Lovely, as ever, to hear a few lines from you and yes, you are absolutely right, we must find a way to get involved in the war effort. The longer it goes on the more helpless I feel. So much so that I did something about it today and made enquiries at the post office, and guess who is to become a postwoman?! Rusty and I will soon be flying around Richmond delivering the post. I’m terribly excited. With all the letters I’m writing and receiving I know how important those few lines can be. To be entrusted with their safe delivery to loved ones and fretful mothers and lovers—it makes me feel prickly with pride. I start next week. Imagine it, Alice. Me, a postie!
Of course it has all caused a terrific row with Mama. She strongly believes that a family like ours should be above such menial tasks. I could slap her, Alice, honestly, I could. Papa is thankfully far more understanding and has given me his blessing. He’s proud of me for wanting to help the war effort, and promises to talk Mama round. I hope he can. She is almost as bad as me when she’s in one of her sulks and I hate it when we argue.
In other developments, I’m sorry to tell you that my brother is quite smitten with a French girl—a nurse. He wrote to tell me all about her and says he loves her. I know you’ll be a little glum to hear this, but I also know you’ve given up all hope of him ever looking upon you as more than a friend—and rightly so. Much as I love my brother, I’m sure there’s a far more suitable husband out there for you somewhere, and you know how Will is when he sets his mind to something—he could very well have the girl married by the end of the month.
Talking of marriage, John Hopper (Tom Harding’s cousin) was the perfect gentleman at dinner recently. Mama can’t stop talking about him and I find myself thinking about him more often than is healthy. I’m afraid I was a terrible flirt—a lack of male company has rather turned my brain, it seems. I hadn’t appreciated he was working incognito for the government. He said he would prefer to be out there on the front line, but went to great lengths to explain how the war must be fought from the home front too. The poor chap has been approached by the White Feather Brigade on more than one occasion, despite the fact that he wears his On War Service badge. He finds it awfully frustrating.
Let me know if you register at the Labour Exchange. I would far rather you didn’t become a munitionette. It’s awfully dangerous work. Would you not consider nursing? I can’t think of anyone better suited to it. You’re always so wonderfully cheerful. Your pretty smile alone would have the soldiers well on the road to recovery. Bedside manner can be as important as any other medicine. Promise me you’ll think about it? And please take care with Billy Peters and his truck (though I must admit the thought of you at the wheel, flying around his farm, makes me smile).
Much love,
Evie
XX
From Evie to Will
14th March, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Will,
Well, well. I certainly wasn’t expecting to read those words when I opened your letter, but I must say I am extremely happy to know that you have found a little time for romance amid such horror. This Amandine must be a very special girl indeed to have stolen Will Elliott’s heart from all the other girls! Send me a photo would you? I should very much like to know more about this French enchantress.
Joking aside, I’m happy for you, Will. I know the midst of war is far from the ideal place to fall in love, but true love does not care for time nor place. It will strike whenever and wherever it is supposed to, however improbable it might seem. So, set your heart on a rampage, dear boy. I am full of joy for you.
A little news from home. I am to become a postwoman! I shall be cycling around Richmond, delivering the soldiers’ letters. I start next week. As you can imagine, Mama is beside herself with shame that it has come to this. Her own daughter, working! She is convinced that becoming a postwoman is one step away from becoming a soldier on the front line. Please send a few lines to encourage her to support me. It would mean a lot.
Take care, Will, and mind your heart. I hope this Amandine Morel isn’t going to break it. And don’t forget about your little sister. I never tell you, but I do love you, you know.
Yours,
Evie
From Thomas to Evie
15th March, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
The Ides of March bring ill fortune. I never liked this day with its reputation of infamous foreboding, and today it was precisely that—one filled with doom. Evie, it was wretched, though the word barely scratches the surface of the truth.
More than half of my platoon was decimated. A shell exploded at the perimeter of our base camp. A dreadful fire raged, wiping out many of the supplies. When a group of German snipers rushed us, Will darted out like a Spartan warrior and said his piece in bullets. I raced after him to assist with half a dozen other men. We dispatched them swiftly but as we headed back to camp, another shell exploded. I threw my body over Will, bullets zipping overhead. This was far worse than the whizz bangs they fire from the smaller field guns, Evie. I’ll leave that there.
Your brother was foolish, but heroic. In all, he pulled a dozen men to safety. The stretcher-bearers raced to their aid (Will insisted they treat his men first), while I cleaned up a nasty flesh wound in Will’s leg. He’s fine, recovering well now, so no need to worry.
Time stops in those moments. You move through them like a dream. When you look back, you can’t believe it was you out there. I wonder when my time will be up? Will it be all white-hot pain, or the slow drain of life ebbing away? I keep a last letter in my jacket pocket—a lot of us do, just in case. I think about it often, who will read it first. Will the words have any meaning when I’m only a memory and in the ground?
In these moments I wish I had drawn up a will. It was foolish to leave my fate to chance. My father was so angry with me before I left, he said he’d cut me out of his will completely. I wonder if my ambition to become a scholar will mean anything to me in my father’s last days. Is it a mistake to follow a young boy’s dream, and one devised, perhaps, to rebel against a father’s wishes? Or is it what I really want, and worth the cost of my relationship with him—and my inheritance? Things I ponder after months facing my enemy.