A few words to let you know that your sister, Evelyn, has taken up permanent residence in your room. She sits for hours beside the fire, writing letters here, there, and everywhere. She says it prevents the tedium of knitting duty and is certain you’ll find her letters far more comforting than badly constructed socks.
She spends a lot of time staring out of the window, too. She watched the swallows migrate one calm October evening and looks forward to their return. She watches the robins and blue tits now. Sometimes she sketches their likeness in the margins of her writing paper. She’d forgotten how much she likes to draw. She isn’t too bad really.
She also asks me to tell you that the horses were taken to war and begs you not to be too heartbroken. They are the most wonderful animals and will give someone the best ride into battle. We all must do our bit, and she knows you will be as proud of the horses as she is of you. She insists you take good care of yourself because she finds herself feeling terribly fond of her only brother now that he, and his endless teasing, is far away.
She has also enclosed a few sheets of Basildon Bond which she hopes you will be able to fill with cheery news of victories and your imminent homecoming.
With greatest fondness,
The Writing Desk
P.S. Evie has also become rather fond of your old bicycle (which she has christened Rusty). You would laugh to see her flying along the laneways. She still takes the occasional spill when she encounters a pothole, but is otherwise quite accomplished.
From Alice Cuthbert to Evie
1st December, 1914
Brighton, England
Dear Evie,
Greetings, love. I had just returned from a day of shooting grouse (only a few days left of the season and you know how I like to handle a gun) when I saw your envelope peeking out of my letter box. Unfortunately it was quite soggy. My roommate never brings in the post, or hangs her coat, or shakes out her eternally soaked brolly before she comes inside and drops everything on the sofa. I should have known better than to ask Margie Samson to move in with me. I was desperate, though, as you know. There aren’t many “respectable girls” from proper families who allow their daughters to live on their own. (Not that I’ve ever waited for a lick of permission for anything.)
Try not to worry too much about our boys at war. They’ll be trained tip-top, do their thing, and be home in a jiff. We’ll celebrate madly when they return. I bet your brother is handsome as ever in his uniform. My heart flutters to think of it.
I’ll be in Richmond next Wednesday, so I’ll call. Shall we sneak off for a little Christmas shopping? I don’t have a fellow these days. It’s time we both enjoyed a little mischief.
Alice
XX
From Evie to Will
7th December, 1914
Richmond, England
Dearest brother,
How are you? Please send word, even if you can only send one of those awful Field Service Postcards. Just to know that you are safe and in good spirits will be comfort enough. Or send a few lines in the letters Tom writes. He and I have become quite good pen pals these past months.
I often wander into your room, fully expecting to see you stretched out on your bed like a lazy cat. There’s a strange sense of emptiness here, as if the walls ache for your return. I know you are a very private man and will no doubt hate to think of your little sister having unrestricted access to your room, but it somehow feels right to be in here when I am thinking of what to say to you. How silly, to have to think of some news to share. I miss the spontaneity of conversation. I miss seeing you; hearing your voice. Letters are so tricky to write when there is so much to say, and yet nothing to say at all. And the silence between replies is agony.
Mama is being unusually stalwart, organising endless fund-raisers and finding jobs where there are none. “We will not be idle while the men are away” has become her personal motto since we waved you off. I have a feeling this war may yet prove to be more dangerous for those of us left under the command of fretful mothers than for you soldiers under the command of your Generals.
It doesn’t look as though it will be over by Christmas after all, does it? You’ll be much missed around the dinner table, although I shan’t miss your dreadful jokes.
Well, I must close before I start filling the pages with too much gushing fondness. Alice Cuthbert sends her regards. She came to Richmond last week and dragged me into London for some shopping. She really is a tonic. She insisted we take our minds off things with tea at Fortnum & Mason, although neither of us could quite summon up the enthusiasm for it. Everything tastes rather bland when taken with a dose of guilt and worry. You will drop her a line or two, won’t you? She is rather depending on it.
Wishing you a Joyeux No?l from afar.
Your loving sister,
Evie
XX
P.S. I have enclosed tobacco, and a Christmas pudding from Cook. She put extra brandy in it especially for you. I hope the silver sixpence brings you all the luck in the world. More than anything, I hope luck and fortune bring you home very soon.
From Evie to Thomas
8th December, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
Hello again! How are you? We read plenty of good news in the papers, which cheers us, although we would far rather there was no news at all and we had you all home again.
I thought you might be amused to hear that with only three weeks until Christmas we have a crisis on our hands. A fox found his way into the Allenbury’s huts and helped himself to our Christmas dinner. Poor Mama is beside herself. I honestly believe she has diminished in height by a good inch since hearing the news. And we are not the only household to find ourselves goose-less; practically half of Richmond is in the same predicament.
I wonder, will you celebrate Christmas at all? Celebrate seems like the wrong word. I suppose jolly occasions such as Christmas and birthdays have no place at the Front, although part of me hopes that an instruction will find its way down the wires to stop fighting, for Christmas Day at least. Our little plan to spend Christmas in Paris seems rather like a silly dream now, doesn’t it. Next Christmas then?