I know you do your best and write as often as things allow. I, on the other hand, have no excuse, other than to tell you that sitting at the desk in Will’s room became unbearable for a while. I felt I had nothing to say to you. The truth is, these past weeks I have felt like a rag, wrung out. But time passes and the pain eases a little each week, and although there isn’t a day when I don’t think about Will, we must somehow find a way to go on, mustn’t we? Your memories of him made me smile, so thank you for sharing them with me.
Increasingly, there are brighter days when I wake with more courage and fortitude than the day before. I call these my “Letter to Tom” days—days when I feel able to put pen to paper and write about things past and share with you my hopes of things that are yet to come. Today is one of those days. We are blessed with sunshine after days of endless rain, and I have taken myself out to the garden for some much-needed fresh air and birdsong. (Did I mention I have taken to sketching birds to pass the time? I stumbled across a very pretty book of British Garden Birds in Papa’s library and set myself a challenge to draw a likeness of each bird from the colour plate illustrations. There are forty-five plates in total. I’ve started on a wren, it being the smallest. Perhaps I will send it on to you when it is done.)
You asked, a while ago, whether my knitting has improved—a little, but not as much as Mama would like. Her knitting circle expands faster than Papa’s stomach at Christmas. We can hardly keep up with demand from the local War Chest and Comforts for the Troops Appeal. A dozen of Mama’s lady friends call to the house every day, knitting all manner of things: socks, hats, mufflers, mittens, balaclavas, and such. I’m still all fingers and thumbs and hopelessly slow so I am now in charge of organising the individual packages to be sent to each soldier—all POWs. I must say that I enjoy the stroll into town on little errands to collect donations for the parcels. I wonder why we always relied on the maids to do such simple things for us.
We hear the POWs are being fed only on cabbage soup and black bread and many are in danger of starving or freezing to death. Poor chaps. I’ve started up an Adopters scheme (lots of people are doing it), where each of us knitters “adopts” an individual soldier to knit for. We include a personal note each time we send a parcel. It’s such a small thing and can hardly make much of a difference, but I do hope it gives them some hope to know that someone back home is thinking of them. I have adopted Private James Kent from East Sheen who was captured at the start of the war, last October. The poor boy has been a prisoner for as long as you have been a soldier, Tom.
One final thought before I close. I wonder whether Will’s lovely Amandine heard of his death. I imagine not, with everyone moving around so often. Would there be any way to get word to her do you think? He really was terribly fond of her, and I would very much like her to hear the news from someone who knew Will, rather than from a list (although it may already be too late). Still, I would like to try. Do you think it might be possible to send her a few lines through those you know in command? I know it would mean the world to Will if you could.
Stay safe, dear boy, and do write often to let me know you are well.
Yours, Evie.
X
P.S. New socks enclosed. Don’t be too hasty to put them on. There is a packet of Virginia tobacco inside each!
From Thomas to John Hopper
12th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear John,
Greetings, cousin. I trust you are well and that Hopper Enterprises flourishes under your astute supervision. I write to you from the trenches out of concern for my father. His illness isn’t retreating (the doctors tell us it is a cancer), yet he has stubbornly refused both mine and his bookkeeper’s suggestions to apply for your assistance. I’m afraid I must overrule him at this juncture. In short, I am worried about both him and the future of the newspaper, but there isn’t a bloody thing I can do from here.
Charles Abshire is a competent fellow with the books, but he’s a gentle soul. I worry he may need someone to look in on him, ensure all is running like an oiled machine at the LDT. Our Editor-in-Chief, Jack Davies, is a tough old bird and runs our reporters hard. He needs some guidance from time to time, or some boundaries laid, shall we say. Could I ask you to pop by Fleet Street, see to things and report back? As you well know, the Press Bureau is coming down hard on anyone who pushes the boundaries of war reporting too far, and Davies has never been one to listen to authority. All in the family, I say.
I would owe you a great debt that I will repay the moment I am able.
Regards,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Thomas to his father
13th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),
Forgive me, but I’ve taken the liberty of contacting cousin John. I know you don’t see eye to eye with the Hoppers, but I thought it time to put the family feud aside. This appears to be an emergency—me, on the battlefield in harm’s way on a daily basis, and you, laid up indefinitely. I’ve asked Hopper to look in on things. (Charles, I thought you might like some assistance since your workload has increased tremendously.) I’ve warned him about Jack Davies as well, and have also written to Davies to tell him to treat the man with a modicum of decency.
Please send word of your condition. I find myself more and more worried for your welfare, Father. Take care of yourself.
Your son,
Tom
From Evie to Tom
14th July, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
I find myself waking to another “Letter to Tom” day, so consider yourself a lucky fellow to have two letters on their way to you. You see, I am anxious to share some rather exciting news with you. It concerns your cousin, John Hopper, so grit your teeth and bear with me.
John made a very interesting proposition over dinner last night. I was telling him how frustrating it is to always read the news from a male perspective, and that I would be far more interested to read about the war from a woman’s point of view. I’m afraid I found myself talking rather too passionately about Nellie Bly, whom I greatly admire (she is reporting for the New York Evening Journal from the Eastern Front, Nellie Bly being a pseudonym). Anyway, my comments to John about the newspapers offering a female perspective on the war were really just casual observations made over too many glasses of wine, but he rather took to the idea and suggested that I might be the one to write such a thing. I laughed at first, but by the time we were having dessert I realised he was entirely serious. He doesn’t know why anyone hasn’t done it sooner, and that since women are reading the newspapers more than ever with the men being away, it makes perfect sense to have a woman write about the war.