Jessica Brockmole - Letters from Skye

Tuesday, 24 September 1940

Dear Mr. Vance,

I am writing on behalf of my mother, Mrs. Elspeth Dunn. She has been trying to locate the whereabouts of David Graham, whom she knew years ago. I was given your address by Billy Ross with the American Field Service Association. He thought that you might have current contact information for Mr. Graham.

Please, anything that you can tell me would be welcome. My mother has been looking for Mr. Graham for quite some time. We would both be more grateful than you could know.

Sincerely, Margaret Dunn

Oxford

27 September

Dear Miss Dunn,

I debated whether or not to send you Dave’s address. Old recluse that he is, he values his privacy. But he’s spent far too long alone, feeling sorry for himself. He’s spent far too long wishing he could change the past.

His address is below. He’s been living in London, at a flat around the corner from the Langham Hotel. He always did say that London was full of memories.

Harry Vance

Isle of Skye

1 May 1919

Dear David,

You’re probably surprised to be getting this from me, but with my newest book of poetry out, how could I forget one who was once my “fan”?

Not having heard from you these two years past, I have no idea where in the world you might be. I am hoping that, by sending this parcel to your parents’ house, it will get to you somehow.

How have you been since the war? I wrote to you in the prison camp, soon after Iain returned home, but you never responded. Have you been well?

It’s very odd, but a few months ago I thought I saw you, standing in the road across from my parents’ house. I glanced down and then the image was gone. You do know that this island is populated by the spirits and ghosts of memory, don’t you?

Iain’s recently passed away. Of all the ironies—he makes it through Festubert, through captivity in Germany, through escape and flight, only to die of influenza back at home in his bed. He hadn’t been strong since he returned, though, and he fell ill so easily. It was not too surprising when it happened.

Do you know, I think he was waiting to die. He always believed he should have fallen with his friends at Festubert. Things just weren’t the same for him once he got home. I don’t think he felt as if he fit in. He never seemed to know what to do, especially when it came to me. We tried. We really tried, Davey. Everything was different, but we tried.

I haven’t been able to write any poetry in years. “Repose” was one of the last poems I wrote. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was, but then I realised.

It was you, Davey. It is you. There is no poetry in my life without you. You have been my muse all along. Before I met you, I wrote poetry with my pen, and my readers loved it. It meant something to them. But after meeting you, I wrote poetry with my soul, and I loved it. It meant the world to me.

I understand I know nothing of your life now. It’s been two years since I’ve heard anything from you. For all I know, you could be married, have a family. But I’m going to take a page out of your book. I’m going to close my eyes and run right over that trench wall.

Davey, I can’t be without you. I can’t be without you. Do you remember all of those promises and dreams we made back during the war? Come and make them all again to me.

We’ll go wherever you want, live wherever you want. Edinburgh? Skye? Urbana, Illinois? I could go anywhere with you by my side. I’ll be your wife, your mistress, your lover. As long as I am yours.

I am closing up my cottage and heading to Edinburgh. Nothing has been right for Màthair since Finlay left. Maybe if I go too, he’ll come back. I can do that much at least for her. Will you come to Edinburgh? Will you come to get me?

I’ll go to St. Mary’s every morning to wait for you. I don’t know when you’ll get this letter, but I promise I’ll wait. I’ll wait every morning, as long as it takes. I gave up on you once, that day when Iain, instead of you, walked through the door. I won’t give up on you again.

I have never stopped loving you, Davey.

Sue

Edinburgh

Tuesday, 1 October 1940

Dear Mr. Graham,

I hope you won’t think me forward, but I wanted to write to express my admiration for your book, Favorite Fairy Stories for Favorite Children. Although it has been many years since I’ve been young enough for fairy stories, something made me look beyond the words on the page. Each has a story beneath. Allegory, to be sure, but also magic and poetry. These are not tales just for children.

I especially was taken with the last in the book, “The Fisherman’s Wife.” That one felt so real, as though it was written from the heart. How like life, where we fumble our way through love only to find that it’s simpler than we think.

I find it interesting that you changed the ending of “The Fisherman’s Wife.” Originally, you had the story end with the water sprite sacrificing himself so that the fisherman could swim safely to shore. A very noble ending. But here, in the published version, you have the water sprite fight for Lucinda’s love. He gives her a chance to choose him of her own free will. Perhaps not as noble, but real, steeped in regret and hopefulness.

Of course, the tales in this book aren’t the only ones you’ve written. More than two decades ago, you wrote a love story in letters, a love story just as magical as the fairy stories—even more so because it was true. It’s a story without an ending, though. A story that breaks off in one noble moment, leaving questions for all the moments that came before. Questions that remain twenty-three years later.

I know you can finish it. You’re one of the two best writers I know.

With much admiration, Margaret Dunn

London, England

October 5, 1940

Dear Miss Dunn,

It seems like a lifetime ago that I first wrote those same three words. That lifetime has taken me across an ocean, over the trenches, into hell and back. But writing that “noble ending” was by far the hardest thing. Little wonder that I changed my mind.

Only one copy of the original draft ever existed. Please, how is she?

David Graham

Edinburgh

Tuesday, 8 October 1940

Dear Mr. Graham,

She’s wondering. She’s spent the past twenty-three years wondering why you stopped writing. Why you never replied to the letters she sent after Iain came home. Why you disappeared.

My mother never told me about you or about her life before I was born. But I could see the weight of regret on her shoulders, so many years of wondering and waiting. This war, it’s shaken her. It made her remember the other war, she said. Made her remember what she gained and what she lost. War is impulsive, she told me, and you are left with nothing but ghosts.

And maybe it’s not my place, to write so to a stranger, but I feel as if I know you—after reading all of her letters, kept walled up since the last war ended. Even though we’ve never met, I understand you. I’m just as restless, just as fearless, just as searching for my place in the world. I understand questioning but not leaving without a backwards glance. Why did you?

Sincerely, Margaret Dunn

London, England

October 11, 1940

Dear Margaret,

I didn’t stop writing to her. I never could. I regretted that “noble ending” the moment I penned it. I wrote her letter after letter, but with no reply. Why would she want to write back to me when she had her husband back at home? When they had a second chance? Why would she want to write back to me when she had you?

She never wrote another letter, but he did: Iain, he asked me to stop. He asked me to never write again.