Well, well. Hopper finally did it. I’m not at all surprised, I must say. How did he ask? Was it terribly romantic? For some reason I imagine him being stiff and formal, brandy in the Drawing Room and a cough to clear the throat. Did he declare his love for you?
Darling, I know you are confused but you have said it yourself that Tom Harding is blind when it comes to matters of love. He sees friendship with his best friend’s sister, yes. Adoration and love? Perhaps not. Perhaps never. After all, he didn’t respond to that Christmas letter you sent, spilling the contents of your heart, did he? I fear your Tom may have his head firmly in the sand when it comes to matters of romance.
Whatever you decide, don’t toss your future away on a whim. And don’t let your mother sway you too much. You aren’t the type to do things just because of appearances, my courageous, clever friend. Remember it is your choice and I know you’ll make the right one.
Bisous,
Alice
From Evie to Alice
15th March, 1917
Richmond, England
Dearest Alice,
Thank you for your words. You are right. I cannot forever wait for Tom Harding without any assurance that he is worth waiting for, and yet I can’t bring myself to accept Hopper either. Which is why what I am about to tell you comes at the perfect time.
I am going to France. I am a fully enrolled member of the newly formed Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC). It has all happened in such a rush. I wrote to the Labour Exchange to enquire about enrollment and received a very prompt reply (fortunately I got to the post before Mama. She would have been far too interested in the contents of the long envelope bearing the stamp OHMS). I had to report to the Board of Examiners for various examinations and passed them all with flying colours.
Oh, Alice. I’m terrifically excited. At last I am to have some purpose in this war. A proper part to play. I even have my own uniform (being tall I only needed to take it to the tailor to make a slight adjustment to the greatcoat, whereas some of the women look as if they have shrunk, their skirts and coats hang off them so dreadfully).
Embarkation orders came through last night. I am to depart from Victoria Station on the Continental Boat Train to Folkestone and from there we sail to Boulogne and once in France, on to our HQ on the Western Front in Rouen. I leave at the end of the month. A matter of days now. I haven’t told anyone, only you. Mama will fuss and Papa will attempt to drill me to death. I know it will be dreadfully upsetting for them—especially Mama—but it really is the only way, and kinder to not put them through the misery of worry and spare us all the inevitable arguments and bad feelings. Far better to just leave and explain everything in a note, don’t you think?
I considered telling Hopper in confidence but I’m afraid he will tell Mama or—worse still—try to dissuade me, so I’ve decided against it and will write to him. Explanations are so much easier when one has time to construct them properly. Perhaps my going to France (running away?) is an answer to Hopper’s proposal in itself. I feel so sure of this opportunity. If I go to France and live a little, perhaps I will be more ready to settle into a life of marriage when I return?
Desperate times call for desperate measures and I am proud to know that whatever role I’m given will allow some fellow to join the men in battle. I’m hopeful for a position as a clerk or a telephone operator. It turns out that my little stint at the post office here might prove to have been very useful after all.
I will write more when I can. For now, Au revoir!
Your friend,
Evie
X
P.S. I received a sniping letter from a woman who finds my column in rather bad taste. I must admit that I smiled as I read her words. Goodness, she gave me a good telling off. It is important to stir the soul, is it not, and I am glad my words galvanised her to write to me. Journalism isn’t about sugarcoating everything to make it more palatable. I know some who fall easily into the trap of propaganda—but I refuse to do so. In fact, I hope my time in France will provide plenty more fuel for me to throw onto the flames. I would happily read sackfuls of outrage if my words of truth can reach people.
From Evie to Thomas
15th March, 1917
Richmond, England
Dearest Thomas,
A few lines to tell you that I am to come to France as a member of the WAAC. I depart at the end of the month. There is no point trying to deter me. It is done. Paperwork signed. Uniform commissioned. I am to spend the rest of this war (however long that might be) amongst it all. There are, after all, only so many badly knitted socks a Tommy can expect to endure. My skills are much better served in other duties. I’m hoping to work on the telephone lines, or as a clerk.
Don’t worry. I won’t be binding my chest and cutting my hair and rushing to the trenches with a bayonet. I know where the dangers lie and I will be keeping as far away from them as possible, yet I find myself feverish with excitement and trepidation. Finally, I will see this war for myself and play my part rather than watching interminably from the sidelines.
My parents know nothing about it. I plan to leave a note which they will find on the morning of my departure. By the time Collins takes it up to Mama on her breakfast tray, I will be on the boat train to Folkestone. I will face the consequences when I return.
Please think of me and send me good luck in your prayers. I will send word when I arrive. Who knows—we might yet see each other beneath those starry French skies you have written about so often. I would very much like to see you, Thomas. Even with the sound of shells pounding in my ears it would be worth it to see that silly smile of yours.
I have enclosed three more novels and a book of British Garden Birds. I thought you might like to see how accurate (or otherwise) my sketches are.
Don’t worry about me. I am but a migrating bird, Thomas. I will leave England’s familiar hedgerows for a little while, but I know they will be waiting for me, more beautiful than ever, when I return.
With all good wishes.
Your friend,
Evie
X
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
17TH MARCH 1917
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW
SENT: 10:14 / RECEIVED: 11:54
YOU ARE AS STUBBORN AS A MULE. CAN’T DISSUADE YOU BUT NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS. RECONSIDER? IF NOT, PLEASE BE CAREFUL. TOM.
From Thomas to Evie
20th March, 1917
Somewhere in France
Evie,