I grumble as Margaret administers various medication. I am not a good patient and yet she does her best to keep things cheerful. “I’ll be finished soon, and then you can continue on with reading your letters.”
I turn my eyes away from her, back to the window. I don’t want to be inside. I want to be sipping vin chaud in the Lilac Garden of La Closerie des Lilas. I want, so much, to be the vibrant young man I once was. I wonder, did I ever truly appreciate my good health and my ability to breathe without a struggle? The arrogance of youth takes everything for granted. Everything, that is, until you find yourself at war, pushing your bayonet into the enemy’s chest before he pushes his into yours.
At the sound of the telephone, Margaret rushes from the room. I prop myself up so I can see the people of Paris below. They rush about, scurrying home to be out of the biting wind. Margaret’s voice drifts through the hall and I close my eyes, straining to make out her conversation. She gives little away. I hear only the name, “Delphine,” and a melodic stream of passable French.
When she returns, she sets a tea tray on the table beside me. “You need to eat something. It’s been hours, Tom. And don’t try to hide your food in the bin again.” She fixes me with a glare.
“What did she say?” I ask, ignoring the fresh pastries and tea.
“Everything has been arranged as planned.” She smiles then. “Delphine is happy you had a comfortable journey and is looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.” She fusses with the curtain, pulling it so the folds hang straight. “You must be looking forward to seeing her,” she adds.
Delphine, the gift that none of us expected to discover.
“I am, Margaret. Very much.”
She notices the letter I have in my hand. The final precious letter—the one I promised to read here, in Paris. The one I will read at the end.
“You always said she wrote such beautiful letters. You must be longing to know what it says,” Margaret remarks.
I rub my fingertips across the sealed envelope; across her elegant handwriting. “I waited a long time for so many of her letters, Margaret. I can wait a little longer now.”
Margaret plumps my pillows and says she will check on me in a while. She pulls the door closed behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the scent of the gardenias that take me back to the first time I went home on leave and she wore a gardenia in her hair. She had beautiful hair, like ebony silk. It seems ludicrous to me now that I never noticed it before those autumn days we spent together. It was as if I noticed everything about Evie for the first time that week.
I pick up the next bundle of letters, neatly labelled “1917,” and let her words take me back there . . .
PART FOUR
1917
“He simply felt that if he could carry away
the vision of the spot of earth she walked on,
and the way the sky and sea enclosed it, the
rest of the world might seem less empty.”
—Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence
From Thomas to Evie
1st January, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Happy New Year, old girl! I hope you enjoyed your Christmas feast and your mother’s party. I thought of you often, envisioning you dancing and entertaining the guests. I presume Hopper was there, making a nuisance of himself. You mentioned your mother was planning to invite him.
I find myself in reasonably good spirits. I think, perhaps, 1917 will bring good things and I’ll get home for good. At the very least, I plan to apply for leave again in a few months.
Speaking of leave, you wouldn’t believe what some of the men are doing. I caught Sergeant James chewing cordite pulled from his rifle bullets to give himself a fever. Shortly after, the nurse gave him a few days off to recover. I was furious! But what kind of man would I be to rat out anyone who needs to get away from it all for a while. I’d be seen as the enemy and we have plenty of those as is. One learns to turn a blind eye.
Could you send some books? I’m desperate for new reading material. The long hours between action means too much time to ruminate on things and I’d rather lose myself in good literature. Many of us swap books and Nurse Rose has given me a few, but we can’t carry too many at a time, or our packs become too heavy. I’ve read Prester John by John Buchan several times, and a couple of Nat Gould’s horse racing novels. I’d like to read more of Gould and something by your William Blake or Palgrave. Perhaps H. G. Wells?
Did I tell you about The Wipers Times? It’s a satirical newspaper, written by the soldiers. Two men found an old printing press and started it up from the Belgian town of Ypres. News from the trenches, if you will. It is darkly humorous and quite often lampoons those in command. You would laugh at the section called “Cupid’s Corner,” an advice page for those with “difficulties relating to ‘affaires de c?ur.’” I read a poem called “Moaning Minnie” that stuck with me (a Moaning Minnie is a German mortar, or sort of cannon/gun), and chuckled a little at the derision, but while the magazine is an amusing diversion, it isn’t a literary meal, if you know what I mean. I need a few books with heft and look forward to what you send.
I’m glad you’re back to your drawings. We don’t see much wildlife as you might imagine, and your birds remind me of home. I hope you’re well, Miss Evelyn Elliott. I think of you often.
Ever yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Evie to Alice
20th January, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear girl,
No news from you for a while? I hope all is well? I have several things to tell you:
1. Hopper became rather amorous beside the fountain in Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Eve. He kissed me, Alice—and I’m afraid I kissed him back. It was a perfectly pleasant kiss in the way that kisses are, but it was not the type to send a girl weak at the knees and, well, the truth is that when I closed my eyes I could only see Tom and rather wished it were his lips on mine.
2. I have been bedridden with an upset tummy the last two weeks so have been able to avoid Hopper since. He sent flowers and wished me a speedy recovery. Mama is already planning her wedding outfit. I sent a thank-you note and explained that I felt rather embarrassed about the whole event. More flowers arrived in response. What am I to do?
3. I wrote to Amandine Morel, but have yet to get any reply. Should I write again, do you think, or wait a little longer? I am terribly anxious to hear from her. Mama knows nothing about my attempt to contact her.
4. Thomas tells me he has a new nurse attending to him. Rose is her name. I have a feeling she is to become a thorn in my side. She “comforts” him and lends him reading material. I am green with envy—not least because I know how “comforting” you have been to the poor buggers in your care and I cannot stop thinking about rouged lips and jazz tunes.
You see, I am in a terrible tizz and need your wise counsel immediately. How I wish I was out there with you, rather than here enjoying the crackle of the fire alone. I have nobody to share these little pleasures with. Everybody I love is over there.
I long to hear from you.
Your friend,
Evie