E

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

May 9, 1915


Dear Sue,

You sound like you are doing well, despite not knowing what is happening at the front. Who knows, I may be able to give you a firsthand account if Wilson finally gives in. After the Lusitania, everyone here is howling for German blood. Twelve hundred people who had nothing to do with this war died on that ship. What was it you said in your first letter? We’re all cowboys and outlaws here in the United States. If we get over there, the kaiser had better watch out!

The term is winding down and I hope that my students are leaving my classroom slightly better for it. Many still dismiss the war as a European problem, but a fair number see that it’s bigger. Gone are the days when our countries are isolated. This is the twentieth century. What affects one country affects us all. Now my students see that the world is worth fighting for.

You really screwed up the courage to send off your poetry when only seventeen? Sue, you’re amazing! And, if you don’t mind me doing the math, younger than I thought for someone so obviously distinguished. Seventeen when you started and, checking the date in the front of your first book, only twenty-seven now. You tease about being “old,” but there are only four years between us.

I hope that your photo sitting went well, if it’s happened yet, and that you weren’t resigned to wearing your old trousers or being photographed among the sheep. I should dearly like to see the result.

David

Isle of Skye

29 May 1915


Oh, Davey, this foolish, foolish war!

There was a great battle at Festubert. The battalion that most of our Skye boys are in was front and centre. Almost every family I know here lost a son or husband or father to the hungry maw of this war at that single battle.

My brother Finlay, he was wounded quite badly. A shell fell just in front of him, thankfully missing him but tearing open his left leg with fragments. He was quite literally one step away from disaster. Màthair’s gone to see him—he’s earned himself a “Blighty,” as the English say, and is in hospital down in London. I actually followed her down to the pier and was a hairbreadth away from getting on that ferry. But I couldn’t. Not even for Finlay. I cried into my sleeve for being gutless, then wrote him a poem on my handkerchief. I hope it will say what I cannot. I hope he’ll know how much I love him. I’m waiting up here on Skye for Màthair to write, praying it’s not as bad as I imagine.

Iain was wounded too, but not badly enough that he was out of the trenches for more than a few days. He didn’t even write to me, just sent a pre-printed Field Service postcard, where you cross off the lines that don’t apply, giving a staccato message: “I have been admitted into hospital / wounded / and am going on well.” A letter from him followed, a short note saying he was fine—just a nick in the shoulder, nothing to worry about—but could I send some cigarettes?

And do you know what’s strange, Davey? I’m really not worried, at least about Iain. I feel a bit hollow. I feel lonely, but that’s not an unusual feeling these days. I feel somehow wistful, though for what I’m not sure. But I don’t feel sad or angry or scared or worried. At least not right now.

I pray that America doesn’t get involved in this. Stay right where you are, Davey. Don’t give in to the taunts of a bully. I don’t want a reason to start worrying.

Praying, Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

June 15, 1915


Dear Sue,

Why is it that I’m always at a loss for words when you need them the most? If my thoughts of you right now could be put into words so easily, then you would be getting the firmest of epistolary embraces. How is Finlay?

The disorder in Europe seems to mirror the disorder in my own life. First, Evie’s husband is ill. It didn’t seem very serious at first, but he has taken quite a long time to recover. Florence is staying at my parents’ house now. You can imagine how nervous Evie is about Florence’s health. The moment Hank felt the least bit feverish, she sent Florence away.

I’ve postponed the wedding. Lara’s furious. I told her it wasn’t fitting to go ahead with the festivities, not with Hank so sick. I don’t think she believed it was my only reason. Truth is, I don’t either. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this just isn’t my ferry. Though I don’t expect her to be content with that.

Don’t they say bad luck comes in threes? If Hank’s illness is the first, and my canceled wedding the second, then the third has to be that I was asked to not come back to my teaching position next year. They were very polite about it, but, essentially, I was canned. It seems the parents took issue with me bringing in newspapers, telling my students about the Lusitania and other atrocities. Mommy and Daddy didn’t want their precious darlings to know what a horrible place the world really is. Here I am, trying to educate, and I get sacked for doing it too well. “Stick to the periodic table,” I was told.

And no such luck with “The Fairies’ Twilight Ball.” The magazine sent it back with an impersonal note saying that it didn’t fit their needs and they “regretfully decline.” A rejection is a rejection. So, you see, I’m failing all around.

But I suppose nothing was ever accomplished without a little perseverance. I’ll reschedule the wedding, start scanning the want ads again, send out my story to yet another magazine. I wouldn’t be “Mort” if I shied away from a bit of a challenge. I fell off the drainpipe and broke my leg, but, you know, I was up that same drainpipe just a few months after that little event.

One of the good things I’ve got going for me is that I’ve finally left my parents’ house. Harry rented an apartment after coming back to the States and I’ve moved in with him. It’s like being in England with him all over again.

The other good thing in my life is you.

I hope things are going better for you now, dear Sue.

Thinking of you, David

Isle of Skye

2 July 1915


Dear David,

Finlay’s lost his leg. Only below the knee, but that’s more than anyone wants to lose. He couldn’t work up the nerve to tell Màthair in his letter. Of course, she doesn’t care. She’s just thanking God he’s alive. We all are. He’s been moved to hospital in Edinburgh for recovery and therapy and will be back on Skye after he’s fitted for a prosthetic. We won’t be able to take the rambles we used to, but at least I’ll have my brother back.

I was getting quite worried as I read through your letter, as you sounded so earnest. So much happening to you, enough to get even the most stouthearted person down. I was much relieved to hear you admit you were still the same old “Mort,” the boy who could climb a drainpipe with a sack full of squirrels and a heart full of merriment. I think if my Davey wasn’t cheerful and laughing in the teeth of danger, then nothing would be right in the world. How do you think I’ve been able to keep my spirits up through all of this? How do you think I’ve been able to stay afloat in this sea of chaos?

The picture-taking went well. Before Màthair left London, I sent her a postal order and begged her to buy me a dress, something nice and modern. I must have sent far too much, for she brought back a sensible brown wool suit and blouse, a completely pragmatic dress (grey like the Scottish skies in winter), and an utterly frivolous rose-coloured gown. The rose dress is a fluttery, flimsy affair and seems terribly immodest after the great lumpy things I was wearing before, but it feels like I’m wearing a rainbow and it makes me look years younger, as if I never had things like wars to worry about.

The photographer convinced me to wear the rose-coloured dress, saying it made me look more like a poet—“ethereal” was the word he used. Naturally he wanted to get a picture outside, against the backdrop of which I write, so he posed me by the garden, down on the shingle, and, yes, Davey, even by the sheep. I felt quite silly, for what Highland girl wears an insubstantial little feather of a dress to go out herding sheep or climbing hills? But I shouldn’t complain, as the pictures came out rather well. You can’t even see that I have on my old black boots underneath. My mother keeps a small flower garden, and I think the pictures taken there turned out the best. It was quite curious to see my own face in a photograph. I have never seen myself in such a detached way before. The photographer sent me a few prints of my own, so here you go. Now you can see what I really look like. I hope you aren’t disappointed.

Last night I sat outside the cottage, watching the moon rise, notebook and pencil on my lap. The garden smelled like foxglove and honeysuckle, with, of course, the tangy scent of the sea. It was even cool enough that I wasn’t bothered much by the midges. Màthair brought me out a Thermos flask of tea before she went to bed. I stayed out all night. I had my hot tea and my notebook. Who could want for anything more? The night seemed so pregnant, so poignant, one of those Scottish nights that make you understand why some still believe in spirits and wee folk. I was expectant, waiting out there for something I’m not sure I found. When my da came out to do the milking in the morning, he found me fast asleep on the bench beside the house, “all covered in dew like a fairy,” he said. Now you can see where I get my poetry!