Jessica Brockmole - Letters from Skye

I want to know: Why is Finlay allowed to collapse? Why do I have to be the one to stay strong and pick up the pieces? Nobody else has. Iain is my husband. I’m the one who should feel this weighing more than anyone. I’m the one who should be so crushed I can barely breathe.

You know I’m not very devout. I’m not a regular churchgoer. When I’m out on the mountain all by myself, I feel closer to God. It’s almost pagan, though, so far away from the hymns and sermons. Now I’m thinking I’ve neglected something vital. I didn’t give God his proper due and then I teased him with my infidelities, and now Iain is being punished for my sins.

Maybe I have made the wrong decision. I don’t know what to think anymore. If I were to stop, would that bring him back?

Elspeth

Place Three

March 21, 1916

Sue,

Have you had any news?

“Missing” could mean a lot of things. It could mean nothing. Until you hear more, don’t speculate. Please.

I’ve heard the guys in the back of my flivver talk about it enough. One minute you’re hunkered down, sharing a cigarette, the next you’re up and over the trench wall and into No Man’s Land. Close to seventy pounds on your back, running with bayonet fixed, dodging shell holes, debris, your pals. Everything’s so covered in mud you could run right over your own brother and not recognize him. You can’t even stop to take a second look, much less drag anyone to safety. Iain could be lying out there hurt, waiting for the stretchers to bring him back. He could’ve been lost in the rush over the wall. Don’t think of only the worst.

Sue, you have enough to worry about right now without adding guilt and divine chastisement to it all. Yes, I believe in God. I’ve always attended church, even during my hoyden college days; I just had more to admit to in the confessional back then.

When I was younger, Evie and I had a book of Bible stories, a lovely illustrated volume we would pore over on lazy Sunday afternoons. I remember one picture of God from that book. He was shown as a serene personage with a snowy white beard and rosy cheeks—looking not too unlike Santa Claus, now that I think of it—gazing down on the newly created world with pride. It reminded me of the way a father might look on a newborn child. I’ve always held that picture in my mind, and I think that’s why I could never believe in a vengeful God. That kindly, fatherly figure could never blame me for being led astray. He could never turn from me because of my minor transgressions.

Think for a moment, Sue. With all of the atrocities the kaiser is committing, with all of the fighting and killing going on over here, do you really think God is looking down and directing his anger at a woman whose only sin is having too much love to give?

I’m so tired right now. Just got off twenty-four-hour duty and have hardly had more than a few hours of snatched sleep. But I didn’t want to put off writing to you. If I can’t be there (epistolarily, at least) when you need me, then what point is there in me being with you at all?

You may have noticed from the heading that we’ve moved again. There was a Place Two between then and now, but we didn’t stay for more than a few days. We’re a bit closer to the line this time but not close enough that we have to worry about shells falling in on us while we sleep—which is good because, with the hours that we keep, we need all of the sleep we can get.

And on that note, Sue, I’m going to go to bed. I can barely hold the pencil as it is. Please keep me updated. Despite the circumstances, I truly do care. I wish I could be there to hold you, but this is the best that I can do.

I do love you, my girl.

David

Isle of Skye

28 March 1916

David,

How could I not worry? How could I not think the absolute worst?

I’ve received a letter from a man in Iain’s battalion, a Private Wallace. He said he went over the top with Iain that day. He lost track of him in the fighting. When the retreat sounded, Private Wallace ran back and passed Iain on the way, “badly wounded.” Iain was so bad off that he couldn’t make his way back to the British trench, even when Private Wallace offered a shoulder to help. It was some time before any stretcher-bearers could work their way up there. Even with the approximate location given to them by Private Wallace, the stretcher-bearers said that they couldn’t find anyone. Not anyone needing a doctor’s care, that is.

Finlay is beside himself. He and Iain were to watch out for each other. He blames himself for not being there to keep an eye on Iain. He blames himself for not bringing Iain home.

It’s easy for you to say that God isn’t punishing me, but you’re not going through the private hell I am. You aren’t feeling the anguish and guilt I’m feeling. How do you know I’m not being punished in some way? All Iain asked for was my love, and I couldn’t even give him that wholeheartedly. Perhaps that’s my sin. Perhaps that’s what I’m being punished for.

Yes, I know you really care how I’m feeling, but, admit it, you also have your own self-interests to protect. You don’t want me moping about and brooding over my missing husband. But maybe moping is what I need to do. Maybe moping shows that I’m looking for some redemption.

Elspeth

Isle of Skye

12 April 1916

David,

I didn’t mean you should stop writing to me. Your letters are still one of the few things keeping me afloat. Remember that whole “sea of chaos” bit?

Maybe I sounded angry in my last letter. I know you really do care. I’m just confused, Davey. I’m confused and I’m being confronted by those feelings of guilt. Then I feel guilty that I wasn’t feeling guilty before. Does that make any sense?

Also, I’m worried. Regardless of what I feel for you, Iain is my husband and I will always love him. I can’t bear to think of him in pain or distress.

And I’m uncertain. I don’t know how I want this all to turn out. Of course I want Iain to be safe and well. But there’s a small evil part of me, a part I keep trying to ignore, looking at all of this with some measure of relief—at not having to make any decisions in the end, at not having to be uncertain any longer. Then I feel guilty once again for being so uncertain.

Please write back, Davey. I miss you.

E

Isle of Skye

22 April 1916

Davey,

Where are you? Why haven’t you written? I don’t know what I could’ve said to turn you away. Wherever you’ve gone, please come back to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.

Where are you, Davey?

Sue

Isle of Skye

25 April 1916

Don’t do this to me! For the love of God, I can’t lose you too! Is everyone I love destined to disappear?

I’m not strong enough for this, Davey. I can’t do it all on my own without knowing you exist in this world. I need you as I need breath in my body.

I will pray to whatever god I have to if it will bring you back to me. I will pray to the fairies and imps that inhabit my island. I will pray to you, in the Temple of my Heart.

Oh, my love! My love.

Portree, Skye

Tuesday, 27 August 1940

Dear Paul,

It’s raining on Skye. It’s been raining since the ferry docked. I told the ferry captain I’m from Edinburgh; I’m used to precipitation. He just chuckled and chewed the stem of his pipe.

Portree curls around the harbour, soft and smudged, like a chalk painting left out in the rain. Of course, I didn’t bring an umbrella—who in Edinburgh really carries an umbrella?—so I had to dart through the drizzle with my suitcase held above my head until I found a pub to duck into. Now I’m tucked by a fire, steaming and drowsy, with a hot toddy and that tattered old book. Staring at the address that’s not really an address. No street name or house number. Elspeth Dunn, Seo a-nis, Skye, United Kingdom.

I know I should get up, perhaps go find the post office to ask about the address, but it’s too warm here by the fire. The rain is still pattering on the glass. Maybe I’ll order another and keep warm a while longer.

A moment ago, I was content to sit in here all day, waiting out the rain, but now I’m stirred to action! Just as I was writing to you about being content by the peat fire, I overheard the surly publican chatting with the dowagers at the next table in a language I know from my mother’s lullabies.

“Is that Gaelic you’re speaking?” I asked. When they nodded, I held out the book. “Please, what does ‘Seo a-nis’ mean?” I won’t tell you how I attempted to pronounce it. You’d be heartily disappointed in me. I’m sure both of the women were.