Again, assuring you of all our sympathy.
I remain, yours sincerely,
Robert Harrison, Capt. R.E.
From Evie to Thomas
13th May, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
I can think of nothing to say, to write, to do. My heart breaks for us all.
Mama is inconsolable. Will’s personal effects really brought it home to her. I left her alone with them and haven’t pressed her to see them. She tells me they are the usual things—his battalion number, a packet of smokes, a photograph of his horses. Of course there was no last letter. Not from Will. He never was one for many words. His life was lived all in a look, and a touch, and that knowing smile.
Papa is ashen-faced and walks about as if in a dream. His only son and heir—gone. I heard him weeping in his study yesterday evening. It broke my heart all over again. My dear Papa. Weeping like a child. No sound could possibly be worse.
It is hard to find anything to be hopeful about, but I took some small comfort in knowing that you were with him to the last. Oh, Tom. I am so desperately lost without him. My only brother. Our lives will all be darker without him.
I can write no more. Even poetry cannot cheer me. I hear only sorrow and loss within every line and verse.
Please keep safe, and do not feel alone. You have always been family to me—and I hope you will consider yourself my brother, now more than ever. Send word whenever you can. Your letters have become something of a life raft for me to cling to.
Never stop writing. We will fight this war together, you and I.
Evie
From Evie to Alice
13th May, 1915
Richmond, England
Darling Alice,
How on earth can I write these words? Will is gone, Alice. He is gone. He was unable to recover from his wounds and passed away with Tom by his side.
My heart is truly broken, as I know yours will be too. I only wish I could sit with you and hold your hands and tell you this in person. But war has no mind for such things and such is the way this saddest of news must now be heard: in a few meagre words scribbled on a flimsy piece of writing paper.
I can find comfort in nothing, Alice. I cannot eat. Cannot sleep. I don’t know how to endure this. I don’t know if I can.
What unimaginable sorrows we must face.
May God help us all.
Evie
X
Telegram from Alice to Evie
14TH MAY 1915
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW
SENT: 11:55 / RECEIVED: 12:35
NO! MY DARLING GIRL. MY HEART ACHES, BUT I CAN’T BEAR IT FOR YOU. LEAVING ON NEXT TRAIN. WILL BE WITH YOU SOONEST. ALICE.
From Charles Abshire to Thomas
3rd June, 1915
London, England
Dear Thomas,
I am writing to update you on happenings here. Your father continues in his struggle for improved health, but manages to retain his stubborn nature. He sends you his good wishes, as always.
I don’t know if you are aware, but our Secretary of War has, at last, allowed correspondents to report from the Western Front. This may change the nature of our reporting at the LDT, though we will remain vigilant with an eye to any new restrictions from Kitchener and all others.
My sincere condolences for your loss of your good friend, William Elliott. I am certain he will be greatly missed. May God bless his soul.
Sincerely,
Charles Abshire
From Thomas to Evie
5th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I am sorry for the delay in letters. We’re on the move again, and my boots are wearing thin, but at least it’s warm. I’m desperate to walk barefoot in the warm summer grass behind my house, desperate to stretch out on the lawn and stamp out the image of the enemy lurking in the bushes. Day in and day out I find myself bargaining with God. If he would just see me home safely, I plead, I’d give up tobacco, volunteer for charities—adopt orphans! Whatever it takes. But one can’t bargain with God, it seems.
Two images of Will keep flitting through my mind as I lay on my bed in the dugout: one, the day we went off to university together, arms full of books and our stomachs full of bees—all excitement and a bit of fear at the change of things—and the other, the day I returned from my mother’s funeral. I was only thirteen and so forlorn, a complete mess, in truth. I confided in Will how hard it was to go on without her, how alone Father seemed, and how I suffered even being with him. I had never told anyone about my feelings. Will hugged me as boys do—awkwardly and without looking one another in the eye—and said, “You’re never alone, Tom. You’ve got me and Evie, and my parents. You’re part of our family, too.” And so I was, and always have been.
I can’t believe he’s been gone for almost two months already.
Now I’m alone again, among all these soldiers, medical workers, and volunteers. Alone because each of us walks our own path towards death; no one can do it for us. Lately, as I face each day, that path is all I can think about.
I’ll keep writing, Evie, if that is acceptable to you. It’s the only thing I have to hold on to.
Your friend,
Tom
From Evie to Tom
11th July, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
How happy I was to find your letter in the morning post. I tore it open the moment I saw it in my postbag. (Yes—I kept up my position as postwoman after having threatened to abandon it.) You were right. Alice was right. Will would have wanted me to continue, and—silly though it may sound—I feel a sense of duty to make sure the letters are safely delivered. It gives me purpose, and purpose gives me hope.
I’m sorry to hear you are finding things so difficult. It must be unimaginably lonely so far away from home and from everyone and everything you know. Of course Will was right. You are part of our family, and I am glad you remembered his words just as I am glad of your letters, which I would happily receive from you every day.