I said I would sleep on it before agreeing. What do you think? Is it absolute folly, or fate? Please tell me what to do, Tom. I have always trusted your good sense and calm judgement of a situation while I flap about like a headless chicken.
If I do take John up on his idea, I quite like the column title: “A Woman’s War.” Of course I’m thrilled at the prospect of writing my own column (quite the step up from the parish newsletter), but I worry I shan’t be able to think of anything interesting to say, other than to make a few remarks about the temporary demise of the suffragists and the dangerous work conditions faced by the “canary girls” in the munitions factories.
I’ve been trying to think what Will would advise, and in his absence, I find myself asking, what would Tom advise? It is, after all, something I’ve always wanted to do—write—and if I can find anything good to come from Will’s death, it is a renewed determination to grasp every opportunity life throws at me. At the very least a column would take my mind off things and stop me eternally stewing on what might have been if this wretched war had never started. Please tell me—honestly—what you think I should do. I value your opinion and good sense, especially at a time when my heart is already running away with me towards Fleet Street and the clatter of the printing presses.
I hope you are able to find some small moments of comfort and happiness. We hear reports of divisional concert parties and troop entertainment. Do you have time to enjoy any of that? And what about the French towns. Is there anything pretty left to look at? I’ve always imagined the French countryside to be full of rustic churches and terra-cotta-tiled barns and farmhouses. Please tell me it is still, that somewhere you can find a little beauty to cheer you and brighten your day.
Do write often to let me know you are well.
Yours,
Evie
X
P.S. I finished Miss Jennifer Wren, my first sketch, and have enclosed for purposes of decorating your dugout. I do hope you like her. I’ve become rather fond of her these past weeks. I hope you might care for her as much.
From Thomas to his father
20th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),
I will not apologise for having John look in on you and the press, regardless of your admonitions. We both need the assistance at this point, and he accepted my proposal willingly. I know his history of bullying the competition, but I can’t imagine he would do such a thing to the LDT when it isn’t formally his business, and especially when doing so would mean I could lose my inheritance. Have a little faith, Father. Neither you nor I have given Hopper permission to take over completely. If he tried, Jack Davies wouldn’t keep quiet about it. We both know our editor would be on your doorstep first thing. Hell, he might even write to me over here.
If you are truly worried that John will try to take over, consider reinstating me as coexecutive alongside you. As you know, I have other plans for the future, but I won’t make any serious decisions until I’m home and settled and better able to find the best solution for us both. I won’t let your pride and joy falter into ruin.
Please be well.
Your son,
Thomas
P.S. If there’s more to this family feud that I should know about, now is a good time to tell me so we can approach the issue in the most resolute way possible. No more secrets.
From Alice to Evie
21st July, 1915
Brighton, England
Dear Evie,
Please forgive me. I know that weeks have passed since Will’s tragic death but I haven’t written to give you a little space, dear. Every time I put pen to paper I felt all I had to say was so silly and pointless. I hope you have recovered from the shock. You know—life and all it throws at us.
Did you receive the journal and book of poetry I sent? After my last visit and darling Will’s passing, I’ve been unbearably restless. And you know how I can be when restless—spending all Father’s money and drinking one too many gins. I had a particularly dark evening three nights ago where I suddenly felt like such a useless, silly thing sitting here in Brighton, worrying about zeppelin raids. It doesn’t suit me to be so melancholy. So I’ve done it. I’ve signed up as a VAD nurse. I lied when they asked if I had spent at least three months in a hospital, but really, why can’t I learn in France? I hope they’ll let me try a few of the “easier” less gruesome tasks, but at this point, I’ll do anything. So tomorrow, I’ll wave goodbye to my roommate Margie with a final salute and head into my future.
I’m thinking of you, my favourite girl. I hope you’re holding your head up.
With love,
Alice
X
From Thomas to Evie
25th July, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
As always, thank you for your letters. They are like a hot loaf of bread for a starving man. (Good God, does hot bread sound divine!) You can’t know what your words mean to me these days; far more than ever before.
You were right in your letter—I’ve been terribly down. It isn’t just Will’s death. It’s the fear that is my constant companion, the stench of bodies left for the crows and the rats. Also, it’s the continual sense of trouble brewing at home. Father shows no signs of recovery and he yelled at me via post if that is possible, and let me assure you it is. The paper may be in trouble, both from falling profits and an old family feud. Father isn’t thrilled John Hopper will be looking in and neither am I, but he is the only choice. And then he laid the guilt on rather thick that I shouldn’t abandon his business and him. At some point I need to get home, sort this out.
There’s a rather nasty battle raging in , from what I hear. The French are leading. You can mark that on your map if my superiors don’t strike out the name. I know better than to state where we’re headed, but since this battle is already going on and surely in the news, I assume it’s fine. To be frank, I’m praying they don’t call us in for reinforcements.