Last Christmas in Paris Read online

  England is all talk of the loss of 2nd Lieut. Gladstone, MP whose name appeared in the casualty lists. He had been in the trenches less than a week. Shot by a sniper’s bullet when he reached up over the parapet to try and locate that very sniper. Papa says it was a senseless death and the result of inexperience as much as bad fortune. I take some comfort in knowing how experienced you are now and that you would never do anything so rash and foolish.

  Tom sent a photograph of you both. So handsome, even if you do look a little thin.

  Stay safe. We remain terribly proud of you all.

  Evie

  From Evie to Thomas

  18th April, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dear Tom Harding (Lieutenant),

  I must apologise for the overscenting of my letters. It has become a habit to dab my bottle of violet water onto my fingertips and dot it about the paper before sealing it. I imagine such terrible smells in the trenches and hope that this little fragrance of an English summer garden will be a welcome boost. And you know how I adore the scent of violet—and rose and gardenia. I long for the bushes to bloom in the garden so that I can cut a few sprigs for my bedroom.

  Will writes of an impending march. I know you cannot tell me where to—or you can, but the censors will strike it out—and that you and your fellow officers censor the privates’ letters, but who censors yours? In any event, I find myself poring over maps of Europe and newspaper reports in an attempt to follow the battle lines. Papa and I have a miniature War Office in the library here, trying to work out where on earth you might be. It would amuse you, I am sure, to see us puzzling over maps and no doubt reaching the wrong conclusions, but such is the way we occupy ourselves these days. It feels like a game and I only wish I could tip the board over in a temper and bring you all home.

  As for propaganda, it is rife here. I can only guess at how little we are really being told. I, too, hope your father hasn’t fallen foul to the pressures yet. Please don’t shy away from telling me the truth and the detail of what is happening out there. I am made of strong stuff and can take whatever you have to tell me. I would rather know the truth of it than live in ignorance. We women are not as sheltered from the world as we once were. War is opening the world up for us. What sad irony is that?

  Take care and write whenever you get a moment. Was there any news on your getting a period of leave?

  Your friend,

  Evelyn Elliott

  P.S. The photograph is wonderful to have. You both look so relaxed and happy, arms draped around each other. I would so love to see you both again.

  P.P.S. Regarding John Hopper—do I detect a hint of envy? Don’t worry. I shan’t abandon you. I will always write, no matter how many dinners I might have with him.

  From Thomas to his father

  23rd April, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),

  I haven’t received a letter in some time. You have me worried, Father. I trust you’ve sent for the best doctors? Please continue to keep me informed through Abshire. I think it’s time John Hopper take over for a while in your stead, since I cannot. He isn’t the first choice or even the fifth, I’m afraid, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Abshire needs the assistance and will keep me informed of what’s happening there. I will certainly keep an eye on that cousin of mine as best I can, given the circumstances. I imagine this surprises you, that I should show concern for the LDT. In all honesty, I surprise myself.

  Here at the Front, my commanding officer called a briefing this morning. There’s a rumor we’ll be wearing gas masks soon. We may even be fitted with them by next week. “Chemical warfare” they call it—a new and even more wicked version of “battle”—this is what the Germans have brought upon us. The cowards won’t even fight man to man. They’d rather wipe out the enemy with noxious fumes at a distance, run away with their tails between their legs. Father, they decimated two French divisions and one of Algerian troops. I continue to ask myself how hell could be brought lower, how it could be made hotter, yet I continue to be surprised by what the Germans do next. The worst of the news is, we’re headed to the scene of this horror next week, north of as backup.

  I’ve lost too many friends these last months. “Every good man fights for a cause,” you’ve always said, and I suppose that’s true. Perhaps we’ll be victorious swiftly now, and I’ll come back a decorated hero as you did. A man can hope, and should, I’ve been told.

  Wishing you well. Please rest so you may recover.

  I remain your son,

  Thomas

  From Evie to Thomas

  8th May, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dear Lieutenant Harding,

  Where on earth are you? I haven’t heard from you—or Will—for weeks now (your last letter was 1st April) and I can’t help but worry terribly. We read awful things in the papers about the gas masks and the Germans’ so-called chemical warfare. Is it true? Dear God—what animals.

  I’m delivering the post now and with every bag full, I pray to find an envelope addressed to me in your own hand. It seems especially cruel to deliver so many letters, and still find nothing from you or my brother. The job is not quite the joy I imagined it would be. Most of the letters bring news of worsening conditions and dreadful battles. Some are simply returned “To Mother,” stamped “Missing.” It breaks my heart to see them.

  These are anxious times. The casualty lists grow longer every day. I can hardly bear to read them for fear of seeing familiar names. We have suffered heavy losses among friends and neighbours—most during the battles at Gallipoli and Ypres (I’m not entirely sure how to pronounce it, but a soldier home on leave who I was talking to on the station platform said the Tommies call it “Wipers.” He said they make up names for all the foreign places they can’t properly pronounce.) Anyway, whatever the place-names, please be somewhere else, away from the worst of it, Tom. Please be somewhere safe, with my brother by your side.

  You will, no doubt, have heard about the sinking of the Lusitania. Such atrocities. Such dreadful suffering among civilians. Over a thousand men, women, and children dead. They say it took only a matter of minutes for the liner to sink. It is too dreadful to think about.

  Please send word soonest. I will even promise to stop having dinner with Hopper until I hear from you.

  Keeping you ever in my thoughts and prayers.

  Your friend,

  Evie

  Telegram from Thomas to Evie

  9TH MAY 1915

  TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW

  SENT: 10:00 / RECEIVED: 10:20

  WILL WOUNDED. VERY BAD. PRAY FOR HIS RECOVERY.

  PREPARE FOR THE WORST. MORE SOONEST.

  LT. T. HARDING

  From Evie to Thomas

  9th May, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Tom,

  I can barely write.

  We all pray for Will’s recovery. He is an Elliott. We are made of iron. Please stay with him, Tom. Don’t leave my brother alone—not for a second. Keep him safe. He is all I have in the world.

  Yours,

  Evelyn

  Telegram to Evie’s mother, Mrs. Carol Elliott

  10TH MAY 1915

  TO: C. R. ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW

  SENT: 10:40 / RECEIVED: 11:16

  DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU LT. W. J. ELLIOTT WAS LOST ON THIS DAY. PLEASE ACCEPT OUR DEEPEST SYMPATHY. SGT. MAJOR UNWIN. 2ND OXFORD RIFLES.

  From Thomas to Evie

  10th May, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  I have started this letter twice and tossed it into the bin. How do I write these words? I am so sorry my dear friend, but he’s gone. Will is gone. He fought like the devil, and was brave to the very end. These last few weeks have changed us all, even your shining, exuberant brother, but now he has nothing to fear, no pain. He is at peace.

 
He wanted me to tell you that he loved you very much, and to not be cross with him for eating all the orange jelly every Christmas. You know how he was, always a jokester, even until the last. God almighty, I’ll miss him. He was my best friend, my family. I don’t know how to do this without him.

  Please write soon. Share a pretty poem from one of your books? Right now the world is dark, so dark. I need a reason to see this through, Evie. Anything. I don’t believe in this war anymore.

  My deepest condolences for your loss, to you, and your parents.

  Ever your friend,

  Tom

  Letter to Evie’s mother, Mrs. Carol Elliott

  12th May, 1915

  France

  Dear Mrs. Elliott,

  On behalf of the Officers and men of my Company, I wish to offer my sincere sympathy in the bereavement you have sustained in the loss of your son, Lieut. William James Elliott. I feel that you would like to know how very highly regarded Lieutenant Elliott was amongst all his comrades, and that his loss was felt with great sorrow among the Company.

  Lieutenant Elliott was wounded by a mortar attack on 9th May. At the time of his injury, Lieutenant Elliott was in command of a small patrol advancing against the enemy. His men survived the bombardment, having taken cover at his command. Although we were able to remove him to a field hospital, his injuries were too serious. His friend, Lieut. Thomas Harding, was by his side at the time of his death, which was peaceful and without suffering.

  He is buried in a military cemetery with full honours. His personal effects have been sent.

  Again, assuring you of all our sympathy.

  I remain, yours sincerely,

  Robert Harrison, Capt. R.E.

  From Evie to Thomas

  13th May, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Tom,

  I can think of nothing to say, to write, to do. My heart breaks for us all.

  Mama is inconsolable. Will’s personal effects really brought it home to her. I left her alone with them and haven’t pressed her to see them. She tells me they are the usual things—his battalion number, a packet of smokes, a photograph of his horses. Of course there was no last letter. Not from Will. He never was one for many words. His life was lived all in a look, and a touch, and that knowing smile.

  Papa is ashen-faced and walks about as if in a dream. His only son and heir—gone. I heard him weeping in his study yesterday evening. It broke my heart all over again. My dear Papa. Weeping like a child. No sound could possibly be worse.

  It is hard to find anything to be hopeful about, but I took some small comfort in knowing that you were with him to the last. Oh, Tom. I am so desperately lost without him. My only brother. Our lives will all be darker without him.

  I can write no more. Even poetry cannot cheer me. I hear only sorrow and loss within every line and verse.

  Please keep safe, and do not feel alone. You have always been family to me—and I hope you will consider yourself my brother, now more than ever. Send word whenever you can. Your letters have become something of a life raft for me to cling to.

  Never stop writing. We will fight this war together, you and I.

  Evie

  From Evie to Alice

  13th May, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Darling Alice,

  How on earth can I write these words? Will is gone, Alice. He is gone. He was unable to recover from his wounds and passed away with Tom by his side.

  My heart is truly broken, as I know yours will be too. I only wish I could sit with you and hold your hands and tell you this in person. But war has no mind for such things and such is the way this saddest of news must now be heard: in a few meagre words scribbled on a flimsy piece of writing paper.

  I can find comfort in nothing, Alice. I cannot eat. Cannot sleep. I don’t know how to endure this. I don’t know if I can.

  What unimaginable sorrows we must face.

  May God help us all.

  Evie

  X

  Telegram from Alice to Evie

  14TH MAY 1915

  TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, POPLARS, RICHMOND, LONDON SW

  SENT: 11:55 / RECEIVED: 12:35

  NO! MY DARLING GIRL. MY HEART ACHES, BUT I CAN’T BEAR IT FOR YOU. LEAVING ON NEXT TRAIN. WILL BE WITH YOU SOONEST. ALICE.

  From Charles Abshire to Thomas

  3rd June, 1915

  London, England

  Dear Thomas,

  I am writing to update you on happenings here. Your father continues in his struggle for improved health, but manages to retain his stubborn nature. He sends you his good wishes, as always.

  I don’t know if you are aware, but our Secretary of War has, at last, allowed correspondents to report from the Western Front. This may change the nature of our reporting at the LDT, though we will remain vigilant with an eye to any new restrictions from Kitchener and all others.

  My sincere condolences for your loss of your good friend, William Elliott. I am certain he will be greatly missed. May God bless his soul.

  Sincerely,

  Charles Abshire

  From Thomas to Evie

  5th July, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  I am sorry for the delay in letters. We’re on the move again, and my boots are wearing thin, but at least it’s warm. I’m desperate to walk barefoot in the warm summer grass behind my house, desperate to stretch out on the lawn and stamp out the image of the enemy lurking in the bushes. Day in and day out I find myself bargaining with God. If he would just see me home safely, I plead, I’d give up tobacco, volunteer for charities—adopt orphans! Whatever it takes. But one can’t bargain with God, it seems.

  Two images of Will keep flitting through my mind as I lay on my bed in the dugout: one, the day we went off to university together, arms full of books and our stomachs full of bees—all excitement and a bit of fear at the change of things—and the other, the day I returned from my mother’s funeral. I was only thirteen and so forlorn, a complete mess, in truth. I confided in Will how hard it was to go on without her, how alone Father seemed, and how I suffered even being with him. I had never told anyone about my feelings. Will hugged me as boys do—awkwardly and without looking one another in the eye—and said, “You’re never alone, Tom. You’ve got me and Evie, and my parents. You’re part of our family, too.” And so I was, and always have been.

  I can’t believe he’s been gone for almost two months already.

  Now I’m alone again, among all these soldiers, medical workers, and volunteers. Alone because each of us walks our own path towards death; no one can do it for us. Lately, as I face each day, that path is all I can think about.

  I’ll keep writing, Evie, if that is acceptable to you. It’s the only thing I have to hold on to.

  Your friend,

  Tom

  From Evie to Tom

  11th July, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Tom,

  How happy I was to find your letter in the morning post. I tore it open the moment I saw it in my postbag. (Yes—I kept up my position as postwoman after having threatened to abandon it.) You were right. Alice was right. Will would have wanted me to continue, and—silly though it may sound—I feel a sense of duty to make sure the letters are safely delivered. It gives me purpose, and purpose gives me hope.

  I’m sorry to hear you are finding things so difficult. It must be unimaginably lonely so far away from home and from everyone and everything you know. Of course Will was right. You are part of our family, and I am glad you remembered his words just as I am glad of your letters, which I would happily receive from you every day.

  I know you do your best and write as often as things allow. I, on the other hand, have no excuse, other than to tell you that sitting at the desk in Will’s room became unbearable for a while. I felt I had nothing to say to you. The truth is, these past weeks I have felt like a rag, wrung out. But time passes and the pain eases a little ea
ch week, and although there isn’t a day when I don’t think about Will, we must somehow find a way to go on, mustn’t we? Your memories of him made me smile, so thank you for sharing them with me.

  Increasingly, there are brighter days when I wake with more courage and fortitude than the day before. I call these my “Letter to Tom” days—days when I feel able to put pen to paper and write about things past and share with you my hopes of things that are yet to come. Today is one of those days. We are blessed with sunshine after days of endless rain, and I have taken myself out to the garden for some much-needed fresh air and birdsong. (Did I mention I have taken to sketching birds to pass the time? I stumbled across a very pretty book of British Garden Birds in Papa’s library and set myself a challenge to draw a likeness of each bird from the colour plate illustrations. There are forty-five plates in total. I’ve started on a wren, it being the smallest. Perhaps I will send it on to you when it is done.)

  You asked, a while ago, whether my knitting has improved—a little, but not as much as Mama would like. Her knitting circle expands faster than Papa’s stomach at Christmas. We can hardly keep up with demand from the local War Chest and Comforts for the Troops Appeal. A dozen of Mama’s lady friends call to the house every day, knitting all manner of things: socks, hats, mufflers, mittens, balaclavas, and such. I’m still all fingers and thumbs and hopelessly slow so I am now in charge of organising the individual packages to be sent to each soldier—all POWs. I must say that I enjoy the stroll into town on little errands to collect donations for the parcels. I wonder why we always relied on the maids to do such simple things for us.

  We hear the POWs are being fed only on cabbage soup and black bread and many are in danger of starving or freezing to death. Poor chaps. I’ve started up an Adopters scheme (lots of people are doing it), where each of us knitters “adopts” an individual soldier to knit for. We include a personal note each time we send a parcel. It’s such a small thing and can hardly make much of a difference, but I do hope it gives them some hope to know that someone back home is thinking of them. I have adopted Private James Kent from East Sheen who was captured at the start of the war, last October. The poor boy has been a prisoner for as long as you have been a soldier, Tom.