Happy New Year!
As always, wonderful to hear from you. I thought of you often this past week and am much cheered to hear that you and Alice found each other and shared a glass of something. Fate works in strange ways, doesn’t it. I can easily picture her bossing everyone around, charming them all with that smile of hers. I imagine her easy company made for a wonderful Christmas gift. I only wish I could have shared that moment with you both.
As you suspected, Christmas was a rather subdued affair here. Our eyes were all drawn to the empty chair where Will used to sit. It isn’t right without him here, without his laughter and teasing. I don’t think I will ever get used to his absence. I feel it like a shadow has settled on my heart. I was glad when Boxing Day arrived and the few remaining staff were given their gifts and we could move on.
No other news as such. Nothing much happens during the festivities, does it? I’m working on my next column. Hopper is terribly enthusiastic about it all. He says he has plenty of ideas for future topics should my well of inspiration run dry. By the way, did I mention I get “fan” mail now? Or rather, Genevieve does. It is hard not to feel a little important when you realise your words have reached out and really touched someone—helped them even. It makes me more determined than ever to keep writing.
I have enclosed a package of new gloves, socks, tobacco, tea, and brandy. What more could a fellow want?!
Write soon, dear.
Yours,
Evie
X
From Evie to Alice
11th January, 1916
Richmond, England
Happy New Year, dearest girl!
What news from France? I had a short note from Tom yesterday—he tells me you two happened upon each other and shared a Christmas drink. How was he, Alice? How did he look? Was he in reasonable spirits? I envy you to have spent that time with him. Please write and tell me what—if anything—was said, because if I know you at all I suspect you won’t have been able to resist the chance to meddle and draw something from him with regard to his affections (or lack of them) for me.
I must tell you that the falling of the snow, the fire in the grate, memories of Will, and a large sherry got the better of me and prompted a great outpouring of emotion. I wrote a rather sentimental letter to Tom on Christmas Day. I meant every word, but now I cannot find the courage to send it. For the time being I have placed it for safekeeping inside a beautiful journal he sent me, along with a lace handkerchief. Perhaps it is best there, and not in his hands. Unless, of course, you have news for me?
Did you mark Christmas at all, apart from your drink with Tom? It was a wretched affair here. The jolly gatherings I remember so fondly seem to slip further and further away. I wonder if we’ll ever know true happiness again. Of course, I wrote a thoroughly uplifting piece for the newspaper—life must go on, it is our duty to keep our spirits up, that sort of thing. I have never felt less connected to my words. It was almost as if someone else wrote them for me. It’s so desperately hard to believe in these endless sentiments of hope.
How is your ambulance driving? Are things improving there at all for the Allies? We hear such conflicting reports in the newspapers and in letters from the Front. When the men come home on leave they have such terrible stories to tell. What of the brave animals, Alice? Do you see the horses and dogs? I hate to think of them suffering, but I hear the most dreadful accounts of horses drowning in the thick mud. Is it true? The fields are so empty here. One could almost forget how many beautiful creatures used to run free on the land. All of them gone, except for the ones that were too old and lame to be of any use in the first place. I wonder whatever became of Will’s beloved Hamlet and Shylock. I hardly dare imagine.
In other news, the conscription act has been passed so it seems that all the men we have left must go to fight, apart from those who are married. John Hopper tells me he has been asked to remain on war duty at Wellington House. He is itching to see some action, and is damned frustrated by it all. I don’t wish to sound unkind in encouraging him to go, but I hear so many stories of men finding all manner of clever ways to get around the system and sign up, regardless of height and age restrictions and health. The army are desperate for any man they can get at this stage. I’m sure Hopper will get his chance soon.
Well, I must close. I am due to report at the post office shortly and the postmistress does not tolerate tardiness.
I will write again soon.
Stay safe.
Evie.
X
From Thomas to Evie
20th January, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Thank you for the gloves and socks. I bow to you in gratitude. And the tobacco and brandy! I’ll make good use of them.
How are things at home? Your column is going well, I hope. I’ve heard some disparaging reports from Jack Davies about the state of affairs in the office at the LDT, and wondered what you make of it all. I wrote to him, urging him to take the reins when he can, Hopper’s authority aside. He might be a blustery old bird, but he’s one of the best damn editors in London and I trust his opinion. I hope the hullabaloo isn’t affecting your writing, at any rate.
I would tell you more of what’s happening here, but it’s so black, I fear you’d stop writing to me. You’ll have to settle for a few lines of poetry from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night instead:
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Alice to Evie
28th January, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dearest Evie,