I’m not so certain about this Hopper fellow. Didn’t you say Tom has some reservations about him? Also, he isn’t at war, is he? I must say, this gives me a seed of doubt as to his character, though if my Evie likes him so well, I’m sure I will grow to like him too.
As for me, I’ve been transferred out of the dressing station. I’m to drive an ambulance! I’ve seen a few other nurses doing the same, though not a large number. But imagine me behind the wheel, barrelling down the road at top speed—the girl who crashed a bicycle each time she rode it. Sometimes I wonder if they’re mad to give me such responsibility, but they are in dire need. How glad I am for Billy Peters’s tuition earlier this year! I’ll help load the injured and race to the hospital trains with my precious cargo. Just think of it! I’ll be a heroine. If this wasn’t such a dreadful set of circumstances, I would don a pilot scarf, maybe a little rouge to look the part. Alas, this is no time for my silly antics. It’s a serious business, saving lives.
How are things at home? I miss you horribly.
Gros bisous (as the French would say),
Alice
From Thomas to Evie
28th October, 1915
Somewhere in France
My dear Evie,
I couldn’t bring myself to write to you the last fortnight. I’ve been sullen and angry with nothing nice to say. Despair. That’s what I’ve felt. Despair that this blight on humanity continues and that I am in the middle of it; despair that Father is failing rapidly and I can’t be there for his final days. It eats away at me.
Though a short reprieve, my trip home spoiled me quickly and I can think of nothing now but fine meals, sleeping in my warm bed, and your bright laughter. It’s quite infectious, you know. The waiter at Simpson’s was taken with it—and you—though perhaps it was your scandalous dress which drew his attention. Really, when you wear blue, you don’t give menfolk a chance.
I’ve taken to card tourneys with the Tommies after dark. We use pebbles as tokens, and trade goods from home. To the winner goes the spoils. It’s about the only time I don’t feel like screaming until my lungs pop or someone shoots me. Whatever comes first.
Thank you for being there when I came home. Really being there. Beyond my poor father, it was a week of perfect days. I hope there will be more of them someday soon.
Yours,
Tom
From Evie to Tom
5th November, 1915
Richmond, England
My dearest Tom,
I have never known the weeks to drag so awfully. One minute you are here and it is as if we don’t have a care in the world, and the next you are gone and there is nothing but a dreadful silence and endless worry. Every day since your return, I searched for my name in my postbag. Every day I had to endure the disappointment of finding nothing. You cannot imagine the relief when I received your letter, and yet now I face an entirely new anguish as you sound so awfully glum. Unusually so.
Is it unbearable to be back? Did your time here not lift your spirits and remind you of everything you are fighting for? Try to recall that roast beef and think of a time when we’ll go to Simpson’s again. If only Will were still there to jolly you along. He would tell you to stop stewing and to buck up and no doubt make you laugh with one of his ridiculous yarns. I miss him dreadfully, Tom. I miss so many things.
You will no doubt have heard the awful news about Edith Cavell being executed in Brussels for helping POWs escape to the Netherlands. It was all over the papers. The country is up in arms. Anti-German sentiment is at an all-time high. Men are rushing to the recruiting offices. I was very shaken by the news. I foolishly imagined women like Cavell would be immune to the German bullet. It seems that nobody is safe. Nobody. I worry dreadfully for Alice. She writes with news that she is to become an ambulance driver. She never ceases to surprise me. For someone who struggled to master control of her bicycle, I really don’t hold out much hope for the poor men she transports. Then again, Alice always did love a bit of drama, didn’t she? Ever the girl to go rushing headlong into some madcap adventure. I only hope that war will not prove to be an adventure too far.
Did you notice the date at the top of the letter? Bonfire night. The bonfire on the green is much smaller this year—you’ll remember how impressive it usually is. We have become quite efficient at conserving everything, wood included. What would Fawkes and his conspirators make of this war we find ourselves in, I wonder? It makes their few barrels of gunpowder seem rather paltry. Remember, remember. Gosh, Tom. All I want to do is forget.
I will make sure to visit your father whenever I can manage time away from my duties here. He is in the best place and there is nothing more you can do for him, other than to make him proud to know that you are doing wonderfully well over there.
I must close. Mama is calling for me to help with her latest fund-raiser. If I drink much more tea I’m sure I will drown in the stuff.
Yours,
Lady Evelyn Elliott
P.S. I must apologise for all the wretched snivelling on your shoulder when you left. I don’t know what came over me. In my despair, I forgot to give you my latest sketch, so I have enclosed it here. This little fellow is a brambling. I think him rather adorable.
P.P.S. As for my dress being scandalous! Really, Tom, you are terribly old-fashioned at times. Your eyes would pop out of their sockets if you saw the munitionettes. They wear trousers, Tom. Trousers!
P.P.P.S. (Sorry, I should probably have started another letter.) Latest column enclosed.
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in London, Genevieve Wren
“When the Boys Come Home”
There are brief moments when it seems as though we are not a country at war. Those occasional hours when we might share a cup of tea with a friend or take a walk in our favourite park, laugh at a joke or a shared memory and almost forget what is happening across the Channel. Almost forget, but not quite. However briefly we may feel the burden of worry or grief lift from our aching shoulders, it is always there, like a shadow following close behind.
Perhaps we feel this the most when a loved one comes home on leave. They walk back into our lives and our homes as if they’d merely popped out to collect the milk or the newspaper. Like a ghost they appear in our sculleries and hallways, and we cannot quite believe they are really there at all. We can’t stop touching them, eager fingers desperate to make sure they are real.