Sometimes I think about the young man I was before this all started. How could I have been so blind, so optimistic and clueless about the way of things? I didn’t have a care in the world outside cricket and my studies. At least I treated everyone with respect, women included. Speaking of treating women with respect, what happens out here on a daily basis is shameful. Prostitutes hang around the barracks and are bussed out to the field hospitals. I’ve seen quite a few French soldiers offer their sisters to the other men. It’s crass, I know, but a reality of war, I suppose. I can’t say I’m interested. I don’t know how some chaps do it. If they respected their mothers and sisters, they wouldn’t treat women the way they do. I’m not interested in much these days, I’m reluctant to admit. The view from here is rather grey, what with my father’s passing, and several more friends laid to rest this week. The only relief comes in sleep. When it comes, I’m so exhausted I don’t dream and I’m grateful for it. It’s an escape for a few hours.
I hope you enjoy the journal I sent. I bought it at a little shop in a nearby town. The monsieur makes the paper himself and his wife does all of the artistry you see on the cover and on the inside pages. The birds made me think of you. The handkerchief I enclose is for future tears. I hope none are caused by me. And I wish against all else that you are happy, safe, and hopeful, my strong, dearest friend. I’m not sure I can be.
Affectionately,
Tom
From Jack Davies to Thomas
15th December, 1915
Fleet Street, London, England
To Lieutenant Thomas Harding,
I write to you with dire news. Since your father fell ill, Charles and I have run the paper, which is to say, I have run the paper—until of late. John Hopper has inserted himself firmly into the LDT’s affairs.
Let me be plain. Your cousin is mucking about the office, creating small fires by insulting the staff. Only yesterday he dismissed several of my columnists without checking with me. The paper shortages mean we need to consolidate our columns, it’s true, but to do so out of hand without consulting the rest of us—and in such a manner! Also, he has threatened Charlie Abshire, and has plans to hire his own writers when we can expand again. The staff is outraged, and, frankly, so am I.
In short, Tom, we’re at war here on Fleet Street and all is bullocks.
You’ve always been an intelligent, industrious fellow. I have full faith in your ability to right things again. It’s time you were the man at the helm as your father always wanted you to be.
Please instruct me how to proceed, or I may have a few choice words with your cousin, and you’ll have an Editor-in-Chief tossed out on his behind.
I await your reply.
Sincerely,
Jack Davies
From Thomas to Jack Davies
16th December, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your candour, as always. I didn’t want Hopper in the office at all, but had no choice with this bloody war. I’ll write to him immediately, remind him of his duties—and his boundaries. The last thing we need is him making a mess of things when the world is up to its breeches in horse shit, as is.
Do me a favour and keep an eye on Evelyn Elliott, would you? She’s a good friend and the thought of Hopper leading her astray makes me incensed. I might start my own war on Fleet Street if it comes to it.
Keep up the good work, Jack.
Sincerely,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Thomas to John Hopper
17th December, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear John,
It has come to my attention that columnists have been dismissed without consent, and the paper’s contents have been changed at the LDT. I have also been informed that animosity is at an all-time high among the staff. Hopper, I appreciate all you are doing to help in the office, but causing a mutiny with my Editor-in-Chief, insulting Charles Abshire, and making decisions about the paper’s future without me involved are not what I had in mind. Nor is it acceptable. Once again I ask you to consult me before making such decisions, and should I decline them, to respect my word in following through as requested. Should these grievous reports continue, I will seek help elsewhere.
I hope I have made myself clear. I have no interest in going to such extremes, but I will do what is necessary to protect the interests of the LDT.
Sincerely,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Evie to Thomas
18th December, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
What can I say that hasn’t already been said? I wish I had some words that could cheer you up, warm your feet and hands, and bring solace to your broken heart. You must not trouble yourself with the actions of the other men. Stay true to your own principles. While I cannot understand the urges of men, nor the despair you must endure every day, I can remind you of those who miss you and think of you and long for you to be home.
And I can also tell you how very touched I was to know that you thought of me when you saw that beautiful journal. I will cherish it, and I promise to fill it only with happiness and hope, not with sorrow. Sorrow has no place inside something so beautiful. The lace handkerchief I will keep in a drawer until such time as I can wipe away my tears of joy when I learn that the war is over and we are victorious and you are returned to us safe and well.
I think of you every day, Thomas Archibald, and I know you will endure. Cast aside those dark thoughts. Cast aside your fears and hunger. You must stay strong. I absolutely insist.
Write soon and often. I become very irritable when I don’t hear from you for a while.
Yours in hope.
Evie
XXX
From Evie to Alice
18th December, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
A sad note to let you know that Tom’s father died at the start of the month. Poor Tom is dreadfully upset and seems without purpose or hope. I feel helpless with him so far away with only his worries and the enemy for company. He writes of strange things: prostitutes and the inappropriate behaviour of the troops. And yet he sent me the most beautiful journal, decorated with birds, and a handkerchief—for my tears, he said. Did you ever hear such a beautiful sentiment?
I’m more confused than ever. One moment I dare to believe Tom has feelings for me. The next, I seem to be nothing but a friend to him again. I write little hints in my letters to him, giving him an opportunity to declare any feelings for me, but he either doesn’t notice them (you know how very useless men can be in matters of subtlety), or chooses to ignore them. I keep his letters under my pillow now. Like the princess disturbed by the pea beneath her many mattresses, my sleep is disturbed by his words. While he struggles to sleep in restful peace, so will I. And among it all is John Hopper with his interesting conversation and Turkish cigarettes and expensive cologne and ambitions. He means to run half of Fleet Street, I’m sure of it. He makes it ever harder to resist his charms.
Where are you now? Can you say? I pray that you were nowhere near the gas attacks on the French troops. It is hard to believe we will soon mark our second Christmas at war. Do you remember Lloyd George’s rousing speech, “The war to end all wars”? They said it would be over by Christmas. They didn’t say which one though, did they?