Forgive my awful script. This is the first time I’ve committed to writing a letter since my hand healed. I thought for certain they would send me home, but they found plenty for me to do in the reserves. I have to say, I am glad of it. This feels more like home than anywhere else now. Here, with my men, my brothers in arms. They are all the family a fellow could ever wish for. What is there in London for me anyway?
Charles has filled me in on business at the London Daily Times. It appears Hopper’s reports vary quite a lot from his. We’re facing threats from the War Office now. I’m sick over it, but there’s not much I can do from here, other than make threats I can’t really enforce. I suppose I’ll ride it out, just as I do this damnable war. When I get home, there will be a reckoning of sorts, you can count on that.
It’s getting to be that time of year when my thoughts turn to Christmas. Let’s close our eyes and pretend we’re at a party, shall we? My journalist would note every detail, I’m sure, so I’ll do my best to paint a picture for you. Here goes.
The ballroom shimmers in tinsel, red ribbon, and heavy boughs of garland. Though grief clogs the air and dampens the festivities at the beginning of the evening, the somber ambiance dissipates as drinks flow and music pours through the room. Somehow, the spirit of Christmas and firelight and familiar faces bring the town together. For a few hours the restlessness subsides and the anguish within us retreats.
At the banquet, we feast on duck and pheasant, and celery à la parmesan. And all the puddings! Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, currant pudding with almond sauce, sugared chestnuts. We drink mulled wine and beer, and gin. We grow as fat as kings.
At the end of the night, you and I sit outdoors and share a smoke on the lawn, quietly looking in the direction of France and planning to spend another Christmas there soon.
Will you join me in my reverie?
Your friend,
T
From Evie to John
20th December, 1917
Rouen, France
Dear John,
A few lines to wish you a Happy Christmas. I hope you find someone to dance with in the fountain in my absence. I can hardly remember the girl I was a year ago. Life could not be more different, nor my heart more troubled.
It is snowing here and everything looks rather beautiful. Impossible to believe the world knows such horror among such a peaceful scene. Give my love to your mother.
With all best wishes,
Evelyn
From Evie to Tom
20th December, 1917
Rouen, France
My dear Tom,
Another Christmas approaches and another year of letters between us slips away. There must be enough to fill a book by now.
Talking of which, please accept a small gift from me. A small volume of W. B. Yeats poetry. It was left by one of the officers and I can think of nobody who would get greater pleasure from it. “And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.” His words are so delicious, I could eat them.
Happy Christmas, Tom. I caught a snowflake on my tongue this morning and made a wish for you.
Always your friend,
E
X
Paris
22nd December, 1968
With some difficulty, I settle into a chair at the café across the street from the apartment. Lamplight glows against the windowpanes, gleams against the rows of glasses dangling above the bar, and spills over the dark wood panelling. It’s as cosy as I remember, and yet it’s not the same without her—not as bright, not as warm, not as it should be.
Margaret sits several tables away and lights a cigarette before opening a copy of the day’s news. I’m grateful for her discretion, for giving me this rare moment of privacy, free of tubes and attendance and procedures. In truth, I shouldn’t have come. Upon waking, I felt my frailty in every bone, and in the wretched pain in my lungs. Had my eyes not betrayed my dismay at the prospect of skipping my rendezvous with Delphine (and had it not been Christmas), I am sure Margaret would have insisted I stay in bed.
“Tom! You made it!”
Delphine’s cheerful voice rings out behind me like church bells on Christmas morning, brightening my heart with its wonderful Gallic melody. I struggle to stand and greet her, but give up and sink back into my chair.
“Please don’t get up,” she says as she pulls her chair a little closer.
“I’m not entirely sure I can,” I reply, a wry smile passing my lips as I look into her eyes. Just the same as her aunt’s.
She kisses each of my cheeks in the French way and covers my hands with hers, squeezing briefly. “It is so wonderful to see you, Tom!”
“And you, my dear!” It really is. She is awash with life and vitality. A scent of violets floats about her shoulders, reminding me of violet-scented letters.
“The year was much too long, Tom! I’m so pleased you came. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without you and . . .”
The name slips away, drifting among the cigarette smoke that winds towards the ceiling from the tables beside us. I manage a weak smile, but it feels foreign, stiff, like muscles gone unused for too long.
We exchange stories, catch up on things, remember. When we fall silent, I watch Delphine polish off a generous slice of tarte tatin and regret the loss of my sense of taste. Nothing tastes the same since she departed.
“You haven’t touched yours, Tom.” Delphine motions to my slice of uneaten tarte.
I don’t bother to bore her with tales of taste buds and a gut that doesn’t work properly, the constant ache in my chest. Like Margaret, she might counsel me on how to prolong this life that, quite simply, doesn’t need any more living. Not much more, anyway. Just enough.
“I wanted to give you this.” I push a small package across the table. It is wrapped in gold foiled paper.
Delphine smiles, lighting a familiar pair of blue eyes. The very same blue, passed down from generation to generation. Her own daughters inherited them, too.
She rips the paper away and gasps as she opens the little box inside. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” She fastens the gold chain around her neck, running her fingers across the small bird charm that nestles against her throat.
“A wren,” I say. “It belonged to my mother. It became rather a favourite of your aunt’s.”
Tears glisten in Delphine’s eyes. “I will treasure it. Thank you.”
I smile again, shift in my seat, and reach for another packet on the chair beside me. “I thought you might like these, too. Some books that belonged to your father. A few letters and photographs as well. They are rather old and battered now, I’m afraid. Much like myself.”
She laughs and touches my hand affectionately. “You are not old and battered. You are wonderful, and fascinating.”
She is so like her aunt, it breaks my heart to look at her, to hear her charmingly positive view of life. But I take comfort from knowing that our memories will live on through Delphine and her family. I take comfort that we found her, that we connected the strands of the family.
I’ve kept the most important letter separate to those inside the packet.