Last Christmas in Paris Read online

  Map

  Dedication

  For our agent, Michelle Brower, with gratitude, awe, and love.

  Epigraph

  “Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain

  To see the passing of the dying year,

  And listen to Christmas songs again,

  Although You cannot hear.”

  —Vera Brittain, extract from “Perhaps”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Map

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One: 1914 Paris

  Part Two: 1915 Paris

  Part Three: 1916 Paris

  Part Four: 1917 Paris

  Part Five: 1918 Paris

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .* About the Authors

  About the Book

  Praise

  Also by Hazel Gaynor and Heather Webb

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Richmond, London

  15th December, 1968

  Life is forever changed without her; without the sense of her somewhere near. Empty hours wander by as I listen for the soft tread of her footfall on the stair and wait for her laughter to cheer these lifeless rooms. When I close my eyes I can conjure her; the scent of her perfume, the feather-touch of her fingertips against my cheek, those intense blue eyes looking back at me. But it is all illusion. Smoke and mirrors that conceal the truth of her absence.

  I push myself up wearily from the chair, clutching my cane like an extra limb as I hobble to the window. Snow sprinkles from a soft grey sky, gathering in pockets along the river, quick to find shelter from the hungry waters of the Thames that flood the inlet behind the house. A skiff bobs to the gentle rhythm of the tide. It reminds me of how I rowed with such vigour as a young man, desperate to impress. I see her there still, sitting on the riverbank, skirt tucked behind her knees, laughing as she launches a stone and watches it sail higher and farther than the others, looping in a great arc and splashing me with its perfectly aimed descent into the water.

  I see her everywhere. In everything. How can she not be here?

  I feel for the necklace in my pocket, and remember how she loved to quote Miss Brontë’s words. I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.

  What a fool I was.

  “Mr. Harding?” Margaret perches in the doorway. Her pristine nurse’s uniform takes me back over the years to the noise and smell of field hospitals and clearing stations, and all that once was. “It’s time, Thomas. The car is here.”

  Taking a laboured breath I rest my face against the window, savouring the icy chill of the glass against my skin. My gaze wanders over the neighbouring houses, the moody old Thames, and the view beyond the hill towards London. I, alone, know it is the last time I will look upon these places I hold most dear. The doctors tell me I don’t have long. It is a reality I have made my peace with, a reality I hide from those who would only fuss if they knew the full extent of my illness—my nurse included.

  “Are my letters packed, Margaret?” I ask.

  “They’re in your suitcase as you requested.”

  “All of them? The sealed letter as well?” I can’t bring myself to say, “the last one.”

  “Yes, Thomas. All of them.”

  I nod. How many were there in the end? Dozens, and more. So much fear and hope captured in our words, so much longing and loss—and love. She always said her war was fought in words; her pen and prose the only weapons she, as a woman, could wield. She felt it was important to keep a record of all the correspondence, curating the memories of those years with as much determination and care as any exhibition at the British Museum. That a fragile bundle of paper sentiments survived the war when so many people were lost has always angered me, but now I am glad of them. Now, I am ready to relive those days, read through our letters one last time in Paris, as was her dying wish. I think about the sealed letter: To be opened in Paris on Christmas Eve. I wonder what more she might have to say.

  Margaret waits patiently as I make my way across the room. She knows I am a stubborn old fool and that I will only grouse if she offers me her assistance. She glances at the window, and frowns.

  “Are you sure Paris is a good idea, Mr. Harding? The snow is really coming down.”

  I wave her concern away. “Paris is always a good idea,” I reply, my breathing heavy as I reach the door. “Especially at Christmas.” I falter at my words. Words which were once hers. “And because I promised.”

  “I’ve never been.” Margaret smiles brightly. “I hope we’ll see the Eiffel Tower.”

  I mutter under my breath that it is difficult to miss and turn to take one final look at the room, moments and memories hidden beneath the dust sheets that have always turned our London home into a temporary mausoleum at this time of year. “If ever a city was made for snow, Paris is it.”

  She nods and holds out a tentative arm. “To Paris then, Mr. Harding? And don’t spare the horses!”

  Her youthful enthusiasm reminds me of an old friend and I smile as I loop my arm through hers. “To Paris,” I say. “I hope she is as beautiful as I remember.”

  Margaret closes the door behind us and I say a silent farewell to all those I have loved and lost, and to all the precious gifts that life has given me. If I have understood things correctly, Paris may yet have one final gift in store.

  But first, I must go back to the beginning of our story, back to the beginning of a war none of us wanted, a war they said would be over by Christmas.

  I keep the first bundle of letters in my pocket and as the plane taxis down the runway, I untie the red ribbon, and start to read . . .

  PART ONE

  1914

  “They were summoned from the hillside

  They were called in from the glen,

  And the country found them ready

  At the stirring call for men.”

  —Ivor Novello, “Keep the Home Fires Burning”

  From Thomas Harding to his father

  10th September, 1914

  Oxford, England

  Dear Father,

  I write to you from the Officers’ Training Corps at Oxford. I’ve done it—I’ve joined the army—so I might serve our country in these great times and prove myself an honourable citizen, just as you did during the South African War. You returned as a hero, and I wish to live up to your legacy, at least in this way. There is a real sense of adventure here, a feeling that enlisting is the right thing to do. So many men have applied for a commission with the old Bugshooters that they’ve had to speed up the application process. No more aiming at flies on Christ Church Meadow! This is serious business now.

  I am troubled by how we left things the last time I saw you. Two grown men, especially family, shouldn’t shout at each other to settle things. I know you want me to take the helm at the newspaper, but we are different people, Father. I hope one day you will understand my passion for scholarship. To become a professor at one of the most prestigious universities in the world is nothing to scoff at, though I know you disagree. At least by taking an active role in the war I won’t disappoint you. War makes equals of us all. Isn’t that what you once said?

  Will Elliott signed up as well. In fact, we’ll be in the same regiment. I thought you would be glad to see me placed with my closest friend. All believe the war will come to a speedy end, so you might expect me home by Christmas, and we can talk again then. I’m certainly looking forward to a swift victory and yuletide cheer.

  Sending good wishes, Father. I will be thinking of yo
u in battle.

  Your son,

  Thomas

  From Evelyn Elliott to Will Elliott

  12th September, 1914

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Will,

  Mama told me about your enlisting. I expected nothing less, and wanted to send a few lines to let you know how incredibly proud we all are. The British Army will be lucky to have you. Finally, you’ll have a chance to bring back some medals of your own to add to the family collection. Papa is all puffed up with pride, as I’m sure you can imagine, although I’m afraid he doesn’t expect you to see much action. He expects it will be over before you’ve even got to your training camp. While I know you will be eager to do your bit, I hope Papa is right.

  I hear Tom Harding also enlisted. You two always were inseparable, and if you must go to war then I am glad to know that your greatest friend will be with you. If this were a battle of wits and intellect, the British Army could not wish for two finer recruits, although I can hardly imagine Tom Harding rushing into battle with a rifle and bayonet. I suspect he would far rather write a thesis about it than participate in it. Keep an eye on him. You know how stubborn he can be at times.

  Papa is still livid about the suspension of the last two matches of the County cricket championships, especially with Surrey on course to win again. He says September without cricket is like December without snow—it just doesn’t feel right. Poor Papa. I think he feels rather left behind with all the younger men heading off to war.

  Write a few lines now and again, would you? You know how Mama fusses.

  Your sister,

  Evie

  X

  From Will Elliott to Evelyn Elliott

  15th September, 1914

  Oxford, England

  Dear Evie,

  Many thanks for the vote of confidence—Tom and I are bristling with something like excitement, though that isn’t quite the word. Josh and Dean are here, too, and Bill Spry; the whole College almost, off to vanquish the enemy. The bloody Krauts won’t know what hit them.

  Be good to Mama and Papa while I’m away. None of that mischief you’re so fond of stirring up, do you hear me? I won’t be there to bail you out.

  With all good wishes,

  Will

  From Evelyn Elliott to Thomas Harding

  1st October, 1914

  Richmond, England

  Dear Thomas Archibald Harding,

  (I’m sorry—I couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke a little more fun at your recently discovered middle name. How on earth did you keep that a secret all these years?)

  I am really quite hopeless. You, Will, and the rest of the boys are gone less than an hour and already I find myself bored and restless. So much so that I am at Will’s writing desk, penning my first letter to you. After all, I did promise to write soon, and you know how much I hate to break a promise (you may yet regret complaining of having no female relations to write to you). You know I have a dreadful tendency for overenthusiasm and I’m afraid this war may bring out my very worst best intentions. Can you ever forgive me for sending you into the Cherwell with my overzealous punting? If I catch the post this afternoon, it is entirely possible my letter will arrive at your training camp before you do (and I give you full permission to claim it is from your sweetheart and be the envy of everyone there).

  You won’t be surprised to know that I envy you and Will, heading off on your grand adventure, just as I envied you when you returned to Oxford after the long vacation. It seems I must always be the one to wave you off and stay behind but I live in hope that one day I’ll be the one heading off somewhere exciting. I suppose a girl can dream.

  It was a lovely crowd to see you off, wasn’t it? Some of the women were inconsolable, but I retained my composure, as did Mama. We are terribly proud of you all and can’t wait for you to return as heroes—although, in all honesty, you looked more like a group of nervous bachelors heading to their first tea dance than a troop of soldiers heading to war. No doubt you’ll look the part once you have a rifle in your hand. Send a photograph if you can. I should like to see what Thomas Archibald Harding looks like as a proper soldier.

  Alice says I’ll have to find a way to divert myself while you’re gone. I have a mind to take up a new hobby. Golf, perhaps. Or maybe I’ll dust off Will’s bicycle and join the local ladies’ bicycling club. In any event, they say the war will be over by Christmas and then all I’ll have to worry about is how to survive another weary afternoon of cribbage with Mama and her friends.

  If you have time to respond between drills and polishing your boots, it would be nice to know where you are and what you are doing. If I cannot go with you both to France, you will have to transport me there with your words.

  Your friend,

  Evelyn Maria Constance Elliott

  From Evelyn to Will

  1st October, 1914

  Richmond, England

  Dear Will,

  I have just written five pages to Tom Harding—four more than I’d intended—and now I am running out of ink and words, so please forgive me if this is rather brief.

  I’m sitting at your writing desk, and it wishes to inform you that it is much happier with its new occupant. Far less banging of fists and gnashing of teeth and spilt ink. You’re not gone two hours and I must say that I already feel very much at home here in your room. The view over the garden is lovely. How funny that I never really appreciated it before. I can idle here now, you see, absorb the view at leisure with no mean big brother to chase me out. I might even sleep in your bed, Will. I might have a good old rummage through your drawers. I wonder what terrible secrets I might unearth!

  I hope your training camp is comfortable, although no doubt a far cry from your London clubs. Don’t worry. You’ll be dining and dancing at The Savoy again before the year is out. Don’t do anything foolish, Will, I know how impetuous you can be, and please send word as soon as you can—if not to me then at least to Mama. Spare me the misery of her inevitable fretting. Please. I will forgive you your most terrible secrets if you can just write a short letter home every now and again.

  Do your duty and hurry home.

  Wishing you well, and safe onward travels.

  Evie

  X

  From Thomas Harding to Evelyn

  5th October, 1914

  Surrey, England

  Dear Evie,

  I laughed when I received your letter, just as we arrived. I suppose the postal service is faster than we think it is. And for your information, yes, I am an Archibald, and I’d happily lob an ice cream at you if you were here. Make fun, Evelyn Maria Constance Elliott, but don’t forget the tree house or the horse manure and your little rag doll. I may be a proper soldier now, but I’m not above pranks and retribution!

  It looks as if we’ll train and learn the drill here at camp in Mytchett for four weeks, then ship off to the Front. The regiment is all enthusiasm and energy; we are all looking forward to seeing the real action. Already I’ve learned marching orders, basic first aid, and face-to-face combat. Your brother and I decided the training isn’t so different from wrestling with Robbie Banks. That bullheaded fellow was always looking for a brawl at the pub. I’m anxious to get to the more interesting bits. Will is brimming with eagerness. You know how he can be.

  You asked for a picture of what it’s like at camp, so here goes. At reveille the bugle drives us out of bed at the start of the day. I say “day,” but it’s so early we’re up hours before dawn when it’s black as pitch. Still, no one grumbles about a lost hour or two of sleep, not when we’re headed to war. We dress, eat, and do some variation of training until noon when we break for a short lunch, after which we have more training until four or five in the afternoon. We’re free to head into town then if we wish, though not every day. Most often we hang around the billiards hall or play rounds of cards, smoke, etc. Being a lieutenant, I try to avoid getting mixed up in any mischief with the privates. Well, not too often anyway. I spend a lot of tim
e in my bunk alone, in fact. Looking back at Oxford—and this is difficult to admit—I’m thankful for my time in the Officers’ Training Corps. (Don’t tell Will. He’ll give me hell.) Some training, though little, was certainly better than none. Anyway, the privates really are the last rung, poor chaps. They will bear the brunt of the attacks. If I were among them, I would work like the devil so I could move up in the world.

  That’s all for now. Getting called to the card table.

  Sincerely yours,

  Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding

  From Evie to Thomas

  15th October, 1914

  Richmond, England

  Dear Thomas Archibald,

  You replied! How jolly to see your letter among the morning post. It made for a very pleasant change from polite invitations to tea, and the rather less polite rejection of my latest attempt to have a piece published in the Times. Perhaps I should submit my next under a male pseudonym. If it’s good enough for the lady novelist who writes as George Eliot then it’s good enough for me. Evan Elliott has a rather nice ring to it, don’t you think?

  Joking aside, I do sometimes wish I were a boy so I could see more of the world. Even the prospect of the battlefield is more appealing right now than sitting here waiting for a marriage proposal. “Boys go to college and war. Girls marry well.” This, from Papa when I complained of it being unfair earlier today.

  Speaking of marriage, Mama checks the casualty lists daily for news of Charlie Gilbert. She clings desperately to the hope of my receiving a proposal from him when he returns, while I, meanwhile, hope he will fall in love with a beautiful French girl and forget all about his infatuation with me (which, as you know, I have always enthusiastically discouraged). Poor, dull Charlie. He’s not a bad sort, but you know how he is—and how I am. Marrying Charlie would be rather like marrying a broken carriage clock. How the hours would drag.