Slowly, Iris retrieved the letter from her pocket.
Of course, it crinkled loudly in the silence of the trench. When Lark glanced at her, she grimaced, wondering if Dacre could hear such an innocent sound over the expanse of dead man’s zone.
She froze, the paper halfway from her pocket. She mouthed an apology to Lark, who realized what she was doing and winked at her. She imagined letters were sacred on the front.
Her eyes then flickered to Roman. He hadn’t budged. The three-hour lorry ride with her sitting on his lap must have truly worn him down.
Iris eased Carver’s letter the rest of the way free, feeling like she could finally take a deep inhale as it unfolded in her grubby hands.
She found the place where she had left off. Something about his nan, and she read:
—my nan is fine, albeit quite put out with me at the moment—I’ll tell you why when I finally see you. She sometimes asks if I’ve written my own novel on the typewriter she gave me years ago—the typewriter that connects me to you—and I always hate to disappoint her. But sometimes I feel as if my words are mundane and dull. There doesn’t seem to be a story hiding in my bones these days, as she believes. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m not who she thinks I am.
But tell me more about you. One of your favorite memories, or a place you long to go one day, or a book that changed your life and the way you perceive the world. Do you drink coffee or tea? Do you prefer salt or sugar? Do you revel in sunrises or sunsets? What is your favorite season?
I want to know everything about you, Iris.
I want to know your hopes and your dreams. I want to know
Her reading was interrupted by a crumpled ball of paper, flying across the trench to hit her in the face.
Iris winced, shocked until she looked up to see Roman staring at her. She glared at him until he motioned for her to open the wad he had just thrown at her.
She did, only to read his scrawl of What’s that you’re reading, Winnow?
She picked up her pen and wrote her reply: What does it look like, Kitt? She recrumpled and hurled it at him.
Her attention was divided now, between him and Carver’s letter. She longed for a moment in private, to savor the words she had been reading. Words that were turning her molten. But Roman was not to be trusted. He was smoothing the paper out and writing a reply, and Iris had no desire to be smacked in the face again.
She caught it when he tossed it to her, and read, A love letter, I presume?
Iris rolled her eyes in response, but she could feel the warmth flood her face. She hoped the shadows cast from the lantern were hiding her blush.
It’s none of your business, but if you would be so kind as to allow me to finish reading it in peace … I would be eternally grateful, she wrote, returning the paper to him.
Roman scribbled and sent back, So it is a love letter. From whom, Winnow?
She narrowed her eyes at him. I’m not telling you, Kitt.
Their piece of paper was wrinkled beyond saving at this point. He carefully tore a new page from his notebook and sent You should take advantage of me. I can give you advice.
And why did her gaze hang on that first sentence of his? She shook her head, lamenting the day she had met Roman Kitt, and responded, I don’t need your advice although I thank you for the offer.
She thought surely that would settle it. She began to reread Carver’s letter, her eyes hungry to finish that confession of his …
Another paper wad sailed across the trench, striking her on the collar this time.
She was tempted to ignore it. He might persist and send another, but paper was valuable here, and they were both being foolish to waste it. As if he had read her mind, Roman bumped her boot with his own, and she looked at him. His face was haggard in the lantern light, as if he were half wild.
She swallowed and opened the wad to read:
Let me guess: he’s pouring his heart out onto the page, claiming how inadequate he feels because what he truly craves is affirmation from you. And he probably threw something in there about his family: a mum or his sister or his nan. Because he knows you’ll melt at the thought of the other women in his life, the ones who have shaped him. And if he knows you well enough … then he’ll mention something about books or newspaper articles, because surely by now he knows your writing is exquisite, and above all he knows that he doesn’t deserve you and your words and he never will.
Iris was stunned. She stared at him, uncertain how to respond. When Roman held her gaze, as if challenging her, she dropped her eyes to the letter. She would have to wait to finish it. She carefully folded and slipped it back in her pocket.
But nor would she let her old rival have the last word.
She penned and sent: You’re overthinking it. Go to sleep, Roman Kitt.
He sighed and leaned his head back. She realized his face was flushed. She watched as his eyes grew heavy. Perhaps that was all she needed to do to make him heed her: call him Roman. But she fell asleep before she could think further on it. And she dreamt of a cold city with streets that never ended and a heavy mist and a boy with dark hair who ran ahead of her, just beyond her reach.
{30}
Notes from the Trenches
Rules for a Civilian in the Trenches:
Stay down. Resist the temptation to crawl up one of the ladders to catch a glimpse of the land above, which you previously took for granted before you descended. The ladders are to be used by the lookouts and their periscopes, or for snipers, or when the barrage* (see footnote #1) happens.
Become comfortable with a home of open sky and damp dirt walls, but never trust them. The sky is always a threat, and while the earth is your greatest shield when the hounds prowl and the mortar strikes, it can also be dangerous* (see footnote #2).
Pray against rain. Daily. Or else prepare to live in flooded conditions* (see footnote #3).
Ignore the rats. Yes, this is extremely difficult when they roam the trench at night and crawl over your legs and chew through your bag. Also, ignore the lice.
Eat and drink just enough to keep yourself fueled and hydrated. You’ll always feel the faint (or intense) gnaw of hunger as you live off of dried meat and tins of beans. But on a very good day, you might get an egg banjo* (see footnote #4), which tastes utterly divine.
Lanterns are allowed to burn low in the communication trenches, but no fire is permitted at night on the front lines. Not even a spark to light a cigarette* (see footnote #5).
There is no privacy. Not even when you need the loo.
Footnotes: