Now to a more peaceful thought. I’m placed under the care of a nurse here on request of my doctor in Edinburgh—Rose Blythe is her name. She’s a kind soul, bright and breezy, and has a natural empathy about her. I suspect you’d like her a great deal. She is instructed to watch me for any signs of regression. I would have despised such nannying not so long ago, but I must say I’m rather glad of her company. Many more of my friends and comrades were lost in the battle that raged in my absence. Without Rose I find myself alone all too often.
Thank you for your letter, which kept me company on the long journey back here. I’ll picture you in that harbour café. It sounds like heaven. My world has grown smaller, not larger unfortunately, but that will change for me, too, I hope. When the war is over, I’d like to spend a good long while at home, knock the business back into shape and then, perhaps, a spot of travelling. A visit to America or the Mayan villages in Guatemala. Maybe somewhere in the West Indies.
In your letter, you asked what we are fighting for, what we are trying to save. My dear girl, we’re trying to save you. And every woman, child, relative, and friend that mean something in this world. Protect our home and what is ours, defend our interests, our way of life. At least that’s why I’m here. The other “honourable” nonsense is the talk of a naive man who hasn’t spent time in battle, or perhaps the few I’ve met who are true warmongers. I was one of those naive soldiers before, as was our dear Will.
But I am here to save you—just as you have saved me. I’m not sure I can properly express my gratitude for your lengthy visit. That’s what I was trying to say when we parted. How deeply I care for you. You have been the greatest friend a fellow can ask for, and I am so thankful.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Evie to Alice
25th December, 1916
Richmond, England
Darling Alice,
A very belated Happy Christmas to you. You must think me very remiss to have forgotten you, but you see, I haven’t! My Christmas wishes to you, although belated, are heartfelt.
Alice, I have discovered something very troubling and I have to tell you because there is nobody else I can. When I returned from Scotland, I pressed Mama to talk about Will. He feels so absent and I feel dreadfully sad that we don’t share our memories or look at photographs of him more often. I asked Mama if I could see the personal effects that were returned to her after his death. She became very flustered and took to her bed with one of her headaches. It is not the first time she has avoided the subject.
Alice, I’m afraid I did something awful. While Mama was in town earlier today, I looked through her writing desk, hoping to find some of Will’s things, and I discovered a packet of letters. They were written between Will and his French nurse, Amandine. I don’t wish to betray his confidence until I can confirm the implications of the sentiments exchanged, but suffice to say I am rocked to the core. There is also a letter from Will to Mama, to be read in the event of his death and expressing his last wishes. He gives an address in France where Amandine can be contacted.
Mama has never mentioned this. I can only presume she found it all too shocking to accept. I don’t know how to confront her about it because then she will know I was rummaging through her things like some sort of awful vagabond. If I do mention it, she will only forbid me from interfering, and I feel that I must.
I plan to write to Amandine this afternoon to try to make some sense of things. I only hope I am doing the right thing.
Happy Christmas, darling.
Evie
XX
From Evie to Amandine Morel
29th December, 1916
Poplars, Richmond, London SW, England
Dear Mademoiselle Morel,
My name is Evelyn Elliott and I am the sister of Will Elliott, whom I believe you knew briefly while working as a nurse at the Front before his sad passing. I recently came across some of Will’s personal effects which were returned to my mother after his death.
Mademoiselle Morel, I write to you now because I need to know if the things I read in Will’s letters are true. If so, I would very much like to offer you my assistance, and my sincere apologies on Will’s behalf for not getting in touch sooner.
Perhaps you could write to me at the above address. It is very forward of me to ask, but if you would be kind enough to write, and perhaps to allow me to visit you in Paris at some stage when the war is over, I feel I would be doing my duty to Will as a sister, and to you as his very dear friend—and more.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Evelyn Elliott
Paris
21st December, 1968
The gardenias lend the most wonderful scent to the room. Margaret remarks on them as she refreshes the vase with water, removes any browned petals, and breathes in the velvety perfume of the blooms.
“Hothouse flowers,” I say. “The privilege of the wealthy.” It is an extravagance I have indulged in every Christmas. An extravagance she took such pleasure from.
Margaret laughs and tends to the flowers as she tends to me: gently, respectfully, and with good humour. She cannot know of the memories the flowers conjure.
I am as patient as I can bear to be while she turns her attention to me. It bothers me that I must lie here, all needles and tubes. It bothers me that I cannot see Paris as I would like to: the cafés, the gardens, a hearty serving of Burgundy beef; strolling with her arm in arm along the tree-lined boulevards; sipping a café crème or savouring the aniseed tang of a pastis beneath the red-and-white-striped awnings of the cafés in Montmartre. I’d almost forgotten how much I love it here, almost forgotten how much I love life. But this time—my last—I must be content to observe Paris from my apartment, while my tired body limps on and I get ever closer to my final days. Margaret talks about returning to Paris in the spring. I tell her it is beautiful, and encourage her to come back.
“We’ll both come back, Mr. Harding!”
My smile conceals the fact that I know I will not see the beauty of a Parisian spring again.
Through the tall French doors of the apartment bedroom here in the sixth arrondissement, I can look out over the rooftops towards the famous tower, watching it fade as the night envelops it. I think of how she longed to see it, the look of childish excitement on her face when it first came into view. Somehow it feels right that everything should come full circle—here again, amidst the souls of so many friends, the soul of my former life.
They tell me I suffer from a cancer of the lungs. It seems ironic to me that I have survived two wars and several shattered bones. I even evaded the terrible Spanish Flu epidemic that tore through the clearing stations at the end of the war, and then through Europe, and very nearly tore my world apart. And yet it is my ability to breathe—the most natural thing in the world for a man to do—that will take me in the end.