Saturday, 24 August 1940


Dear Paul,

I’m done with writing letters. I’m on my way to the Isle of Skye!

Of course, Uncle Finlay didn’t give me an address for my grandmother, and I didn’t think I’d get far wandering the island, asking the way to “Granny Macdonald’s” house. I would imagine that half of Skye is called Macdonald. So I poked around the house looking (again) for a forgotten envelope, an old address book, my mother’s birth certificate. Nothing. Not even one of the letters Gran sent each and every month, covered with scribbles of Gaelic. David’s letters must be the only ones Mother kept.

Then I remembered how, from the moment I learned to read, my mother insisted I write my name and address on the inside covers of my books, in case I was to accidently leave a treasured Stevenson or Scott on a park bench. I went at once to her library and pulled the most battered, ancient-looking thing I could find off the shelf, a scruffy copy of Huckleberry Finn with a faded poppy pressed in the middle. Sure enough, right inside the cover she’d scrawled “Elspeth Dunn, Seo a-nis, Skye, United Kingdom.” As though, even there and then, there was a danger of thieving park benches.

I asked around until I found a family looking to evacuate a child north. Emily’s neighbour, Mrs. Calder, has been terrified with all the recent bombings. She’s arranged for me to escort her daughter Dorothy to a farm outside Fort William. It pays my fare that far, and it’s only a short way from Fort William to Skye. I borrowed a suitcase from Emily and away I went!

I tell you, Paul, this is a little thrilling. Of course it isn’t the first time I’ve been away from Edinburgh but, apart from that jaunt down to Plymouth to see you, I’ve never been away on my own purposes. Even when you and I went bouldering or rambling the hills, we never went far from the city. Of course, it could be argued that I’m not heading to Skye for myself; I’m heading there for my mother. And the grandmother I’ve never met! But if I can learn more about Mother’s “first volume,” about that part of her from before I was born, then the trip will be worthwhile in more ways than one. She’s not here to stop me from finding out about my father.


Train to Mallaig

Later


Dear Paul,

Dorothy is settled. A silver-haired woman built like a battleship met us at the station and took charge of both Dorothy and the envelope of money from Mrs. Calder. Before she left, Dorothy pressed a note into my hand, written on the back of her train ticket, and asked me to give it to her mother when I return to Edinburgh. I can scarcely read it for the smudges and tearstains and deplorable penmanship, but it says, “I love you,” over and over. She’d folded it over and upon itself a half dozen times and scrawled their address on the front. I promised her it would be the first thing I’d do when arriving back in Edinburgh.

Really, though, I’m starting to worry about Mother—and, I have to admit, feeling somewhat guilty. Maybe it wasn’t the letters or the bomb that ran her off. Maybe it was our argument. Even though I’ve pushed her before to find out who my father is, we’ve never actually argued. I’ve always let her shrug it off. I went too far, I asked too much, and I can’t help but feel that something fractured in that instant.

Was she right, Paul? Are we rushing into things? Not too long ago, you and I were just friends. We never did anything more serious than offer each other a sandwich or a hand-up on a boulder. When you joined up and asked me if I’d write to you, I almost laughed. I didn’t think you and I had enough words between us for letters. Then you said you’d fallen in love, and I thought maybe we did and maybe it could work. But, as my mother said, emotions run high and sharp in wartime. I trust yours—honestly I do—but don’t know if I believe my own.

Maybe this trip will be what I need. A lick of independence, a thread of distance. A chance to figure out if this is really what I want. Perhaps this is a journey to solve more than one mystery.

Affectionately, Margaret

London, England

10 August 1940


Dear Sir or Madam,

Many years ago, two men named David Graham and Harry Vance lived at this address. I do not know if they still stay there or if they have moved from Chicago, but I would appreciate any information you could supply. I have been out of touch for some years and would dearly like to find them.

If you have any information about their whereabouts, can you please contact me? You can write to me at the Langham Hotel, London. I thank you in advance.

Sincerely, Mrs. Elspeth Dunn

Chapter Fifteen

Elspeth

———, France

February 2, 1916


I’m in——— right now, en route to———. I didn’t think it would take so long to get here from Paris. We rode in a freight car and had to stop more times than I could count. I remember making nearly the same trip years ago on a holiday in France but in a plushy first-class car, drinking wine and watching the countryside. This time I was crouched in a freight car, wedged in with my duffel, passing around a flask of execrable brandy. Peering out through the slats of the car, I could recognize some of the stations we passed, although none of the villages looked quite the way I remembered.

The station here is quiet, the streets thronged with men in blue and khaki rather than the gaily dressed holiday-goers from an earlier time. We’ll be here for a few more days before moving on. The section we’re joining has been en repos at————, cleaning and repairing the ambulances, and has been making its way to——. A guy by the name of Pliny, a veteran ambulance driver of sorts who has been away on furlough, is waiting to go up the line with Quinn and me. He told us to enjoy the pastries and hot baths while we could, because it will be awhile before we see either again.

So you insist on knowing what it was that Johnson said to me? He tried all of the usual jokes as to why I might not be joining them in their skirt-chasing. He kept going until he saw my jaw tighten, and then he knew he’d hit on something. “So that’s it. Screwing another man’s wife, is it? He’s out there in Hell’s Half Acre and you’re back at home—” Well, I won’t repeat the rest, as it isn’t fit for a lady to read. Let me just say that the comments went downhill from there.

Now you can see why I went after him. His words hurt, not only in what he said but in how he said it. What we did, Sue, what we have, has never seemed wrong to me. Maybe it’s easier for me to feel this way. I’m not the one who’s married. I don’t know your husband. It’s easier for me to forget he even exists.

Did the fact that you were married give me pause at the beginning? I would be lying if I said it didn’t. I hesitated, Sue. Why do you think it took me so long to tell you I loved you, even when I would’ve sworn from the hints sprinkled through your letters that you felt the same? You forget, I was raised a good Catholic boy. Despite my wayward childhood, the Ten Commandments are not something I take lightly.

But you said you loved me too. I trusted that you knew what you were doing when you responded. My hesitations melted. Then we met, we talked, we touched. Any remaining doubts I had floated away. How could something that felt so right be wrong? Everything was perfect. Everything is perfect. I’ve held those memories—those delicate, beautiful memories—close to my heart. And I haven’t given much thought to your husband or the tangled mess that is our future.

Until Christmas Eve, when Johnson said what he said, cheapening us, Sue. It’s impossible to hear disparaging comments like that and not start to believe them after a while, especially when you know they’re based in truth. I am “screwing another man’s wife.” It was a rude reminder of who I was and what I was doing.

It made me wonder how you really felt. You’ve never mentioned pangs of guilt or feelings of uncertainty. I didn’t want to tell you what Johnson said because… well, I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I didn’t want you to reconsider.

The decision has always been yours, Sue, and it still is. You decide whether you want to continue this relationship. You decide where you want to go from here.

Whatever you resolve, know that I am ever…

Your Davey

Isle of Skye

9 February 1916


My dear,

Your letter had more holes in it than a thatched roof in springtime. Either you thought your wee letter needed a bit of ventilation on its long journey to Skye or someone didn’t want you to be telling me where you were going or how you got there. With the exception of “France,” all other place names were excised.

Am I offended by what Johnson said? Who wouldn’t be offended at such language. Am I surprised, though? Not really. When you refused to tell me, I guessed it was something like that.