As for the secret, I still haven’t had a reply from Amandine and find myself imagining the worst. Paris suffered that awful influenza epidemic last year. Maybe she’s dead? I can’t explain it. It’s as though Will is forcing me to remember her. I know nothing about her, and yet she is in my thoughts continually.
Awful news from here. Some of the NCF supporters—women—were arrested on charges of plotting to murder the Prime Minister. It is all over the papers. Whatever next?
Please forgive me for being so despondent. You know how I struggle in the wintertime. I’ll be much improved by the time we see the first blossoms of spring.
Thinking of you always.
Evie
XX
P.S. I do know of the Lancasters. Terribly nice family. Nothing bad to say about them and if I remember Peter at all, then I believe you may have met your match, and I could not be happier for you.
From Thomas to Evie
14th February, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m sorry to hear you were ill, though dancing in a fountain with Hopper (he wrote recently and mentioned your having spent time together) would give me an upset stomach as well. Perhaps you should rethink your company? I’m teasing, of course, but I hate to think of you miserable and in bed. Not my fierce little Evie.
I’ve had a little fun this evening for a change—I’ve just returned to my bunk after a show with Elsie Griffin. She sang a few tunes, but my favourite was “Danny Boy.” Judging by the cheering after, I’d say it was everyone’s favourite. The woman has the voice of an angel.
Lately I’ve listened to live poetry, and I’ve seen a few “plays” (smaller and somewhat poor versions of the originals, but so much appreciated these days). Many entertainers have trudged out to France, and there seem to be more and more on the way. God love them for risking their lives to raise our spirits. It has really helped. My tremors have lessened considerably, though I thank Nurse Rose for that, largely. She’s all positivity and light, that woman. Full of heart. Not as clever as you, though.
I’m in a reserve trench for a while for a respite from the Front, thankfully. I’ve had tasks to accomplish, a lot of paperwork and such, but it’s been a relief resting and reading the books you sent. Thank you for those. I’ve been greedy with them—read two already. My mind is starved for something beyond life and death and destruction.
I dreamed about Will last night. I don’t wish to upset you, but if he were still alive, things would be different, somehow. I just know it. Your brother knew how to laugh at anything, even the grim. Sometimes I feel his presence so acutely, it startles me to remember he’s not here. I miss my father, too, but it’s different, you know? We never got along and I was used to his absence, sad as it is to admit.
Happy Valentine’s Day. If I were there, I’d take you to Carlisle’s for chocolates and sugared cherries, maybe dancing afterward. I hope the stationery I’ve enclosed is a suitable substitute, though I suspect Hopper is spoiling you silly and that writing paper will be a poor substitute for the attentions of dashing chaps who spoil you with champagne and dinners.
If writing to me has become a habit, I’m glad for it. Hopefully it isn’t one you wish to shake.
With affection,
Tom
P.S. The Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps would put you in the line of danger. I must admit, I’m not fond of the idea of you joining.
From Evie to Alice
15th February, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
Help! Hopper proposed! Yesterday, on Valentine’s Day. He has spoken to Papa and everything. I’m so confused, Alice. My head says accept him. My heart says don’t.
Mama is furious with me for not accepting immediately. She considers it unbecoming for a woman to play games with a gentleman’s heart and says I should snap him up before someone else does.
I’m writing this from my bed, where I’m pretending to have a migraine. Well, it began as pretence but my head really throbs now.
What am I to do?
Evie
From Evie to Thomas
3rd March, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
I’m sorry for not writing in a while. I’m really not myself at the moment.
Thank you for your last letter and the lovely stationery. How on earth did you find such a thing? I can hardly bear to write on it, the paper is so pretty. Your words had me imagining lazy hours lost at Carlisle’s. You are a brute for putting such thoughts into my head when there is no way I can shush them. I’m not sure which was the more appealing: the sugared cherries or the dancing.
That you have time to think of me at all—a friend so far away—is a wonder, considering all the troop entertainments you write about, and the additional distractions provided by Nurse Rose. You say we would get along, but I’m afraid I would be rather a disappointment and would only cloud her “bright and breezy” nature. I’m also grown horribly gangly and thin. I have no appetite. Or perhaps I’m just starved of the things every young woman needs in order to thrive.
I was comforted to hear that you dreamt of Will. We have been so long without him now, yet I sometimes forget, and I look for him in the apple orchard or the stables. It is important to share our memories of him, don’t you think? Actually, I wanted to ask you something. What do you remember of the French nurse he was sweet on? Amandine Morel. Do you recall any of the circumstances in which she returned to France? I remember you wrote about her taking ill and returning to her mother in Paris, but I can’t recall if there were any more details about the nature of her illness. You’ll most likely think me silly to ask, but I’ve been thinking of her a lot recently.
I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying the books. I’ve taken the liberty of enclosing Jules Verne this time, Will’s favourite.
With affection,
Evelyn
From Alice to Evie
6th March, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Well, well. Hopper finally did it. I’m not at all surprised, I must say. How did he ask? Was it terribly romantic? For some reason I imagine him being stiff and formal, brandy in the Drawing Room and a cough to clear the throat. Did he declare his love for you?
Darling, I know you are confused but you have said it yourself that Tom Harding is blind when it comes to matters of love. He sees friendship with his best friend’s sister, yes. Adoration and love? Perhaps not. Perhaps never. After all, he didn’t respond to that Christmas letter you sent, spilling the contents of your heart, did he? I fear your Tom may have his head firmly in the sand when it comes to matters of romance.
Whatever you decide, don’t toss your future away on a whim. And don’t let your mother sway you too much. You aren’t the type to do things just because of appearances, my courageous, clever friend. Remember it is your choice and I know you’ll make the right one.
Bisous,
Alice
From Evie to Alice
15th March, 1917
Richmond, England
Dearest Alice,
Thank you for your words. You are right. I cannot forever wait for Tom Harding without any assurance that he is worth waiting for, and yet I can’t bring myself to accept Hopper either. Which is why what I am about to tell you comes at the perfect time.
I am going to France. I am a fully enrolled member of the newly formed Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC). It has all happened in such a rush. I wrote to the Labour Exchange to enquire about enrollment and received a very prompt reply (fortunately I got to the post before Mama. She would have been far too interested in the contents of the long envelope bearing the stamp OHMS). I had to report to the Board of Examiners for various examinations and passed them all with flying colours.
Oh, Alice. I’m terrifically excited. At last I am to have some purpose in this war. A proper part to play. I even have my own uniform (being tall I only needed to
take it to the tailor to make a slight adjustment to the greatcoat, whereas some of the women look as if they have shrunk, their skirts and coats hang off them so dreadfully).
Embarkation orders came through last night. I am to depart from Victoria Station on the Continental Boat Train to Folkestone and from there we sail to Boulogne and once in France, on to our HQ on the Western Front in Rouen. I leave at the end of the month. A matter of days now. I haven’t told anyone, only you. Mama will fuss and Papa will attempt to drill me to death. I know it will be dreadfully upsetting for them—especially Mama—but it really is the only way, and kinder to not put them through the misery of worry and spare us all the inevitable arguments and bad feelings. Far better to just leave and explain everything in a note, don’t you think?
I considered telling Hopper in confidence but I’m afraid he will tell Mama or—worse still—try to dissuade me, so I’ve decided against it and will write to him. Explanations are so much easier when one has time to construct them properly. Perhaps my going to France (running away?) is an answer to Hopper’s proposal in itself. I feel so sure of this opportunity. If I go to France and live a little, perhaps I will be more ready to settle into a life of marriage when I return?
Desperate times call for desperate measures and I am proud to know that whatever role I’m given will allow some fellow to join the men in battle. I’m hopeful for a position as a clerk or a telephone operator. It turns out that my little stint at the post office here might prove to have been very useful after all.
I will write more when I can. For now, Au revoir!
Your friend,
Evie
X
P.S. I received a sniping letter from a woman who finds my column in rather bad taste. I must admit that I smiled as I read her words. Goodness, she gave me a good telling off. It is important to stir the soul, is it not, and I am glad my words galvanised her to write to me. Journalism isn’t about sugarcoating everything to make it more palatable. I know some who fall easily into the trap of propaganda—but I refuse to do so. In fact, I hope my time in France will provide plenty more fuel for me to throw onto the flames. I would happily read sackfuls of outrage if my words of truth can reach people.
From Evie to Thomas
15th March, 1917
Richmond, England
Dearest Thomas,
A few lines to tell you that I am to come to France as a member of the WAAC. I depart at the end of the month. There is no point trying to deter me. It is done. Paperwork signed. Uniform commissioned. I am to spend the rest of this war (however long that might be) amongst it all. There are, after all, only so many badly knitted socks a Tommy can expect to endure. My skills are much better served in other duties. I’m hoping to work on the telephone lines, or as a clerk.
Don’t worry. I won’t be binding my chest and cutting my hair and rushing to the trenches with a bayonet. I know where the dangers lie and I will be keeping as far away from them as possible, yet I find myself feverish with excitement and trepidation. Finally, I will see this war for myself and play my part rather than watching interminably from the sidelines.
My parents know nothing about it. I plan to leave a note which they will find on the morning of my departure. By the time Collins takes it up to Mama on her breakfast tray, I will be on the boat train to Folkestone. I will face the consequences when I return.
Please think of me and send me good luck in your prayers. I will send word when I arrive. Who knows—we might yet see each other beneath those starry French skies you have written about so often. I would very much like to see you, Thomas. Even with the sound of shells pounding in my ears it would be worth it to see that silly smile of yours.
I have enclosed three more novels and a book of British Garden Birds. I thought you might like to see how accurate (or otherwise) my sketches are.
Don’t worry about me. I am but a migrating bird, Thomas. I will leave England’s familiar hedgerows for a little while, but I know they will be waiting for me, more beautiful than ever, when I return.
With all good wishes.
Your friend,
Evie
X
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
17TH MARCH 1917
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW
SENT: 10:14 / RECEIVED: 11:54
YOU ARE AS STUBBORN AS A MULE. CAN’T DISSUADE YOU BUT NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS. RECONSIDER? IF NOT, PLEASE BE CAREFUL. TOM.
From Thomas to Evie
20th March, 1917
Somewhere in France
Evie,
When I read your letter, I was furious. I tried to be levelheaded, but I wound up throwing a private’s helmet clear into no man’s land. It was shot up immediately, of course, and he had to get a new one. I don’t want you here amid the gloom and gore. It isn’t the place for someone like you and won’t be good for you. It isn’t good for anyone. For some reason, I feel I need to protect you and I can’t abide you destroying that pure goodness inside you, or seeing something horrible to test your spirit. What if something were to happen to you? I don’t think I could stand it, Evie. We talked about this at length in Edinburgh, yet you insist on putting yourself in harm’s way.
Please say you’ll make it a short stay and for God’s sake, be wary of the men. They haven’t been around a real woman in months, and even years, some of them. Keep your wits about you. If you came to any harm at the hand of one of our own I can assure you I would see red, and couldn’t be held accountable for my actions.
Tom
From Evie to Tom
25th March, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
Your letter disappoints me. That you believe a woman has no place in this war, that you believe I cannot handle the gloom and the gore leaves me furious. I had expected more, from you of all people.
This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I imagined—hoped—you would be happy to see me stretch my wings and broaden my view of a war I have seen only through your eyes these past two years. Do all men believe that women are incapable? Must I return to the knitting of comforts and bide my time like a good girl?
You say you would protect me. Keep me safe. Would you rather I were confined to a safe dull existence where I grow old knowing nothing but tea at four and dinner at eight, or would you rather I live a little dangerously and thrive? If you wish to protect me from something, then protect me from the monotony of life as a privileged young woman awaiting the confines of married life. I cannot think of anything more certain to drive me to an early grave.
In any event, it’s decided. I am going to France and that is all. Perhaps my words are best kept for others from now on. I would hate to think of you tossing another helmet into no man’s land on my behalf.
We have written often of birds, you and me. How strange then, to rediscover—just yesterday—these words from Miss Brontë’s Jane Eyre: “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”
I will leave it at that.
Evelyn
From Evie to Alice
30th March, 1917
Richmond, England
My dear Alice,
I ship out tomorrow. I am all butterflies and nervous excitement. I hope I am doing the right thing. I’m sure I am, although I could hardly bear to look Mama and Papa in the eye over dinner this evening.
Tom, meanwhile, wrote to express his frustration with me. He seems to think France unsuitable. He says it isn’t the place for “someone like me,” by which I presume he means a woman of my position. Honestly, Alice, I believe he would truss me up and place me in a cage for safekeeping. I wish I’d never mentioned the WAAC to him because his words of caution nag at me like a fretful parent and I only want to feel confident and assured.
In any event, I will sail tomorrow whether Thomas Harding supports me, or not.
Stay safe, darling.
Much love,
Evie
X
br /> P.S. You can write to me at the address given on the inside flap of the envelope.
From Evie to her mother
30th March, 1917
Dearest Mama,
This war has changed all of us in many ways, and I hope you will—one day—be able to forgive me for what I am about to do.
I have left for France. I enrolled with the WAAC and passed the various tests and examinations. I will be based at the Western Front, close to Rouen, under the supervision of Helen Gwynne-Vaughan. I expect to be assigned as a clerk or telephone operator. More men are desperately needed at the Front. My taking one of the auxiliary roles will free up one more man to take up arms. When you multiply that by the thousands of women volunteering, we can make a real difference.
I had to do my duty. That is all.
I have informed John, and promised to give him my answer when I return.
Mama, I know you think often about Will and I must ask you to consider what he would have said about this if he were alive. He would have supported me in this decision, I know he would, even if he did worry for my safety. I must ask you and Papa to support me in the same way. Will was incredibly honourable and brave. I’m going to France in his memory as much as for my own desire.
When he was alive, Will always said if there was anything he could do for me, I had only to ask. I never extended the same invitation to him, and now I can only regret that. If there had been anything he had asked of me before his death—or after, in a letter perhaps—I would have done it, no matter how difficult or unexpected. I hope I would have found the courage to honour his request. Wouldn’t we owe him that, Mama, to honour any last request Will made of us, and not hide it away along with his medals and cricket things and childhood toys? We all have our secrets, but some are not ours to keep in the first place.