Jessica Brockmole - Letters from Skye

After he got back, he said, she was happy. They were starting over and trying to make things work. They’d started a family, something she dearly wanted to do. And it made sense. Why would she want a kid like me? A kid who couldn’t settle down? Who didn’t want to commit to a family the way she did? No wonder she was glad for Iain to come home.

I did try once to apologize, face-to-face. Even though Iain didn’t want me to talk to her again, even if I figured she didn’t want to talk to me either, Sue was worth it. When I got out of the camp after the Armistice, I begged, borrowed, and stole to get up to Skye. I had to hear it from her.

Someone directed me to her parents’ cottage. When I got there, I heard laughter, and I stopped in the road. I’d never forgotten the sound of Sue’s laughter. I looked to the back of the cottage, and I saw her. Sue was with Iain and a little girl. You. Iain had swung you out over a stream, and you were giggling uncontrollably. All three of you laughing. I hesitated. Sue looked up, just for a moment, and I thought she saw me, but then you started to giggle again and I couldn’t move a step. I couldn’t intrude on that happy family moment. I couldn’t intrude on her new life. I left and never tried to contact her again.

All of those letters while I was in the camp, unanswered. And, in all these years, she’s never tried to find me. Why stir things up now?

David Graham

Edinburgh

Monday, 14 October 1940

Dear Mr. Graham,

I looked through every letter she saved, and they stopped the day Iain came home. You say you wrote to her. If they’d arrived, why wouldn’t she have saved them?

What if she never saw them? Iain might have tossed every one into the fire. You, who won her heart with nothing but your pen: Why would he let them get through?

She said you’ve always been the only one for her. Her love, her muse, her poetry. When Iain died, she took a risk the way you did. Sent a letter and crossed her fingers. She wrote that she was moving to Edinburgh and that she’d wait for you every day in St. Mary’s Cathedral—your old meeting spot—until you arrived. Because you would. You’d get her letter and you’d come for her. She was sure of it.

So sure that she’s waiting there now, the way she has every day since. She’s never given up on you. She couldn’t go for the noble ending.

Margaret Dunn

London, England

October 17, 1940

Dear Margaret,

Waiting at St. Mary’s, all these years?

You know, I’m not surprised. She was always stubborn as a barnacle. Elspeth never gave up on anything—even when she should’ve given up on me.

I never did get that last letter of hers, the one where she talks of moving to Edinburgh. I’ve found it now. It was nothing but my own pigheadedness that kept me from reading it before. You see, she sent it tucked in the pages of Out of Chaos, her last book. Out of chaos. That seemed to describe Iain to a T. He’d escaped the trenches and a prison camp. He’d left his one rival behind bars. He came home to peace.

From the moment Iain and I met in that prison camp, we were at an impasse. He realized that all was not lost—not with me behind a fence—and I realized that things wouldn’t be so easy with Elspeth, not with her husband still alive. I once made her a promise that, if Iain came home, I’d back off.

I was in on an escape plan with a few other guys. We fabricated “Boche uniforms” out of jacket linings, parts of blankets, sheets. Our plan was to put them on and walk straight out of the gate. Audacious, but that was me back then. Iain got wind of the plan and he wanted in. The other guys saved me from having to say a word. They told Iain there wasn’t room for him. They said “no” so that I didn’t have to.

But it didn’t feel right. Here I was, writing to Sue, dreaming about the day I’d see her again, while her husband drew more and more inside himself, knowing he wouldn’t. Once again, he’d given up. To sit and watch that and know you are the cause… I couldn’t do it.

The night before the escape, I wrote “The Fisherman’s Wife,” with the ending that you read. I folded it in a letter, reminding her of the promise I’d made, to not get in the way if Iain ever returned. I tucked the letter and story in the fake uniform and left it under Iain’s pillow.

It wasn’t until he got up to Skye and Sue wrote, asking what right we had to make the decision for her, that I began to doubt what I did. I wrote her, oh, so many times. I kept writing until Iain asked me to stop. Until he told me that she didn’t care.

Why did I believe him? I don’t know. His story that she was happy with him home made sense. He’d come through so much just to be with her. He’d come out of chaos. Hence the title of her book. And I couldn’t read a book about Iain, for Iain. He’d taken from me the one thing I needed most of all in the world.

But I was wrong. She did write me again. And not only that letter, tucked in the pages next to “Repose.” She wrote me a whole book. Every poem in Out of Chaos—from the blushing to the yearning to the missing—was about us. If I’d opened that book all those decades ago, I would’ve seen that she hadn’t given up on me. Her last plea, her last prayer, bound in leather the color of red jasper. She never forgot.

All I had to do was open the book, read everything she wrote for me over the years. But I didn’t. Again, I let her down. Again, I showed myself a coward when it mattered most.

David

Edinburgh

Saturday, 19 October 1940

Dear David,

One letter I found in her copybooks, she never sent. She was writing it the day Iain walked back through her door. One letter that, more than all the rest, reveals. Read it, and then come up to Edinburgh. Read it and come home to us….

Love, Margaret

Isle of Skye

10 August 1917

Dear Davey,

I know I haven’t written in a long while, but, please believe me, I’ve had good reason. What I’m about to admit to you may make you cross, but please don’t be angry. I had my reasons. I told you I lost the baby. But, as my mother says, “The thing about lost items is that someday you may find them again.” I never had a miscarriage, Davey. I had the baby.

Oh, I tried to miscarry. After I got the letter from Harry saying you were dead, I didn’t want that reminder, that slap in the face, mocking me with the family I could have had. So I tried to miscarry. I did all of the things they say you’re not supposed to do during pregnancy—washing windows, walking over a suicide’s grave, eating green plums, standing outside beneath a new moon, drinking whisky while taking a hot bath. Nothing worked.

Then you were alive, and all was perfect. I had my baby, I had my Davey. But I remembered how you felt before, how scary you found the idea of impending fatherhood. I couldn’t admit that I found the idea of impending motherhood every bit as scary. And so I put off telling you. And then again. And then again. It got to the point where I couldn’t confess my lie without it sounding utterly fictitious. “I hope you enjoyed the parcel of food. Oh, by the way, I gave birth yesterday.”

I wish I had told you. I wanted you by my side during the birth. I wanted you to kiss my forehead and tell me that I was doing well, that I was your brave girl. I wanted you to hold your daughter and be the first person she saw when she opened her eyes.

I named her Margaret, which means “pearl.” She truly is a treasure.

But things have been hard. I can’t lie, Davey. All of the neighbours know. They watched my swelling belly beneath my widow’s weeds and they whispered behind their hands. They’d seen the years of letters from America and the three momentous days when Elspeth Dunn stepped on a ferry. They weren’t surprised when a bairn came a year after the letter saying Iain had died.

I’m thinking of leaving, tying Margaret to my back and stepping on that ferry one last time. Away from Skye, I can raise her without whispers. Away from Skye, maybe Finlay will return. Màthair misses him so.

You once said that apartment in Edinburgh felt like home. Could we make it so? Come home to Margaret; come home to me. Come home to your family, Davey.

Waiting, Sue

Edinburgh

25 October 1940

Dear Màthair,

Margaret has been searching for the first volume of my life; all along, I’ve been waiting for the second.

On the train back from London, I decided that was enough. No more waiting. No more second volume. What had it brought me? Nine thousand days waiting in the cathedral, a daughter who didn’t know the past, and a brother who didn’t want to. On the train I had Finlay beside me and Margaret following with the letters. And both were more important than waiting for a ghost.