Back to the grindstone, with a new term. I can’t say that this term is looking to be any easier than the last, but at least I’m almost finished!

Refreshed, David

Isle of Skye

27 February 1913


Dear David,

Many thanks for the picture. You look so serious! And much younger than I thought. I can see a glint in your eye, though, that suggests a boy capable of stealing a tree or riding a cow. What became of your class tree?

Don’t look for a picture from me. No camera over here, and I don’t think I could draw myself objectively. I would keep modifying and erasing until you had a picture of Princess Maud. We always want to appear more attractive than we really are, don’t you think? I mean, if you had been sketching your picture instead of snapping it with a camera, would you really have drawn in that dreadful checked jacket?

Now that I’ve seen your picture, I can imagine you and your mates passing around Three Weeks. You wait on tenterhooks for your turn, and when you get the book in your eager hands, you race to your room, homework forgotten for the night. And as you start reading, your cheeks get quite pink as you realise just how unlike Henry James this is.

I’ve never read Mark Twain, but I agree that Poe is thrilling. I remember reading “The Tell-Tale Heart” as a girl one night, in bed with a candle stub I pilfered from church. I was certainly punished for stealing the candle, because after I finished the book and blew out the candle, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I was quite positive that I heard the beating of the heart downstairs. When dawn broke, my mother found me sitting stiffly in bed, quite awake, clutching my blanket around me. I was convinced God was punishing me for my sin of stealing the altar candle. So what did I do the following Sunday to atone for my sin? I pilfered a candle from our cupboard at home and left it at the church!

And, dear boy, W. S. is, of course, Walter Scott. I’m sure they have a few of his knocking around that enormous university library of yours. Regardless, if you’ve read Through the Looking-Glass more than once, you and I will get on beautifully. “Jabberwocky” is my favourite.

In your very first letter (yes, I save all your letters!), you spoke of having been in hospital recently. What sort of livestock had you been using inappropriately at that time? Trying to waltz with a horse? Play football with a ram?

Elspeth

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

March 21, 1913


Dear Sue,

I had to put aside my books to answer immediately and defend myself and my poor checked jacket. You obviously have no sense of style on the Isle of Skye, as my jacket and I are at the height of fashion here on campus! And I had to look serious in the picture; it’s my first mustache. I’m curious now, how old do you think I look?

All right, if you won’t sit in front of the mirror and draw me a picture with your pencil, please sit in front of the mirror and draw me a picture with your words. Look in the mirror, right now, and tell me what it is that you see. I’ll put together my own picture.

No, no previous abuses of livestock, at least not any that landed me in the hospital. That earlier hospital visit was due to trying to scale the walls of the Women’s Building and sneak into Alice McGinty’s room. I shinnied up the drainpipe and had almost made it to the top when my hands slipped. My leg was broken and so was my heart, as Alice didn’t even appreciate my effort. I can understand her displeasure, as she was nearly kicked out of the dormitory over the incident. And do you know the most frustrating part of it all? I had climbed that very same drainpipe on more than one occasion, often with a jar of grasshoppers tied in my jacket or, on one memorable evening, a sack of squirrels.

And our tree (we christened him “Paulie”) is still inching up. We may win this war yet!

I was quite shocked when you said you had never read Mark Twain. What sort of education do you get in Scotland? This is a deficiency I shall have to rectify. Please accept this copy of Huck Finn—as a belated Christmas gift, if you like—excusing its battered appearance. I found it in a secondhand bookshop and it appears quite well loved, if recently kicked to the curb. I couldn’t give it a good home, already having a copy above my desk, but knew I could entrust you with its well-being.

Until next time, David

Isle of Skye

9 April 1913


Dear David,

And what a splendid mustache it is!

Oh, I am so horrid at guessing ages. I think with those round cheeks (so perfect for pinching, Davey-boy!) and that lock of hair falling into your face, you look about eighteen or so. A lady never reveals her age, but I’m not much older.

All right, sir, I will attempt your challenge. And I will try to be honest with my description as well.

Looking in the mirror, what do I see? I have a thin face and somewhat pointed chin. Small nose, narrow lips. My hair is brown and as straight as a line. I have it pulled back in a knot low on my head, as severe as I can make it, but it is so fine that I already have strands escaping and flying about my face. My eyes are the amber colour of my da’s good malt whisky. Although Màthair (that’s Gaelic for “Mother”) tries to keep me neat, I tend to wear my brothers’ old sweaters and skirts far too short to be fashionable. Don’t tell, but I’ve even been known to wear a pair of trousers—tailored down to my size—when out hiking.

There! What do you think? Can you picture me? If I had sketched that for you, I certainly would’ve padded out the bosom.

A sack full of squirrels, Davey? My, but you are a scamp! Those poor women. Why do these things if they end in yet another visit to the fine medical facilities of Urbana, Illinois?

I was quite excited to get the copy of Huckleberry Finn. I don’t have much of a library and so any book, no matter how battered, is welcome. Books get read and reread during those long Scottish winter nights.

Elspeth

Chapter Four

Margaret

Plymouth

Wednesday, 19 June 1940


Dear Mother,

You can give it to me. I ran out without even saying goodbye. And after a boy who, until recently, was nothing more than a pen friend. And a poor pen friend at that, what with the weeks of not hearing from him. But if you could have seen how sweet and plaintive he looked waiting at the station, you would’ve forgiven him too!

He’s well but had a near miss. Nothing worse than a few scrapes and a sprained wrist, though he won’t tell me what happened. Just that he’s glad to see me and feels better already.

I don’t have any vackies scheduled to escort, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay down here for a bit. Paul doesn’t know when he’ll next get leave and, Mother, he needs me.

Love and kisses, Margaret

Edinburgh

22 June 1940


My Margaret,

You don’t know how I worried about you, traveling all the way to Plymouth by yourself. You’ve never been so far from home.

Perhaps you shouldn’t stay longer. You’ve gone down, you’ve cheered up your friend and satisfied yourself that he is as well as can be. You’ve even brought him every last crumb of the precious cakes bought with my ration coupons. You should come home now. You should come home before this becomes anything serious. Please.

Love, Mother

Plymouth

Thursday, 27 June 1940


Mother,

I know you love me, but I’m old enough to decide on my own. And, besides, things have already become serious. Paul asked me to marry him.

Margaret

Edinburgh

1 July 1940


Margaret,

Don’t make any rash decisions. Not for my sake; for yours. It’s been half a year since you’ve been in the same city as Paul. There were days when the two of you couldn’t stop bickering. And then all this love and marriage out of nowhere?

It’s the war talking. I know; I’ve seen it. They head off, invincible, feeling as if the future is a golden pool before them, ready to dive into. And then something happens—a bomb, a sprained wrist, a bullet that whizzes by too close for comfort—and suddenly they are grabbing for whatever they can hold on to. That golden pool, it swirls around them, and they worry they might drown if they’re not careful. They hold tight and make whatever promise comes to mind. You can’t believe anything said in wartime. Emotions are as fleeting as a quiet night.