Last Christmas in Paris Page 6

  Of course it has all caused a terrific row with Mama. She strongly believes that a family like ours should be above such menial tasks. I could slap her, Alice, honestly, I could. Papa is thankfully far more understanding and has given me his blessing. He’s proud of me for wanting to help the war effort, and promises to talk Mama round. I hope he can. She is almost as bad as me when she’s in one of her sulks and I hate it when we argue.

  In other developments, I’m sorry to tell you that my brother is quite smitten with a French girl—a nurse. He wrote to tell me all about her and says he loves her. I know you’ll be a little glum to hear this, but I also know you’ve given up all hope of him ever looking upon you as more than a friend—and rightly so. Much as I love my brother, I’m sure there’s a far more suitable husband out there for you somewhere, and you know how Will is when he sets his mind to something—he could very well have the girl married by the end of the month.

  Talking of marriage, John Hopper (Tom Harding’s cousin) was the perfect gentleman at dinner recently. Mama can’t stop talking about him and I find myself thinking about him more often than is healthy. I’m afraid I was a terrible flirt—a lack of male company has rather turned my brain, it seems. I hadn’t appreciated he was working incognito for the government. He said he would prefer to be out there on the front line, but went to great lengths to explain how the war must be fought from the home front too. The poor chap has been approached by the White Feather Brigade on more than one occasion, despite the fact that he wears his On War Service badge. He finds it awfully frustrating.

  Let me know if you register at the Labour Exchange. I would far rather you didn’t become a munitionette. It’s awfully dangerous work. Would you not consider nursing? I can’t think of anyone better suited to it. You’re always so wonderfully cheerful. Your pretty smile alone would have the soldiers well on the road to recovery. Bedside manner can be as important as any other medicine. Promise me you’ll think about it? And please take care with Billy Peters and his truck (though I must admit the thought of you at the wheel, flying around his farm, makes me smile).

  Much love,

  Evie

  XX

  From Evie to Will

  14th March, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dear Will,

  Well, well. I certainly wasn’t expecting to read those words when I opened your letter, but I must say I am extremely happy to know that you have found a little time for romance amid such horror. This Amandine must be a very special girl indeed to have stolen Will Elliott’s heart from all the other girls! Send me a photo would you? I should very much like to know more about this French enchantress.

  Joking aside, I’m happy for you, Will. I know the midst of war is far from the ideal place to fall in love, but true love does not care for time nor place. It will strike whenever and wherever it is supposed to, however improbable it might seem. So, set your heart on a rampage, dear boy. I am full of joy for you.

  A little news from home. I am to become a postwoman! I shall be cycling around Richmond, delivering the soldiers’ letters. I start next week. As you can imagine, Mama is beside herself with shame that it has come to this. Her own daughter, working! She is convinced that becoming a postwoman is one step away from becoming a soldier on the front line. Please send a few lines to encourage her to support me. It would mean a lot.

  Take care, Will, and mind your heart. I hope this Amandine Morel isn’t going to break it. And don’t forget about your little sister. I never tell you, but I do love you, you know.

  Yours,

  Evie

  From Thomas to Evie

  15th March, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  The Ides of March bring ill fortune. I never liked this day with its reputation of infamous foreboding, and today it was precisely that—one filled with doom. Evie, it was wretched, though the word barely scratches the surface of the truth.

  More than half of my platoon was decimated. A shell exploded at the perimeter of our base camp. A dreadful fire raged, wiping out many of the supplies. When a group of German snipers rushed us, Will darted out like a Spartan warrior and said his piece in bullets. I raced after him to assist with half a dozen other men. We dispatched them swiftly but as we headed back to camp, another shell exploded. I threw my body over Will, bullets zipping overhead. This was far worse than the whizz bangs they fire from the smaller field guns, Evie. I’ll leave that there.

  Your brother was foolish, but heroic. In all, he pulled a dozen men to safety. The stretcher-bearers raced to their aid (Will insisted they treat his men first), while I cleaned up a nasty flesh wound in Will’s leg. He’s fine, recovering well now, so no need to worry.

  Time stops in those moments. You move through them like a dream. When you look back, you can’t believe it was you out there. I wonder when my time will be up? Will it be all white-hot pain, or the slow drain of life ebbing away? I keep a last letter in my jacket pocket—a lot of us do, just in case. I think about it often, who will read it first. Will the words have any meaning when I’m only a memory and in the ground?

  In these moments I wish I had drawn up a will. It was foolish to leave my fate to chance. My father was so angry with me before I left, he said he’d cut me out of his will completely. I wonder if my ambition to become a scholar will mean anything to me in my father’s last days. Is it a mistake to follow a young boy’s dream, and one devised, perhaps, to rebel against a father’s wishes? Or is it what I really want, and worth the cost of my relationship with him—and my inheritance? Things I ponder after months facing my enemy.

  Father still isn’t well and doesn’t seem to be improving. Abshire said cousin John has been asking about the London Daily Times. We haven’t approached him yet about helping out. Father fears Hopper will attempt to buy us out, and then it’s all over for the family business. He believes Hopper will sell the paper to collect a fat cheque, and leave us to pick up the pieces. I’m not sure what to do. As much as I don’t want to run the paper, I can’t allow my father’s hard work and joy to be sold off, and by a blood relation, no less.

  I need to be there, at home. I need to protect what belongs to the Hardings, and decide how to proceed from there. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to be too far away to be of use. I find myself desperate to spend time with my father. I’m beginning to worry a great deal, our differences be damned.

  On a lighter note, I’m glad to hear you’re cycling again now the weather is improving. I can picture you flying along in your scarf and hat, cheeks pink, as the wheels whizz beneath you. And you’re writing again! Good! You always seem happiest when you can put your thoughts on paper. It’s rather funny how you and I fell in love with literature and writing separately, yet alongside each other. We’re kindred spirits, my friend.

  Speaking of literature, I will leave you with the words of my oldest friend, Shakespeare, from one of the few books I brought with me. It’s from Henry IV. (Perhaps I should have brought something more upbeat.)

  O war! thou son of hell,

  Whom angry heavens do make their minister,

  Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part

  Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly.

  He that is truly dedicate to war

  Hath no self-love, nor he that loves himself,

  Hath not essentially but by circumstance

  The name of valour.

  I’m sorry for the dark subject of this letter. It’s been a dark day and Richmond—and you—feels so very, very far away.

  Yours,

  Tom

  P.S. As for Mrs. Pankhurst, though I admire her, I can’t say I agree with her insistence in dishonouring men who choose not to join the war. If given the chance to do this all over, I’m not sure I would enlist as readily.

  From Evie to Thomas

  25th March, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Tom,

  Thank you for your letter, although I mu
st tell you it has me awfully worried. To learn of you and Will being in the thick of the action fills me with the deepest dread imaginable. Was it terrible? Did you fear for your life? Gosh, Tom, I cannot imagine it. You are the best friend Will could ever wish for. Thank goodness he had you beside him. Was he hurt badly? I try not to think of it, but I imagine the worst. He never could handle pain. The slightest nettle sting would send him howling to Nanny. You poor things. How helpless I feel.

  Today is Lady Day—the start of spring—and the daffodils look so lovely in the sunlight. It certainly helps to feel the warmth in the breeze and to see the brighter evenings. I hope you feel the sun on your face, too. Hopefully the better weather will lift your father’s spirits and see him on the road to recovery. Try not to worry about the newspaper. I’m sure things will settle down when you’re back home and can talk things through with your father face-to-face. You are a pair of stubborn mules.

  I mentioned your predicament to Papa (subtly, so he wouldn’t read too much into it). He knows Hopper quite well and believes he has a good head for business. Papa said he would get him on board as soon as possible if it were his business at stake. Certainly, from the conversations I’ve had with Hopper over recent dinners, I can only believe that he would be a sensible choice as a temporary stand-in to oversee things. What other choice do you have? If relations are terribly frosty, your father needn’t know the full extent of Hopper’s involvement, need he? I could always ask Papa to drop by the offices to take a measure of things if it would help? He visits his club in London on Wednesdays. I could ask him to make up some excuse or other to look in?

  If only I could meet you for afternoon tea or for a stroll through Richmond Park, this would all be so much easier to discuss. Any news on a period of leave?

  The London Daily Times has become my preferred source of news in recent months. The larger newspapers paint a very different picture of war to the one you describe in your letters. The editors would have us believe everything is perfectly jolly over there and war is nothing but continual victories and divisional concert parties. Your editor at least seems a little more willing to tell some of the truth of what is happening out there.

  As for enlisting, I know you would do the very same if this were to happen again, because that is what brave young men like you do. Trust me, you would not wish to be on the receiving end of the White Feather Brigade. They are harsh in their condemnation and as the weeks and months pass, and we learn of more and more losses, I find it hard to have any sympathy for those fit young men I see walking down the street in their civvies. Some claim to have failed the medical examination, but most refuse to fight on moral grounds. Conscription is coming, Tom, I am sure of it. There is a palpable sense that we are in this for the long haul. I only hope and pray that you and Will and all our other friends and cousins will be away from the worst of the danger while it lasts.

  Try not to think dark thoughts, Tom. We shall make a bonfire of your last letters when you come home, and we’ll watch the sparks float up into the sky like fireflies and drink good wine. Think of that, and of how thankful we will be when victory comes. Think about Dover’s white cliffs welcoming you home. Think of your boat on the Thames. Think of being in Paris at Christmas. Think of all the things you have never done, all the living you still have left to do. So much, Tom. So very much. You must not let death in. Shut it out where it cannot find you. Put down your Shakespearean tragedies.

  Come, on wings of joy we’ll fly

  To where my bower hangs on high;

  Come, and make thy calm retreat

  Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.

  (A few lines from Blake.)

  Please keep writing. I find myself depending on your words more and more.

  Stay safe, dear boy.

  Evie

  P.S. I believe the War Office has put in place an amnesty program for the little VPK cameras to prevent any images falling into enemy hands. Do you still have your camera? Take a picture of you and Will if you can before it is confiscated. I would so like to see your faces again.

  From Evie to Will

  25th March, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dear Will,

  Tom wrote with news of your involvement in some skirmish or other, and of your act of heroism and resulting leg wound. It causes me such anguish to learn of these things. It is just like you to think of others before yourself. To run headlong towards the danger when others would be running away. The British Army is lucky to have you on their side, Will, and we are lucky to have you in our hearts.

  Please send word of your recovery as soon as you can. I hope your sweet Amandine is by your side to give you courage and proper treatment.

  Please do take the greatest care.

  Your loving sister,

  Evie

  From Will to Evie

  FIELD SERVICE POSTCARD

  NOTHING to be written on this side except the date and signature of the sender. Sentences not required may be erased. If anything else is added the postcard will be destroyed.

  * * *

  * * *

  I am quite well.

  I have been admitted into hospital.

  {sick } and am going on quite well

  {wounded } and hope to be discharged soon

  I am being sent down to the base.

  I have received your

  { letter dated _25th March ’15_

  { telegram __________

  { parcel __________

  Letter follows at first opportunity.

  I have received no letter from you

  { lately

  { for a long time

  Signature only. _Will Harding________________

  Date ______________31st March ’15___________________

  [Postage must be prepaid on any letter or postcard addressed to the sender of this card.]

  From Thomas to Evie

  1st April, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  Pinch, punch, first of the month. (I got you!)

  It’s Fools’ Day here at camp, yet I can’t find a thing to be jovial about. One of the privates thought it would be funny to fill my tea—if you can call it that—with dirt. I lost it, shouted at him and the lot of them. You’ve never seen a pack of men run so fast. It’s a trivial thing to be angry about, but war does that to a man.

  Now that I’ve complained I see I do have something to be happy about—your letters. I shouldn’t admit this, but since I have no idea what lies ahead, I may as well be honest. I watch the letter carrier drive up from the road, over whatever humped terrain we’re on, and walk swiftly to the mail tent. The minute he jumps back into his truck I amble to the tent, nonchalantly of course, and duck inside, secretly praying there’s a violet-scented envelope with your elegant script. When I see one, I feel like I’ve won a prize. I look for letters from Father as well, but they never come, only the occasional update from Abshire. He is a silent sort of fellow, his letters are more like telegrams written in abbreviated, blocky sentences. It says a few things about him, doesn’t it? Anyway, he doesn’t write prettily, as you do.

  As for the newspapers, when I return I’ll see to it that ours prints the truth. I can see this troubles you and I value your opinion. At least the LDT is better off than most in this concern—being a smaller publication we’re not watched as closely as the big boys like the Mail and the Times, although Abshire mentioned the Globe is suspended for two weeks after printing false reports about Kitchener’s resignation. Relations between Kitchener and the Cabinet may be strained, and Asquith might well reduce the man’s responsibilities, but he will never cast him aside completely. So much is censored now, it’s a wonder I get any news to you at all. What good is it to a newspaper if the truth is glossed over? I suspect trouble will continue to brew on this front. We need to keep a close eye on how this sort of censorship develops.

  Ho, dinners (plural) with John Hopper! Lucky fellow. He always was, even if he didn’t d
eserve it. I’ll leave it there for now.

  I’ll hold on, Evie. Don’t worry. I have nothing to do but that.

  Sincerely yours,

  Thomas

  P.S. Will enclosed a letter.

  P.P.S. I hope you like the photograph. I had to bribe my commanding officer with my ration of rum to get it.

  From Will to Evie

  Dear Evie,

  Don’t worry your pretty head over my wound. It healed within days. Amandine took excellent care of me, cleaning and dressing the wound, and setting my spirits to rights again. She smuggled in sweets and tobacco for me as well and what is a fellow to do when he is helpless in his sick bed other than to let himself fall ever more madly in love. See? Nothing to worry about. Good as new.

  I hear we’re moving to or just east of there in two weeks. Could you send another pair of gloves before then? Mine are wearing thin.

  Your loving brother,

  Will

  From Evie to Will

  16th April, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Will,

  What a relief to hear from you and to hear that you are well enough to march on. I have enclosed new gloves and socks for the journey. Will your lovely Amandine be able to go with you, or must she stay behind?

  The censors got to your letter, so I don’t know exactly where you are headed. I only hope it isn’t closer to the Front. We’ve heard of awful casualties close to the Belgian towns of Ypres and Armentières. The Germans still hold Menin and are reported as getting the best of the Allies at the moment. I hope you are to march in the opposite direction. Dear God, Will. How did it ever come to this? I pray, with all my heart, that you are somewhere safe, at camp or in billets, and far away from the firing line.