I also plan to look in on your father while I’m there. I should like to see him. It has been too long. I’m sorry to hear you are still so worried about things back home. It seems dreadfully unfair for you to have matters of business to worry about when you have so many greater worries facing you every day. It would seem to me that Abshire (although well intentioned) isn’t really up to the job of running things until your father recovers. I’m sure John will do a much better job, family difficulties permitting.
Yes. The wrens. I found myself doodling on the envelope as it was the closest thing to hand. The time passes quickly beneath the nib of my pencil, and there’s a lot to be said for that. I had no idea the wren is a symbol of strength. It was purely through my own laziness that I selected the smallest bird to draw first. Now I know that each bird has a weightier meaning I will have to choose my next subject very carefully or you’ll be drawing (excuse the pun) all manner of erroneous conclusions. All this talk of birds and symbolism has driven me to my poetry books. I’d never appreciated how often the bird is written about. Dozens of works jumped from the page. I like this one by Thomas Hardy. Lines from “The Darkling Thrush.” Are you familiar with it? It fits my mood perfectly today.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
Whenever I hear the song thrush, I think of Will and imagine that both he and the thrush are singing songs of hope—and you must do the same. Listen for the birds, and when you hear them, know that I am thinking of you.
Well, I must go. Keep hearty and hopeful. And do try to eat. I imagine a starving man is almost as dangerous as those Howitzers and whizz bangs you write of.
With much love,
Evie.
X
P.S. I missed yesterday’s post, which gives me the opportunity to add, by way of a postscript, the joyful revelation that the lark is a symbol of luck and harmony. I think you could do with the former and the world could do with the latter, so here is my best attempt (done—in my defence—in a hurry, before I miss the post again).
From Evie to Alice
12th August, 1915
Richmond, England
My darling Alice,
How on earth are you? I am so very sorry for not having written to you for so long. For many weeks after Will’s death I found myself quite unable to write anything that wasn’t desperately sad or smudged by my tears. But I feel a little brighter of late, and I am spurred on by the thought of a few lines from you in return.
I also have a little news to share with you. I am to write a column for the LDT! It is all John Hopper’s doing (he really is terribly persuasive when he sets his mind to something—and is still Mama’s current favourite for a suitable husband for me, by the way). Tom thinks the column is a splendid idea and encourages me wholeheartedly. I’m not sure when the first piece will be printed but when it is, I will send on a clipping for you to read. I’m to write under the pseudonym Genevieve Wren (partly to prevent Mama knowing I am behind the words—she would never agree to it). What do you think? I rather like it.
Tom and I are still exchanging letters faster than he is exchanging gunfire with the enemy. I must tell you that I find myself thinking about him often and longing to hear a few lines from him. What is this, Alice? This is Tom Harding, for goodness’ sake! Since he went to war and we started writing all these letters to each other, I find myself wishing, ever more, that I could see him. It makes no sense at all. Perhaps I have a fever on the way. I must go for a lie down after posting this off.
Anyway, I ramble.
It seems futile to talk of other news, but life, as they say, must somehow go on. Tell me, how is the nursing going? We hear such marvellous things about the VADs. Diana Manners was all over the newspapers in her uniform, encouraging ladies to enroll. I am so terribly proud of you. When will you ship out?
Do write soon, and let me know when you might be able to get to Richmond again. Perhaps we could take a walk along the river like we used to as young girls. Such simple pleasures. Who would ever have thought they would become such impossibilities.
Yours,
Evie.
X
From Thomas to Evie
15th August, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Your letter made me laugh! I haven’t laughed in ages so I thank you. I should have known the one person on this God-forsaken earth to cheer me in the darkest of times would be you. Little Evie who tied my bootlaces together before I boarded the train to Brighton one summer. The very same girl who told her governess she was sick so she could miss her lessons, only to help her brother let toads loose in the drawing room to bother the mean old spinster. What a mischievous character you were.
Also, thank you for the chocolate and cough candy. My commanding officer cracked his tooth on one of those blasted Huntley & Palmers biscuits they’re feeding us, and the Maconochie I’m forced to eat is about the foulest version of tinned stew you’ve ever smelled, much less tasted. Sometimes I think I don’t deserve your kindness. The thick horror of my day-to-day existence has a way of making me see things through a queer light.
Bird analogies are quite useful, you see? The wren puffs its little chest for fortitude and strength, the lark for luck, but what of the peacock with its proud turquoise chest and fancy tail feathers? You’re like a bird yourself. An eagle, meant to soar above, yet never losing keen sight. You are not a woman to be caged, are you? One day, you won’t be able to control that fire inside you and you will be off, on the road and unstoppable. Your column is the perfect start.
I know the Thomas Hardy poem you sent—it’s as darkly beautiful as the name suggests and particularly apt just as you said. You know my ardent fervour for Shakespeare, of course. Did you know he used bird imagery in his work more than any other? His most obscure poem and addendum to another writer’s piece is called (at least now—it was published untitled initially) “The Phoenix and the Turtle.” It stars a pair of birds, a phoenix and a turtledove, whose love creates a union so perfect it defies concrete sense and earthly logic, and overcomes any obstacle. When I return, I’ll show it to you. I have a copy among my school things.
How is your first article progressing?
Tomorrow we move again.
Ever Yours,
Tom
From Thomas to his father
20th August, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),