While I was at the post office, I had a rather interesting conversation with the postmistress. She told me that with all the men gone, they are looking for women to assist in the sorting and delivery of the post. Of course Mama won’t hear of my applying for such a position, but I believe I could do the job, and rather well. I have my bicycle after all, and what I wouldn’t give to get out of the house and away from Mama’s continual scrutiny. She says I will never find a husband if I don’t start taking more care in my appearance. With Charlie out of the picture she is on the lookout for a suitable replacement for my future husband. Be careful, Thomas. She may yet set her sights on you as a last resort!
I hope Christmas was bearable over there. How long we anticipate it and how quickly it passes. We did our best to keep things jolly here, but of course we felt the absence of friends and family around the table and found it hard to fully embrace the festivities. It’s a curious thing, but we try not to talk about the war too much. We have developed a strange sort of code—“I wonder how they are getting on. You know. Over there.” “Any news. You know. From . . . you know.” We don’t say “war.” We don’t say “France” or “Belgium” or “the Germans.” Our words trail off, midsentence, so that I imagine a great hole in the ground where our unspoken thoughts and fears drift around, lost forever. Good riddance to them, I say.
Honestly Tom, I feel like an unworn dress, hanging limply in the closet, without purpose or shape or form. All I am good for is writing notices for the post office window and worrying about mice. Perhaps I’ll read up on the care and treatment of toes so that I can volunteer as a nurse and join you and Will out there. Anything would be better than pacing the boards here at Poplars. The house is like a morgue. Truly. It is unbearable.
Did I mention I have the most wonderful surprise for Will when he gets home? I commissioned a portrait of Hamlet and Shylock, and matching miniatures set into a pair of cuff links. They are so beautiful. I was hoping they would be ready for Christmas, but the artist caught a fever and has only just finished them. I’ll keep them here to surprise Will as a welcome home gift.
Do take care, Lieutenant Harding, and don’t worry. Before you can sing ten rounds of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” you’ll be back to plain old Tom Archibald Harding, sculling that little boat of yours lazily along the Thames towards Teddington Lock or Hampton Court. The herons will stand to attention on the riverbank and salute you for everything you have done for King and country. Such dreams we must cling to with all our might.
To quote William Blake: “The Land of Dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.”
All best wishes,
Evelyn Maria Constance Elliott
P.S. More socks enclosed. I think I might be improving.
From Mr. Charles Abshire to Thomas
2nd January, 1915
London, England
Dear Thomas,
Greetings, my boy. I’m writing on behalf of your father. I don’t wish to alarm you, but he has been rather unwell the last few weeks and is having difficulty in his recovery. I will continue to write for him when he requests, as well as see to things at the London Daily Times when possible. As you know, my duties are numerous already with the keeping of the books, but I will do my best for now. Should your father’s health not improve in another couple of weeks, I may call in your cousin, John Hopper, to assist in running the office. I trust that will be acceptable?
Please take care in France. We look forward to welcoming you home.
Sincerely yours,
Charles Abshire
From Thomas to Evie
4th January, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evelyn Maria Constance Elliott,
Happy New Year, though it sounds as if the newness has already worn off. I heard about the raids. We were outraged here at the Front, though a Frenchman put us in our places quickly enough. He pitched his cigarette butt to the ground and said, “You have a few air raids and you are angry. We lose our homes and families, the beauty of our country, our pride. We lose everything! When this war is over, you will return to a few broken buildings, and we return to desolation. Rien de tout!”
He’s right. What the French have lost and continue to lose will leave a great chasm. Rebuilding for them may continue the rest of our lifetime. The Frenchman’s tirade happened just before your latest package arrived. I patted the chap on the shoulder and gave him one of the precious pairs of socks you sent (I hope you don’t mind). He smiled ruefully and nodded his thanks. He wears them as gloves. We’re all in this together, as much as one can be.
Speaking of socks, thank you! Pair after pair of them. I can’t tell you how glad I was to see them. I miss dry feet most of all. I’m lucky, though, being a lieutenant and all. They rotate my position more often than the privates. Poor bastards. I have to admit, I’m plagued with guilt and melancholy when I lose a man. With only around fifty in my command, I feel his absence keenly, and envision the King’s letter arriving on his family’s doorstep, announcing that he’s gone. A wretched business.
Your brother’s affections for Amandine do not abate. In fact, he seems pretty serious about her. I thought he would move on quickly enough, but hasn’t. You know how he is. One flash of his smile and every girl within ten feet of him swoons at those baby blues. Me, on the other hand? A ginger-haired, barrel-chested giant isn’t what most girls fall for, is it? It’s just my luck to be a replica of my uncle—the most detested man in the family. I got his brains, too, though. That’s something, I suppose.
You hoped we would cease our fighting for Christmas Day. Well, much to my shock and that of all the other men, my commanding officer called a truce for the day. We crawled out of our holes, the Germans too, and shared a biscuit or two sent from home, or a smoke. Evie, to lay down our arms and shake hands with the Germans like comrades—I can’t describe how incredible it was. Here I was, sharing a few hours with the very men who caused so much damage in the first place. Imagine the trust we had to show, to step into no man’s land unarmed and befriend the enemy, even if only for a little while. Feeling like men again made us all a little giddy.
The whole evening was pleasant, if one could call Christmas at war such a word. A hard frost killed some of the water, making my post in the mud more bearable. When night fell, I even saw stars and the moon, instead of more soaking rains. And you’ll never believe this when I tell you, but we sang Christmas carols. Imagine it. A pack of filthy soldiers, German and English alike, serenading each other with hymns. All this after General Smith-Dorrien warned us off from fraternising with the enemy. I ask you this: How am I to hate a man when I smell his breakfast cooking each morning, or hear him crying out in anguish only feet away? It was a relief and much-needed reprieve to behave as I would in real life, away from this war.
Oddly, now I find myself asking, is “real life” what happens back in London? Cars jamming the streets, people rushing about, ladies tending their gardens and buying new hats, men knocking back a fine scotch after a round of billiards at the club. Or is the reality here, harsh and unspeakable? Blood and flesh and all that senseless death. It was especially brutal at .