We don’t see much wildlife as you might imagine, and your birds remind me of home. I hope you’re well, Miss Evelyn Elliott. I think of you often.
Ever yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Evie to Alice
20th January, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear girl,
No news from you for a while? I hope all is well? I have several things to tell you:
1.Hopper became rather amorous beside the fountain in Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Eve. He kissed me, Alice—and I’m afraid I kissed him back. It was a perfectly pleasant kiss in the way that kisses are, but it was not the type to send a girl weak at the knees and, well, the truth is that when I closed my eyes I could only see Tom and rather wished it were his lips on mine.
2.I have been bedridden with an upset tummy the last two weeks so have been able to avoid Hopper since. He sent flowers and wished me a speedy recovery. Mama is already planning her wedding outfit. I sent a thank-you note and explained that I felt rather embarrassed about the whole event. More flowers arrived in response. What am I to do?
3.I wrote to Amandine Morel, but have yet to get any reply. Should I write again, do you think, or wait a little longer? I am terribly anxious to hear from her. Mama knows nothing about my attempt to contact her.
4.Thomas tells me he has a new nurse attending to him. Rose is her name. I have a feeling she is to become a thorn in my side. She “comforts” him and lends him reading material. I am green with envy—not least because I know how “comforting” you have been to the poor buggers in your care and I cannot stop thinking about rouged lips and jazz tunes.
You see, I am in a terrible tizz and need your wise counsel immediately. How I wish I was out there with you, rather than here enjoying the crackle of the fire alone. I have nobody to share these little pleasures with. Everybody I love is over there.
I long to hear from you.
Your friend,
Evie
XX
From Evie to Thomas
25th January, 1917
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
A very Happy New Year to you! I’m so sorry not to have written before now. I have been laid up with an upset tummy and rather thought I was going to die I felt so wretched, but I rallied and feel quite myself again. In fact, I feel better than ever, but I suppose that is always the way when one has been bed-bound for weeks.
Of course, Mama blames my illness on my late night New Year’s Eve revels. I found myself in Trafalgar Square with friends and a rather unsavoury bunch of revellers (long story). Perhaps I shouldn’t have paddled in the fountain after all. I almost think Mama was sorry to see me recover, denying her the opportunity of saying “I told you so” when I perished from overexertion.
Anyway, here I am, very much alive and with another year sweeping ahead. What will it bring, I wonder? What surprises lie in store?
What better medicine than to see an envelope with your writing. It has become something of a habit, you see. Like eating and sleeping and breathing in and out, your letters and my replies, written at the desk in Will’s room—it is what life has become. I’m afraid I am rather hopelessly dependent on your words.
It is shocking to hear what the men will do to be sent home—Alice also writes of the Blighty wounds: cordite poisoning, bullet wounds to a hand stuck above the parapet, men shooting themselves in the foot. Only a desperate man could do such a thing. I can’t say I blame them, and I am glad to learn that neither do you.
I am heartened to know that you are finding time to read again. Thank goodness for Nurse Rose and her travelling library. I hope she is proving useful in your continued recovery. (Be careful, Tom. It would be dreadful to hear that you had died of a broken heart after everything.) For such a scholarly young man you haven’t mentioned your books very much in recent months. You were always such a keen reader—head always stuck in a book. There were many summers when I tried to catch your attention by turning cartwheels or some such antics, and yet you never noticed me. Far too busy following the adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
I took great delight in raiding Papa’s library and have enclosed three volumes. One each of Blake, Palgrave, and Kipling. I hope their wonderful prose will prove to be more enriching than your satirist newspaper. I am currently enjoying a spirited read by a new lady novelist. You wouldn’t know of her, but I will show it to you when you return.
As for my little birds, I am happy they bring you joy. I miss their singing during these brutal winter months. We’ve had weeks of hard frosts and I haven’t seen so much as a single robin since I was up and about again, although I throw bread crumbs and break the ice on the water in the bird table to try and entice them. I am eager to bring Rusty the bicycle out of hibernation and take to my postal duties again, but Mama insists I stay indoors until the weather improves. I feel like a caged animal.
Any news from the newspaper? I picked up a copy recently and thought of you. I’m afraid my column has lapsed rather in the wake of my being bedridden. Genevieve is much missed, apparently. Fan letters continue to arrive—mostly of the supportive type, although some are rather nasty and condemn her very existence! Jack Davies says it is good to provoke opinion. The sign of a job well done.
Papa believes the Yanks will join the war soon. They must, surely. I don’t see how the president can avoid it any longer. And it seems likely that Sir Henry Lawson’s report will, after all, result in the formation of a Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps. They are in dire need of relieving the men in noncombatant roles so that they can serve on the front line and bolster troops. Numbers were decimated during those bloody battles last summer. They have no choice but to turn to the women and allow us to do our bit. I’ll be the first in line to volunteer for a position in France if it goes ahead.
Write soon.
With affection,
Evie
P.S. I do not have a bird ready to send, but I promise to send one next time. Perhaps an owl? Such wise old things. I hear one hooting mournfully in the woods when I can’t sleep at night. Sadly, nobody ever replies to him.
From Alice to Evie
8th February, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Greetings, my love. You’ve been rather busy haven’t you, gallivanting in fountains, kissing handsome men, and digging into family secrets! How I wish I were there with you. Do tell all about this secret letter you discovered. Of course you should pursue it—if you are certain no one will be hurt terribly in the process. Sometimes secrets are best kept buried. You will know how best to handle it. You always were the wise and sensible one.
Are you still writing your column? The friend I know would have caused a stir at the newspaper by now, or marched her way to the top of their payroll, woman or not. I would very much like to read your pieces. Would you enclose a clipping or two in your next letter?
You’ll be pleased (perhaps unsurprised) to know I’ve met a lovely doctor named Peter. He’s from a rather wealthy family in London—the Lancasters. Do you know them? He felt the pull, as so many of us have, to offer our services where they might be best used, so here he is, saving lives. Dreamy, really.
This brings me to your
Thomas. If you won’t tell him how you feel and you’re certain he doesn’t love you, I’m afraid you must move on. Suffering unrequited love is the worst. You’re far too pretty and clever for that. Besides, it seems you have a perfectly suitable gentleman banging at the door. We can no longer be choosy in matters of love. There will be no men left at all if this war goes on much longer. Thomas has had his chances. If Hopper persists in kissing you, I say kiss him back.
Alice
X
From Evie to Alice
13th February, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear sweet Alice,
Thomas writes and tells me he cares for me—as a friend. Caring for someone is not the same as loving them, is it? He doesn’t love me. I grow more and more certain of it every day. I’ve dropped plenty of hints and there have been so many opportunities for him to tell me his true feelings, and yet he has taken none. Whether he ever read my Christmas letter or not, I suspect it doesn’t matter now.
This is a love of one half. The worst kind of love. This “friendship” of ours will never become anything more than that, I’m sure. I care for Tom dearly, but without any indication that he feels the same it is becoming increasingly hard to maintain any hope. Perhaps it is just a symptom of war, bringing out fanciful notions of romance. I grow weary of it all; weary of the battle raging in my heart. Shall I give it up entirely? Tell me what to do, Alice. I am incapable of rational thought.
And—as you so rightly point out—there is John Hopper, waiting patiently in the wings, always taking me to lunch, constantly charming Mama and Papa, forever settling those copper eyes of his on mine as if there is something he wishes to tell me. He may not set my heart aflame, but he has good prospects and I am, after all, a woman in need of a husband. Perhaps he wouldn’t make such a bad compromise after all?