I find myself growing weary of letter writing with nothing but bad news to share. And I grow ever-restless and more determined to do something practical to help. If somebody doesn’t dispatch me to the Front soon, I might dispatch myself. Mama was talking about arrangements for Christmas the other day and I’m afraid I spoke to her in a rather curt manner, telling her she was a fool to think of such things as place settings when men are dying in the thousands. She said people will die whether she plans Christmas or not, and that perhaps, by looking ahead she is offering some hope instead of dwelling in the past. If I wasn’t as stubborn as an ox, I might very well have conceded that she made a fair point before I stormed from the room and slammed the door behind me. But I am as stubborn as an ox and we haven’t spoken a civil word to each other since. I really don’t wish to be a difficult daughter, but it seems that I cannot help myself.
In brighter news, my first piece for the LDT went to print. The editor was quite impressed with my efforts. To be honest, I rather think he had alternative plans for me to write about knitting patterns or some such nonsense, and I’m rather proud to have proven him wrong. I’ve enclosed a clipping for you. Having worried that I wouldn’t have much to say, I found myself with far more words than I was permitted column inches for. I hope you enjoy it.
With much love,
Evie
X
From Alice to Evie
20th September, 1915
Somewhere in France
My dear Evie,
What dreadful news. I can’t imagine our beloved London is under attack. It shocks me still.
No matter how bad it is there, Evie, you don’t want to be here at the Front. The shine wore off quickly after several weeks of treating men for skin sores from the wretched mustard gas, and other wounds too gruesome to describe. I’ve also seen quite a few men suffering from nervous disorders. One poor fellow refused to follow orders and became hysterical, hallucinating and rampaging through the dressing station. He sprinted straight into the line of German sniper fire and was shot dead. Or so I hear. Thankfully I missed the shooting.
Bad news, indeed.
I understand if you feel you must be here to do your bit—I did, too—but be very certain, Evie, because I’ve already lost an innocence I didn’t know I possessed. I fear the experience will change me forever, and not in a good way. The only positive news I’ve heard is that the Americans are finally furious with the Germans, following the sinking of the Lusitania. All those innocent people dying. It makes me so cross to see how low the Germans will go. Tragic though it was, I hope the incident will see the Americans take up arms soon and join the Allied forces. After a solid year of fighting, there appears to be no end in sight, and we could desperately use some reinforcements.
There is a small piece of brighter news to share with you. I’ve made a new friend named Jeremy Rollins, a private from Birmingham, and he’s quite the ham. He makes me laugh every time I tend to him, and laughs are in rather short supply here. I met him at the dressing station. He has multiple bullet wounds, but appears to be recovering quickly, in spite of our limited Dakin’s solution (used as antiseptic), or sodium salicylate (painkiller). We’re hoping to get another shipment soon. Those poor buggers writhing in pain without any assistance. Sometimes I don’t know if I can bear it, darling.
Your mother is quite right about diverting our minds from this misery. You are too hard on her. Let her have her festive fun. What harm? You should try to have some as well. It isn’t good for you to be endlessly moping about that rambling old house. Could you do a little more at the post office? Do they need telephonists, or wire operators to take down the telegrams? Just a thought.
I’ll stop teasing you about Tom Harding—for now—though I think you should make jolly sure he visits you, as well as his father, if he does get home on leave. Nobody will expect you to have a chaperone with Tom being a long-standing family friend. Ask him to take you to Simpson’s for oysters and champagne, and dancing at The Savoy. Then tell me everything!
With much love,
Alice
From Evie to Thomas
25th September, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
Any further news on your coming home on leave? We are all so eager to see you. Your father has rallied a little. He is a very resilient man (the doctors think he is a marvel), but I would dearly love for you to be able to see him.
I had a dream about you last night (I probably shouldn’t tell you such things, but if war has given me anything, it has given me a keen sense of impulsiveness). The dream was so real I had to pinch myself when I woke up to be certain that I was at home in Richmond and not actually with you in Paris because that is where we spent the night, dancing beside the Seine (an accordion player provided the music). I wore my blue dress and you were dressed to the nines in black tie. We ate escargots and drank the finest champagne and the stars dazzled like a million jewels above us until the sky turned rose-pink beneath a new dawn. It was so beautiful, Tom. You recited poems of peacocks and turtledoves and I forgot that anything bad had ever happened in the world and in that moment it felt that if only every night could end, and every day could begin that way, nothing bad could ever happen again.
How annoyed I was to find myself waking to the murky drizzle of an English morning in autumn, with Paris—and you—so very far away.
With so much happening recently, I realise I never sent you a copy of my first column, so here it is (a little crumpled I’m afraid). Having tried for so long to have a piece published in the national press, I now feel rather shy and nervous about people reading my thoughts. I hope you like it. Your approval means a lot to me. Jack Davies was suitably impressed (I met him over a brief lunch with Hopper). He is quite a formidable character, isn’t he? Not one to mince his words. I found myself quite nervous and rather lacking in appetite. I now understand why he commands such respect throughout Fleet Street.
The months march on and the leaves in Richmond Park have turned their stunning golds and reds. Nature puts on such a stunning show at this time of year. I think autumn is my very favourite season. The fires are lit again and the tang of smoke in the air sets my mind longing for cosy evenings in the library. It won’t be the same though. Not without Will’s company. Or yours.
I do wish you could get home on leave. I often see men in uniform—rather gaunt looking—strolling arm in arm with a loved one. It is a heartbreaking sight—at once so encouraging and romantic, and at the same time so unbearable, as we all know they will be on their way back to the Front within a matter of days, and the heartache of separation and the pain of worry will begin all over again. Still, I imagine it is worth it for those few snatched hours of normality, and affection.
Do write soon. I will pray for news of your coming home.
With much love,
Evie
From Thomas to Evie
3rd October, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I have good news, at last! I’ve been granted seven days of home leave. First thing tomorrow I depart and will be in London, if all goes well, by early evening. Feels like a dream. I don’t think I can endure the anticipation. Though I must admit, I’m anxious about seeing Father in his current state. I’ll need to spend some time on his affairs, the books, and the newspaper as well, to which I do not look forward. You, on the other hand, I can hardly wait to see. If you’re available that is, Famous Journalist Adventuress, Miss Genevieve Wren.
With warm affection,
Tom
P.S. That dream of yours will come true, if I have anything to say about it.
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
5TH OCTOBER 1915