Your training sounds much like dorm life at school. Didn’t they wake you with a bugle there, too? Or was it a gong? I forget. I imagine you and Will having great larks with the other chaps. You certainly sound in very good spirits and ready for the off. I expect the waiting is terribly frustrating. Like waiting for Christmas—all the anticipation, and yet still no snow and still no parcels under the tree.
Talking of Christmas, do you think it silly of me to still hope we might manage that trip to Paris we all became rather excited about after a few too many sherries? Papa says the city is full of refugees and that despite the allied victory at the Marne, it may still come under German attack again. If we do make it, Alice Cuthbert will come to make a foursome. She’s terrific fun, and you know how fond she is of Will. (Remind him, would you. It would make me so happy to see the two of them together.) They say Paris is impossibly pretty at Christmastime, and it will be just the tonic after months of fighting for you and months of boredom for Alice and me. Let’s say we’ll go if we can. Ça va être merveilleux! All those hours hunched over my French textbooks may prove to be of use after all.
In quite exciting news, I am now a member of the Richmond Lady Cyclist’s Club. I mostly fall off so far, but the ladies assure me they all struggled to control their bicycles at first, and that I must keep practicing. I would far rather ride an unbroken horse to be honest, but I shall persist and try again tomorrow (you know how stubborn I can be!). If I ever do master the art of bicycling, I have plans to ride all the way to Brighton to visit Alice. I recently read about Tessie Reynolds’s exploits in The Lady and find myself having grand notions about dashing around the country on two wheels. Don’t tell Will.
I hope this reaches you before you head off. Papa says you won’t be able to tell us where you are once you leave Mytchett in order to prevent information from falling into enemy hands. He says all letters from the Front will be censored before they reach home, so be careful of spilling any secrets or you’ll be court martialed before you’ve pulled the trigger once.
Is there anything I can send before you ship out? Mama said you would probably be grateful for some decent tobacco. She is convinced you are all living in squalor. I’ve included the best Virginia I could find, just in case.
Yours in friendship,
Evie
From Will Elliott to Evie
20th October, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Writing Desk,
Do not be fooled by Evie’s charms. She is untidy and presses too hard with her pen. She will have you ruined in weeks. Please pass on my thanks for her letter (albeit half the length of the one she sent to my friend Tom) and reassure everyone at home that I am in the best of health.
Not much to report from training camp, except that we are keen to get to the Front, see an end to this and return home as swiftly as possible to reclaim what is rightfully ours, writing desks included.
Behave, Evelyn.
Yours, in ink,
Will
From Thomas to Evie
25th October, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Evelyn Elliott,
I assure you, you look much better as a woman than a man. I can see it now, Evan Elliott in heels and skirt, riding a bicycle like a banshee from hell. Gave myself a good laugh over that one. But in all seriousness, you should keep submitting your articles. You’re quite the writer. Don’t let them make you believe otherwise.
Camp life is going swimmingly. Glad to be here and so proud to march on, even if it means leaving my father’s struggling newspaper business behind. More on that another time.
I’m glad of your letters. Though I’m just one of a bunch of chaps playing poker at the moment, and not exactly a heroic representative of our country, I suspect at some point I’ll be desperately glad to have news from home. And you’re just the girl to deliver it, so thank you.
Speaking of home, are your horses spirited away somewhere? Will worries about Shylock and Hamlet. We’ve seen the shipments go out—hundreds of them, or thousands, really. We’ve been told they’re confiscating all the horses and sending them to the Front. Your brother will commit treason if his are taken. You know how he loves them. If they were to go to battle . . . Well, let’s not speak of it. Do what you can.
I’m sure you’ve heard the Allies are holding the lines, keeping Paris relatively safe for now? The government is taking precautions, though, and moved south to Bordeaux. So it would seem, my friend, that Christmas in Paris might still be a fine idea, even without half a bottle of sherry in my stomach. We might have joked when we talked about it at first, but there’s no time like the present, I say. Besides, I welcome a diversion at that time of year. Since my mother passed, I’ve never felt the same about the “jolliest” season, and all that. The last Christmas I spent with her was in Edinburgh when I was twelve. It snowed and we had a grand party with the rest of the family. Father never let me go to Scotland for Christmas again after that. He was so hurt and angry when she left him, and angrier still that I enjoyed spending time with the other half of my family. I suppose I should be grateful I spent so many summers there before she died. I’m planning to visit after this is all over. Scotland has always felt like my other home, you know?
Damn it, Evie. Now isn’t the time for such thoughts, is it? I should have nothing but honour on my mind.
For now, I send you a hurrah for the kingdom (!) and a friendly salute (I may have had one stout too many).
Sincerely,
Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding
From Evie to Thomas
31st October, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding,
(I presume formal address is a requirement now?)
Thank you for your letter. It’s curious how a few lines can cheer one so greatly over a cup of tea and a slice of toast. I hope my letters are as eagerly received. It’s a wonder they ever find you among so many men there at the camp. And thank you for your kind words about my writing. You are quite right. I must persevere. I suppose there will be plenty to write about with so much going on in the world.
Charlie Gilbert sent a letter last week (I won’t trouble you with the romantic details). He is somewhere in France and sounds dreadfully glum, although Charlie always tends to exaggerate so I take his words with a pinch of salt, especially since the newspapers are all talk of victory and the men being in high spirits. He says they are all encouraged by the news about successful recruitment campaigns and they are eager for the latest troops to arrive.
Will sent a short note as well. He complained of the typhoid vaccination, which has left him feeling a bit green around the gills. He also enclosed a photograph of your regiment. I must say you both look terribly smart in your uniforms. The photograph has pride of place on the mantelpiece. We are immensely proud.
You ask what news from home? Not much, I’m afraid, other than to tell you that my bicycling has improved. There’s a wonderful freedom in hurtling along the lanes with the wind in my hair. I don’t know why I didn’t learn to do it sooner. I found a wonderful little volume in Papa’s library called Handbook for Lady Cyclists. The author, Lillias Campbell Davidson, gives the following advice on appropriate attire for cycling tours: “Wear as few petticoats as possible and have your gown made neatly and plainly of flannel without loose ends or drapery to catch in your bicycle.” I’d rather wear a pair of men’s trousers, but Mama would never speak to me again.
Other than swotting up on cycling tours, there’s an awful fuss among next season’s debutantes and their mothers who are worried sick about a lack of eligible escorts for the spring season. Please make sure to send some decent sorts back home. You are in charge, are you not? I will hold you entirely responsible for the dashed hopes of an entire generation of young women and their dressmakers if you fail in your duties.
In other news, the horses. Oh, Tom. It’s really quite awful. The army have indeed requisitioned any animal th
at isn’t already lame and Shylock and Hamlet are both gone to serve as war horses. I did my very best to plead their case, insisting they were both ruined by too much love and sugar lumps and not at all cut out for battle, but my protests fell on deaf ears. Papa says we must all do our bit—even the animals. I don’t know how to tell Will. He’ll be heartbroken. Perhaps you could tell him? It would be far kinder for him to hear it from a friend than in a few rotten words in a letter. Mama has organised a fund-raiser for the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Fund for Sick and Wounded Horses at the Front. I am only too happy to help. At least it is a small way to feel useful.
I imagine you will be heading off soon to join those already fighting. I’m sure with such vast numbers of reinforcements we’ll see an end to it all. The recruiting offices are inundated. It makes one extraordinarily proud to see.
Do write whenever you can, and ask Will to do the same.
Your friend,
Evie
P.S. I am sorry to hear that you have been thinking of your mother and Scotland. I suppose the prospect of war is bound to set your thoughts tumbling back to the things you have loved and lost. I’ve never been to Edinburgh. I hear the castle is rather impressive, but the haggis rather less so.
From Thomas to Evie
1st November, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Evie,
I don’t have much time because we’re shoving off! We head to France tomorrow at first light. I’m not sure how long it will take us to get settled on the continent, but the men are in great spirits. Our grand adventure is beginning at last!
Will sends a sharp pinch and a pat on the head. (He’s your big brother after all, isn’t he.) I suggest you wear glasses when you ride that bicycle of yours. There’s nothing worse than an eyeful of dead bugs.
Wish us luck.
Sincerely yours,
Thomas
From Thomas to his father
1st November, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Father,
Though I haven’t received a reply from you, I wanted to let you know we are heading to France tomorrow. We’ll disembark at Brest and train in from there. We were warned not to share any specifics of our location since the French intelligence will strike out any information they consider a risk to our security. I’ll write again from France. I hope you’ll put our differences in the past and support me, Father.
As for training, you know me, I’m bringing cheer to the troops when I can. But I admit—to you, only—I’m worried about what we will face at the Front. It’s easy to be swept up in the camaraderie and tales of courage before we’ve faced loaded artillery and the barrel of a gun. I suppose you know this all too well. At times I still feel like the little boy on your knee, wishing he were all grown up. I suspect I’ll do a lot of growing up soon.
Your son,
Thomas
From Evie to Alice Cuthbert
5th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
A few lines to say hello to my dearest friend and to tell you how miserable I am.
I’m sorry to be glum, but you are the only one I can tell. To everyone else I must be all cheer and chin up but, you see, the boys left their training camp and shipped out to the Front a few days ago and a silly part of me worries terribly for them. I know I shouldn’t, and that the newspapers are full of encouraging news of all our wonderful victories and our brave soldiers, but Charlie Gilbert wrote recently and his words troubled me (he didn’t propose, in case you were wondering). He says war is very different to what he thought it would be and there is very little chivalry or heroism about it at all, regardless of what the newspapers report. He says the men are as cheery as can be expected but they all pray for conscription to come into force as they are in desperate need of reinforcements. I can’t help worrying that things are not going as well over there as the newspapers would have us believe. The casualty lists take up more column inches every day. Am I silly to worry? Please tell me I am. And if I am silly to worry, then you mustn’t either. I know how you were hoping for a dance with Will at Mama’s Christmas Ball so we must trust that it will still happen.
The problem is I have too much time to dwell on things. I can’t picture what war looks like, or where the boys are. When they were at Oxford it was different. I knew the dreaming spires and the Bodleian Library. I spent lazy summer afternoons punting on the Cherwell. Now, it feels as though they have gone to the ends of the earth—to some undiscovered land I know nothing about. And I can’t help feeling terribly afraid.
I can’t even go out for a decent hack to take my mind off things because the horses have been shipped out, too. I’ve asked Mama to give me permission to volunteer in some capacity—I hear women are getting involved in all sorts of ways: working on the omnibuses, serving as War Office clerks, delivering the post—but she won’t hear of it. She says the best thing I can do to help is join her knitting circle. I can think of nothing worse. You know how useless I am with knitting needles. Perhaps if I have someone’s eye out, she’ll be happy to let me work on the omnibuses instead.
Anyway, I’m sure—as they say—it will all be over soon and we can get back to thinking about happier things. Christmas, for one. I still love the idea of Paris and hope you were serious when you said you would come. Everything is always much more fun when you’re there, Alice.
Write soon. Cheer me up. Send me something wonderful or shocking to read. Tell me about the latest unfortunate young fellow to have fallen head over heels in love with you.
Much love,
Evie
X
P.S. I am now a lady cyclist. Terrific fun. You must try it.
From Evie to Charlie Gilbert
10th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Charlie,
A few lines to thank you for your latest letter. You sound a little blue. It must be terribly difficult for you there, but everyone back home is full of hope that we will see an end to it very soon.
Don’t worry about writing so often. I know it must be hard to find the time, or the words. You must concentrate on staying fit and healthy and leading your men to victory.
We are all very proud, and send good cheer to the troops.
Sincerely yours,
Evelyn
From Thomas to Evie
20th November, 1914
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m in France now, and I think we’re settled for a while so I can write again with our latest address. Things turned rather hectic after my last letter. They needed our regiment overseas immediately and cut our training short, though it continues here. They’ve got me set to be a machine gunner and Will is being trained as a grenadier. I must say, for the first time I feel like a man. No more boyish Oxford days. I have responsibilities to my troops, and I enjoy being in charge.
I still haven’t worked up the courage to tell Will about the horses. I’m guessing he already knows, deep down. As for Charlie Gilbert, I assume he’s still sweet on you? I think you’re a little hard on him. He’s a decent fellow and you could do a lot worse. If this war sees an end to us all, you might not have much choice in the matter anyway. I know he’s your mother’s first choice for a “suitable” fiancé, though I am the last to listen to my father so I suppose I can’t very well comment on following parental advice, can I?
Things are tense here at , but that’s to be expected. We’re no longer playing at war, it’s the real thing. My toes are thoroughly drenched and aching, but my spirits are high. All is going swiftly now. There’s still hope this will end by Christmas, and we can indulge in our Parisian plans for vin chaud and boeuf bourguignon.
Sincerely yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Evie to Thomas
25th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
Bonjour, mon ami! What a
relief to hear from you—and Will, whose note arrived on the same day (perhaps just use one envelope?). I hope the crossing wasn’t too choppy. Will feels seasick on the Thames, let alone the English Channel.
Get the job done and come back soon, would you. All the reports in the newspapers are very positive and full of allied victories and good news. The censors struck out a few lines from your last letter, but I got the sense of most of it and I’m glad to hear you are all in good cheer.
I’ve enclosed a knitted scarf. It’s my first attempt, so please forgive the rather unusual shape. If it can’t keep you warm it might at least make you laugh. I’m attempting socks next, so prepare yourself!
Stay safe.
Bonne chance!
Your friend,
Evelyn
From Evie to Will
25th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Will,
Bonjour!
A few words to let you know that your sister, Evelyn, has taken up permanent residence in your room. She sits for hours beside the fire, writing letters here, there, and everywhere. She says it prevents the tedium of knitting duty and is certain you’ll find her letters far more comforting than badly constructed socks.
She spends a lot of time staring out of the window, too. She watched the swallows migrate one calm October evening and looks forward to their return. She watches the robins and blue tits now. Sometimes she sketches their likeness in the margins of her writing paper. She’d forgotten how much she likes to draw. She isn’t too bad really.