15th June, 1917
Rouen, France
Dearest Mama,
A few lines to thank you for your letter and to assure you that I am safe and well in France and quite settled in my work here. I understand that you were angry with me for leaving as I did, but I am encouraged to hear that you support—and admire—my decision now. Your concern for my welfare is entirely understandable, especially since you have already lost one child. I do not intend to deprive you of another. Who would cause you all this anxiety then?
We await the arrival of US troops. Many believe the war is nearly at an end, yet I hardly dare let myself believe it. I see so much suffering, Mama, and it humbles me. We led such comfortable privileged lives before all this. Nothing will ever be the same, will it? I hope not. We must be changed by this, or what on earth is it all for.
John Hopper writes and urges me to give him an answer. He tells me he admires me but I wonder, is admiration enough? Am I naive to wish for fervent declarations of love? One can admire a painting or a dress—not the woman you love with all your heart. I sometimes wonder whether Hopper sees me as something else to add to his prized collection of Egyptian artifacts. You and Papa have always been so madly in love. I want that passion too. Would you deprive me of the chance of it by pushing me into a marriage I cannot be sure of?
Thomas writes as often as he can. He has become such a good friend to me these past years, just as he was to Will in the many years before. Mama, I know this will make you cross but I cannot shake thoughts of Will nor the matter I referred to in my previous letter. In your reply, you said you have done nothing but protect the interests of the family and that you urge me to do the same and leave well enough alone, but I cannot. I know that Will asked for your help, and I beg you to honour his request.
Please send my love to Papa. I will write again soon.
Your ever-loving daughter,
Evelyn
X
From Evie to Thomas
25th June, 1917
Rouen, France
Dear Thomas,
Did you forget about your old friend, Evie? A month has passed without word from you and I can only imagine you find yourself smothered beneath the care and attentions of Nurse Rose and incapable of reaching for your pencil. It is strange, but now that I am in France—closer to you—I have never felt further away. When I was in Richmond, I felt a connection to you across all the miles. Now, I feel that I have become a chore; a niggle at your conscience. Something you must do, rather than something you cannot do soon enough.
It would ease my mind to know that you are, at the very least, in good health. If your heart is no longer in mind of our exchanges, please let me know and I will bother Alice with my musings and ponderings, and not you. Perhaps the young Irish soldier I met recently would appreciate my bird sketches instead. I must say, the Irish have an unusual charm. Really, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find myself travelling to Tipperary, despite it being such a long way.
In other news, I am now operating the telephone lines. My rusty schoolgirl French is much improved and all those tedious lessons with Madame Hélène have, at last, been put to some practical use.
Perhaps you will write to me again. If not, then I cannot be sorry for the exchanges we have had these past years. You have kept my mind from dissolving entirely into a deep well of grief and despair. You, Thomas Harding, have kept me alive with your words and the promise of your return. It would break my heart to think you had given up on me now.
And thank you for the few lines regarding Amandine Morel. To hear—again—how devoted Will was to her (and she to him) makes me more determined than ever to find her. I will explain all another time.
Yours in hope and friendship.
Evie
From Evie to John Hopper
30th June, 1917
Rouen, France
Dear John,
No word from you for a while, so I hope all is well in London and at the paper. I have enclosed my latest piece.
Perhaps you could write to let me know if it runs and, if so, what the reaction is. I don’t wish to cause difficulty for the LDT. You know how friendly I am with Tom Harding. The last thing I want is for my ambitions as a journalist to affect his ambitions to succeed his father and see his legacy flourish.
I am sure between yourself and Jack Davies you will do the best for all involved.
With fondness,
Evelyn
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in France, Genevieve Wren
“No Job Too Small”
I sit beside a young soldier whose life slips further away with each word I write. To see row upon row of beds in this makeshift field hospital is like looking at the end of the world. Not two minutes ago a young boy—just turned fifteen—lost his fight to survive. He had lied about his age, so desperate to be a man, so desperate to enlist and join the fight. He was a boy with so much to live for, yet he said he wanted to make his mam proud. What a waste, what dreadful futility.
When you see, up close, the brutal reality of war, it is hard to believe that anything you do—one small person—will ever make a bit of difference.
But it does.
Like so many other women, I am doing my bit here with the WAAC. I dress in uniform. I follow orders. I sleep in a dilapidated dormitory that any decent gardener would refuse to grow his tomatoes in. It is far from the comforts of home, and the continual distant sound of shelling is a stark reminder of what is happening not so very far away. At times, I wonder what on earth I am doing here, or how life brought me here at all. My role is only one tiny cog in a very large military machine, but it is a role once filled by a man. By taking up his work, he has been able to join the fight. When released in volumes, those additional men are of great importance. But we must never forget our own importance, too.
Never feel your role is insignificant. Never feel your small contribution cannot make a difference. It can. And it does.
I will continue to do my part here in France, and as I do, I will fight this war with the only weapons permitted to me: my pencil, my paper, and my words.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
From John to Evie
5th July, 1917
London, England
Dearest Evelyn,
I couldn’t wait to hear from you so I had to write to tell you the latest column created a sensation—again!
A pack of angry readers stood outside our doors the morning after the paper went out. By mid-afternoon, it had turned into a horde. They picketed outside, chanting about dismissing the column and “this woman” who wrote it. Others demanded we do something about ending the war (as if it is in our hands). We could not print fast enough to keep up with the demand. The police arrived, yet again, and broke up the disturbance. The downside is, after the incident, I suffered a belligerent “request” from the War Office to cease. They said if we do not comply, the paper will be shut down.
Still, I would like to run a few more of your columns and then we will pull it, or perhaps shift its focus entirely. For now, though, hold off on the next few months to let some of the fervour pass. We’ll aim for an autumn return for Genevieve Wren.
I have been in contact with Tom Harding. He tells me you two still exchange letters at quite a pace. How lucky he is. I will continue to watch the post for word from you.
Evelyn, I know that marriage may feel like an impossible thing to think about right now, but I cannot tell you how happy you would make me if you would only write with a “Yes.” I can offer you a very comfortable life, a life in which you need never work again. Imagine the fun you and that friend of yours (Annie?) will have, lunching and shopping to your heart’s content. What other man can offer you such prospects? What other man deserves the beautiful Evelyn Elliott on his arm? I can certainly think of none.
Be safe over there. You are greatly missed.
Yours, with affection.
John
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
12TH JULY 1917
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, ROUEN, FRANCE
SENT: 18:33 / RECEIVED: 19:52
INJURED IN BATTLE. NOT TOO SERIOUS. OPERATION ON RIGHT HAND MEANS NO LETTERS FOR NOW. I WILL SEND TELEGRAM OR WRITE WHEN HAND HEALS. AFFECTION. T.
From Evie to Alice
11th September, 1917
Rouen, France
Dearest Alice,
What news? I hear of dreadful casualties in the area where you are and cannot stop thinking of you working in such awful conditions. I hope you are bearing up.
So much is happening now I can hardly keep up with the intelligence coming down the wires. The girls in the exchange here really feel that things are moving towards a conclusion and that victory will soon be ours. I hope and pray for it with all my heart.
John presses me for an answer still, and Tom suffered an injury to his right hand. He says he cannot write for a while, which is probably just as well. Sometimes I haven’t the energy to write to either of them.
I often find myself thinking about Will. I somehow feel closer to him here, knowing a little of what he experienced. I wonder what he would say if he could see me. His little sister, among it all. I remember he once teased me about being smitten with Tom Harding. I laughed at the notion—Tom Harding! But he was right, wasn’t he. Perhaps it has always been Tom. The thing is, Alice, when I see a few lines from Tom, my heart devours every single word. When I read letters from John, I feel suffocated.
Yesterday, I started thinking about that silly notion we all had to spend Christmas in Paris. It seems impossible now, doesn’t it, and yet I have more reason than ever to want to go. I need to find someone, you see, who, if I have things straight, will be most precious to me. But more on that when I see you. It isn’t the thing for letters.
Please write soon.
Much love,
Evie
X
From Evie to her mother
3rd October, 1917
Rouen, France
Dear Mama,
A short note to tell you that I am well and still enjoying my work here on the switchboard. We relay dozens of messages per hour. It’s exhausting, but the time passes quickly and I sleep well at night.
I am quite out of any danger, although we hear the distant pounding of shells and the rat-a-tat-a of gunfire. It has become so familiar to me that I often don’t hear it at all. I wouldn’t wonder that I will find the tranquillity of life back at home rather unusual. I’ll have to ask Cook to walk around the house banging on her copper pans to make things feel ordinary.
I hope you and Papa are in good health. It looks unlikely that I will be home for Christmas. It will be rather quiet around the table this year.
Your loving daughter,
Evelyn
X
From John to Evie
10th November, 1917
London, England
Dear Evelyn,
I have not heard from you in three months, and I am worried. Please let me know that you are all right. I assume you are caught up in the action there?
If you are willing, I would like to run your column again next month. The fervour has abated some, yet demand is still high. Everyone asks when Genevieve Wren will write something new. Now is the time to strike.
I still have hopes for a spring wedding. Your mother has started to look for a dressmaker. Let’s not leave things until the last minute, all right? I hope you will not disappoint me.
Sincerely,
John
From Thomas to Evie
1st December, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Forgive my awful script. This is the first time I’ve committed to writing a letter since my hand healed. I thought for certain they would send me home, but they found plenty for me to do in the reserves. I have to say, I am glad of it. This feels more like home than anywhere else now. Here, with my men, my brothers in arms. They are all the family a fellow could ever wish for. What is there in London for me anyway?
Charles has filled me in on business at the London Daily Times. It appears Hopper’s reports vary quite a lot from his. We’re facing threats from the War Office now. I’m sick over it, but there’s not much I can do from here, other than make threats I can’t really enforce. I suppose I’ll ride it out, just as I do this damnable war. When I get home, there will be a reckoning of sorts, you can count on that.
It’s getting to be that time of year when my thoughts turn to Christmas. Let’s close our eyes and pretend we’re at a party, shall we? My journalist would note every detail, I’m sure, so I’ll do my best to paint a picture for you. Here goes.
The ballroom shimmers in tinsel, red ribbon, and heavy boughs of garland. Though grief clogs the air and dampens the festivities at the beginning of the evening, the somber ambiance dissipates as drinks flow and music pours through the room. Somehow, the spirit of Christmas and firelight and familiar faces bring the town together. For a few hours the restlessness subsides and the anguish within us retreats.
At the banquet, we feast on duck and pheasant, and celery à la parmesan. And all the puddings! Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, currant pudding with almond sauce, sugared chestnuts. We drink mulled wine and beer, and gin. We grow as fat as kings.
At the end of the night, you and I sit outdoors and share a smoke on the lawn, quietly looking in the direction of France and planning to spend another Christmas there soon.
Will you join me in my reverie?
Your friend,
T
From Evie to John
20th December, 1917
Rouen, France
Dear John,
A few lines to wish you a Happy Christmas. I hope you find someone to dance with in the fountain in my absence. I can hardly remember the girl I was a year ago. Life could not be more different, nor my heart more troubled.
It is snowing here and everything looks rather beautiful. Impossible to believe the world knows such horror among such a peaceful scene. Give my love to your mother.
With all best wishes,
Evelyn
From Evie to Tom
20th December, 1917
Rouen, France
My dear Tom,
Another Christmas approaches and another year of letters between us slips away. There must be enough to fill a book by now.
Talking of which, please accept a small gift from me. A small volume of W. B. Yeats poetry. It was left by one of the officers and I can think of nobody who would get greater pleasure from it. “And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.” His words are so delicious, I could eat them.
Happy Christmas, Tom. I caught a snowflake on my tongue this morning and made a wish for you.
Always your friend,
E
X
Paris
22nd December, 1968
With some difficulty, I settle into a chair at the café across the street from the apartment. Lamplight glows against the windowpanes, gleams against the rows of glasses dangling above the bar, and spills over the dark wood panelling. It’s as cosy as I remember, and yet it’s not the same without her—not as bright, not as warm, not as it should be.
Margaret sits several tables away and lights a cigarette before opening a copy of the day’s news. I’m grateful for her discretion, for giving me this rare moment of privacy, free of tubes and attendance and procedures. In truth, I shouldn’t have come. Upon waking, I felt my frailty in every bone, and in the wretched pain in my lungs. Had my eyes not betrayed my dismay at the prospect of skipping my rendezvous with Delphine (and had it not been Christmas), I am sure Margaret would have insisted I stay in bed.
“Tom! You made it!”
Delphine’s cheerful voice rings out behind me like church bells on Christmas morning, brightening my heart with its wonderful Gallic melody. I struggle to stand and greet her, but give up and sink back into my chair.
r /> “Please don’t get up,” she says as she pulls her chair a little closer.
“I’m not entirely sure I can,” I reply, a wry smile passing my lips as I look into her eyes. Just the same as her aunt’s.
She kisses each of my cheeks in the French way and covers my hands with hers, squeezing briefly. “It is so wonderful to see you, Tom!”
“And you, my dear!” It really is. She is awash with life and vitality. A scent of violets floats about her shoulders, reminding me of violet-scented letters.
“The year was much too long, Tom! I’m so pleased you came. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without you and . . .”
The name slips away, drifting among the cigarette smoke that winds towards the ceiling from the tables beside us. I manage a weak smile, but it feels foreign, stiff, like muscles gone unused for too long.
We exchange stories, catch up on things, remember. When we fall silent, I watch Delphine polish off a generous slice of tarte tatin and regret the loss of my sense of taste. Nothing tastes the same since she departed.
“You haven’t touched yours, Tom.” Delphine motions to my slice of uneaten tarte.
I don’t bother to bore her with tales of taste buds and a gut that doesn’t work properly, the constant ache in my chest. Like Margaret, she might counsel me on how to prolong this life that, quite simply, doesn’t need any more living. Not much more, anyway. Just enough.
“I wanted to give you this.” I push a small package across the table. It is wrapped in gold foiled paper.
Delphine smiles, lighting a familiar pair of blue eyes. The very same blue, passed down from generation to generation. Her own daughters inherited them, too.
She rips the paper away and gasps as she opens the little box inside. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” She fastens the gold chain around her neck, running her fingers across the small bird charm that nestles against her throat.