I will forward on any news from the paper.
Sincerely,
John Hopper
From Evie to John
19th June, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear John,
I have enclosed a new column. I hear worrying news about publications being raided and closed down, and journalists being placed on trial and imprisoned, yet I feel I must continue to write the truth. I do not, however, want to put Tom Harding’s newspaper at risk so I trust you will deal with this accordingly.
I leave it in your hands, John, and hope you find my words suitable to print, without being too seditious or liable to cause any further dissent.
Evelyn
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in France, Genevieve Wren
“A Light in the Dark”
If you lie awake at night, know that you are not alone. Hundreds—thousands—of restless minds fill those dark hours. It is the worst time. The silence. The space to think.
I wake often at night, my bed rocked by the pounding of distant shells and I wonder: Whose lives did that one take? What agony did they know in their final moments? What agony will their loved ones know for the rest of their days when the telegram boy knocks at the door and delivers that fateful news? It is an unimaginable grief, worsened somehow by knowing their bodies will not be returned to us and must ever be lost to the scarred French countryside, worsened by the fact that we are so far away and unable to imagine the place where our loved ones fell. Not in their homes, nor their beds, nor the fields they played in as children. Not in a place we have ever known.
Bravo then, to those who have tried to tell us and show us with brush and pen and camera lens so that we might know better where our loved ones fought. Bravo to the men and women doing what they felt was their moral duty, putting their lives in danger every day so that they could bring truth to us at home. Their truths give us some answers to the questions that plague us: How? Where? Why? What do our loved ones face?
And what became of those brave front line reporters? They too, like our fallen men, have been silenced. They too have become prisoners of war; prisoners of truth. Hunted down. Locked up. Their words hushed by those who have the power to determine what we know and what we do not; what we might believe and what we might not.
This is a war of choices, made by the powerful few in control. On the battlefield, in the bunkers, in the offices of those who wield a weapon as great as any howitzer—they decide, and we must bear the consequences, but we do not have to bear them in silent rage.
It makes one wonder what our men—our brave heroes—are fighting for at all. What freedoms do we really have? Freedom of thought? Freedom of principles? Freedom of speech?
I urge you, then, to keep talking. Keep demanding the truth. If we owe our men anything, it is to seek the truth of the war in which they fought, and to remember them.
Above all, we must always remember them.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
1ST JULY 1918
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, ROUEN, FRANCE
SENT: 10:23 / RECEIVED: 11:46
ENGAGED TO HOPPER? YOU HID THAT WELL. THE PAPER IN DIRE TROUBLE AFTER YOUR COLUMNS. DID YOU TWO PLAN THAT ALSO? DISGUST AND FURY DO NOT COVER IT. TOM.
Telegram from Evie to John
1ST JULY 1918
TO: JOHN HOPPER, LDT, 18 FLEET STREET, LONDON EC
SENT: 12:39 / RECEIVED: 14:01
COLUMN MUST CEASE IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT PRINT LATEST. WHAT HAVE YOU TOLD TOM? A WEDDING? FURIOUS. EVELYN
Telegram from Evie to Tom
1ST JULY 1918
TO: LT. THOMAS HARDING, AMIENS, FRANCE, 10TH RIFLES.
SENT: 12:50 / RECEIVED: 14:22
DID NOT ACCEPT JOHN’S PROPOSAL. LETTER TO FOLLOW TO EXPLAIN. EVIE
Telegram from John to Evie
5TH JULY 1918
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, WAAC, SIGNALLERS (TELEPHONES) DIVISION, BASE HILL, ROUEN, FRANCE
SENT: 9:30 / RECEIVED: 10:04
LATEST COLUMN GONE TO PRINT. ON NEWSSTANDS TOMORROW. HUNKER IN FOR MORE OUTCRY BUT GLORY TOO. HARDING FUSSES TOO MUCH. JOHN.
Letter from Evie to John
6th July, 1918
Rouen, France
John,
How could you? How could you tell Thomas we were engaged to be married? He feels cheated and let down by a friend.
I cannot forgive you for this, John, and I certainly cannot marry a man who believes he can decide my future, never mind disregard my friendships. I once told you I believed I would find my answer to your proposal in France, and indeed I have.
My answer is no.
I should have told you a year ago and spared everyone this awful misery.
To that end, I will liaise directly with Jack Davies with regard to future columns. I’m quite sure he has no plans to marry me without my consent.
Evelyn
Letter from Thomas to Evie
15th July, 1918
Somewhere in France
Evie,
I have attempted to control my ire, to cool off, but it hasn’t helped. Damn it, Evie! I poured my heart out to you these last terrible years. About everything. My confusion, my struggles, my despair. You know about my father, about me—all there is! How could you betray me? I have supported you in every way possible, in all of your dreams. I cheered as you pursued your desires, as you pursued your love of writing. Yet you use it against me in the cruellest possible way.
Now, all is lost. The paper, our friendship, my family. All is lost, because Hopper skulked around behind my back—with my dearest friend, with one of the precious few people I care about in this world. I may have been unsure about my place at the LDT and Father’s wishes, but I would never let the paper fall into ruin and disgrace. You have done that for me, haven’t you? You and that lying sack-of-excuses for a man. I should have known better than to ever trust him.
I am disgusted.
Marry him, Evie. You deserve each other. Run off together and enjoy your prestige and estates and perfect lives. Let the war take me. It’s where I belong now, on this battlefield among my men who fight with a courage you will never see in that spineless fiancé of yours.
My life may be small compared to your glorious John Hopper of fortune and looks and charm, but I live it with a passion he will never understand. I will make my father proud, and my countrymen, and I will never lower myself out of fear. Did you ever ask your future husband why he isn’t at the Front? Perhaps you should. The answer isn’t what he, no doubt, led you to believe.
I wish you well. Even in my rage, I hope you never burn with anger and disappointment as I do now. I am sorry it has come to this.
Goodbye, Evelyn.
Tom
From Evie to Alice
28th July, 1918
Rouen, France
Darling Alice,
Dreadful, dreadful news. Thomas got wind of Hopper’s proposal and thinks I have accepted. I am absolutely furious with John. What right does he have to presume my acceptance and spread word that we are to be married? How could he do such a thing?
Tom sent the most awful telegram, followed by a letter so full of anger my body aches with a physical pain to even think of it, and I’m afraid it gets worse. The LDT is being closed down temporarily because my articles caused such a stir. Tom believes that me and Hopper planned it together to bring about his downfall. He writes like a madman, Alice. I have never known him so angry. What am I to do? I’m utterly devastated at the thought of hurting Tom and losing his trust. And though his accusations seem absurd in a way, I’m struggling with guilt that I didn’t end it with Hopper when I had the chance. The moment he kissed me in that fountain, I knew—deep down—that there was no hope of love for us. I wish I’d told Tom about the proposal, rather than pretending it had never happened. And I wish I had declined John immediately.
I think about my latest column and
want to shake myself. Why was I so hell-bent on telling “the truth”? What does it matter in the end? We are still at war. Thousands of men are dying every day. My words make no difference at all. All they have achieved is to destroy the only true thing I have ever known. My pen might as well be a knife, stabbing me in the heart with its so-called truths and misplaced principles.
What an awful mess I’ve made of everything. You know how Tom is. He’s as stubborn as I am. He won’t forgive me easily. I feel so desperately alone and my heart aches as if it has been physically bruised, while the rest of the world seems doused in laudanum, dull and lifeless.
What on earth am I to do?
Yours in despair,
Evie
X
Official notice from the War Office to Lieutenant Thomas Harding
30th July, 1918
London, England
Dear Sir,
We have issued two notices of warning to your establishment the London Daily Times at 18 Fleet Street regarding the incendiary nature of your column titled “A Woman’s War.” In a heedless manner, the paper has continued to print both unethical as well as offensive libel about the war to the detriment of our militia and the Crown. Too much is at stake for us to ignore this blatant disregard for the law. At this time, the London Daily Times press will be closed until further notice, or until all proprietary rights have been relinquished to the government, effective immediately.
Sincerely,
Admiral Michael Jenkins c/o War Office, Whitehall
From Alice to Evie
1st August, 1918
Brighton, England
Dear Evie,
Try not to fret, my love! Men are easy to anger, quick to forget, and your Tom has loved you his whole life. I see that now more than ever, just by his reaction. He will get over this and the paper will survive—as will your friendship. You protected your interests and there’s nothing wrong with that. He would do the same. Besides, how were you to know Hopper would lie about your engagement? Really, is he so desperate? I’m glad you never gave him an answer, the toad. He doesn’t deserve you.
In time, Tom will understand this. Let him cool off, as you said, and then write to him. I think it is time the words you very much need to say are finally spoken. Until then, perhaps you could apply for a period of leave. Imagine if we could meet and have that walk together? This will blow over before you know it. Trust me. It will.
I am thinking of you.
Alice
X
From Evie to Thomas
3rd August, 1918
Rouen, France
My dear Thomas,
You haven’t written so I can only presume you are still furious with me. You have to believe me when I tell you that I did not accept John’s proposal. I am outraged he should lie to you about it, and to me. The snake. Yes, he proposed, but I had not given him an answer. I didn’t mention it to you because what was there to say when I had not settled on a reply?
This is all so infuriating I could scream. If only I could talk to you in person. If only I could look you in the eye and explain. I am sure then you would understand. Do you forget all our years of friendship so easily? It has to count for something, Tom, surely.
As for the columns, I thought you believed in speaking the truth? I thought you believed in me. None of us wanted this war, but it has given me a voice, a sense of purpose I never had before. In a way, we are all puppets, playing a part in a play without script or direction. We ad lib. Make choices under the glare of the spotlight. Make a mad dash for it—isn’t that what you once said? Irrational, ill-thought-out, silly, hotheaded choices. You have done the same. Do you forget your skirmishes? Your irrational rush to protect a friend, endangering your own life in the process? Far more heroic than writing a piece for a Fleet Street rag, perhaps, but in the heat of the moment we are all war-crazed.
I am desperately sorry if I have hurt you, or your livelihood, in any way. To hurt you means I hurt myself, and please know the absolute agony I feel as I try to structure my thoughts into some semblance of sense and order. You—more than anyone I have ever known—know where my heart and my morals lie. I only wanted to do my best, to help others, to have something my own that made me proud. I’d rather hoped you would be proud of me, too. I am changed, Tom. We all are. Would you have that spirited girl placed back in the pretty parlours of her home to idle away the day with embroidery silks and polite luncheons? Or are you happy to have known a girl with ambition beyond her station?
I was not raised to crumple into folds of silk at the slightest obstacle or a show of anger from a man. My father would be ashamed of me if I did. Dear Will would be sickened. I come from a family with backbone and I will not—even for you—give in to the easy path.
With or without your blessing and your friendship, I am not Little Evie anymore and I will continue to do what I am doing.
With or without your friendship, I will find a way.
Evie
From Evie to Thomas
20th August, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear Thomas,
It’s been nearly a month. Please, rage at me. Shout and scream at me. Express your anger in words. Anything but this. Anything but this terrible silence.
I can do nothing on earth to change what has happened, but I can try to determine what happens next. To that end, I shall swallow my stubborn pride and tell you something I should have told you a very long time ago.
My life has been only made better by knowing you all these years. You have been my constant companion through childhood, through the confusion of teenage years and now, into adulthood and a war neither of us was prepared for. One way or another you have always been there, Tom. With me. For me. To live the rest of my days without your friendship—how few or how many they might be—will be to live my life in a shadow. To know what life might have been, had I spoken the things I feel in my heart right now, will be my greatest sorrow.
I cannot stop thinking that as suddenly as it started, this war may end. It may end tomorrow, as may any of our lives. If this were the last chance we had to say something to each other, would we choose to remain silent? Would we turn our heads and walk away?
I cannot.
If these are the last words I ever write to you, I have to share a secret I’ve been holding for some time. I’m in love with you. With every beat of my heart and every breath that I draw, I love you, Thomas Harding.
I love you, and always have, and always will. Tom and Evie. Wasn’t it always the way of things? I wish it were still. If you would only forgive me.
There is nothing more I can say. If you cannot bring yourself to reply, then please know that I will respect your decision but I will never hear a silence with greater clarity, nor feel it with greater agony.
Always,
Evie
X
Letter from Sophie Morel to Evie
1st October, 1918
127 Rue Chanterelle, Paris, France
Dear Miss Elliott,
Thank you for your many letters. Please accept my apologies for not replying sooner. I was not sure how to respond—or, indeed, whether I wanted to. It has been a difficult decision, but I hope, by writing to you I do what ma chère Amandine would have wished.
I am Amandine Morel’s mother. My beautiful daughter died during childbirth. She was so young and had so much joie de vivre, so much to live for. I miss her with every breath I draw. Amandine’s baby—a daughter, Delphine—survived against all odds and is now in my care. She is all I have in the world and is most precious to me.
Your letters, although a great surprise, offer me some consolation. I am happy to learn that my daughter loved so fine a man as your brother William. Amandine spoke of him often, and loved him. She feared her “condition” would bring shame upon our family, but she believed William would do the honourable thing and marry her when the war was over. That she was robbed of the chance to know such happiness breaks my heart.
I was
not sure whether to reply to you, Miss Elliott. Delphine and I live happily together, and I could not see why she should need the complication of English relations in her quiet, simple life. However, I recently discovered a packet of letters which Amandine brought back with her from the Front. All are from your brother, William. He wrote with great affection. He was an honourable man, and your letters assure me that you wish to be as honourable in his stead.
I have enclosed one of the letters. I felt you should like to see it. I hope it is agreeable to you that I keep the others—and Will’s photograph—so that I might show them to Delphine when she is old enough.
In such times like these, we must cherish those things for which we are most grateful. Having seen the photograph of your brother, I can now see the resemblance very clearly. Delphine has his eyes. I have enclosed a photograph of her so you may see for yourself.
I wish you well, Miss Elliott, and hope that we shall see victory in the new year.
Perhaps we may meet one day, when circumstances allow.
Avec tout affection,
Sophie Morel
From Evie to her mother
5th October, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear Mama,
Do not be alarmed but a bad strain of influenza has arrived at our camp and we are placed under strict quarantine. The nurses tell me it is the Spanish Flu that has already rampaged across half of Europe. But I am well.
Still, should anything happen to me, I beg you to write to Sophie Morel at 127 Rue Chanterelle, Paris, France and make arrangements to visit her as soon as you can. Sophie is the mother of Amandine Morel, and as such, is the grandmother of Amandine and Will’s child—Delphine. I have enclosed a letter here that Sophie sent to me. It is from Amandine to Will. I ask you to promise me this, Mama. If it is the last thing I ask of you as your daughter, I beg you to honour my wishes, and Will’s.