Last Christmas in Paris Read online

  At once a voice arose among

  The bleak twigs overhead

  In a full-hearted evensong

  Of joy illimited;

  An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

  In blast-beruffled plume,

  Had chosen thus to fling his soul

  Upon the growing gloom.

  Whenever I hear the song thrush, I think of Will and imagine that both he and the thrush are singing songs of hope—and you must do the same. Listen for the birds, and when you hear them, know that I am thinking of you.

  Well, I must go. Keep hearty and hopeful. And do try to eat. I imagine a starving man is almost as dangerous as those Howitzers and whizz bangs you write of.

  With much love,

  Evie.

  X

  P.S. I missed yesterday’s post, which gives me the opportunity to add, by way of a postscript, the joyful revelation that the lark is a symbol of luck and harmony. I think you could do with the former and the world could do with the latter, so here is my best attempt (done—in my defence—in a hurry, before I miss the post again).

  From Evie to Alice

  12th August, 1915

  Richmond, England

  My darling Alice,

  How on earth are you? I am so very sorry for not having written to you for so long. For many weeks after Will’s death I found myself quite unable to write anything that wasn’t desperately sad or smudged by my tears. But I feel a little brighter of late, and I am spurred on by the thought of a few lines from you in return.

  I also have a little news to share with you. I am to write a column for the LDT! It is all John Hopper’s doing (he really is terribly persuasive when he sets his mind to something—and is still Mama’s current favourite for a suitable husband for me, by the way). Tom thinks the column is a splendid idea and encourages me wholeheartedly. I’m not sure when the first piece will be printed but when it is, I will send on a clipping for you to read. I’m to write under the pseudonym Genevieve Wren (partly to prevent Mama knowing I am behind the words—she would never agree to it). What do you think? I rather like it.

  Tom and I are still exchanging letters faster than he is exchanging gunfire with the enemy. I must tell you that I find myself thinking about him often and longing to hear a few lines from him. What is this, Alice? This is Tom Harding, for goodness’ sake! Since he went to war and we started writing all these letters to each other, I find myself wishing, ever more, that I could see him. It makes no sense at all. Perhaps I have a fever on the way. I must go for a lie down after posting this off.

  Anyway, I ramble.

  It seems futile to talk of other news, but life, as they say, must somehow go on. Tell me, how is the nursing going? We hear such marvellous things about the VADs. Diana Manners was all over the newspapers in her uniform, encouraging ladies to enroll. I am so terribly proud of you. When will you ship out?

  Do write soon, and let me know when you might be able to get to Richmond again. Perhaps we could take a walk along the river like we used to as young girls. Such simple pleasures. Who would ever have thought they would become such impossibilities.

  Yours,

  Evie.

  X

  From Thomas to Evie

  15th August, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  Your letter made me laugh! I haven’t laughed in ages so I thank you. I should have known the one person on this God-forsaken earth to cheer me in the darkest of times would be you. Little Evie who tied my bootlaces together before I boarded the train to Brighton one summer. The very same girl who told her governess she was sick so she could miss her lessons, only to help her brother let toads loose in the drawing room to bother the mean old spinster. What a mischievous character you were.

  Also, thank you for the chocolate and cough candy. My commanding officer cracked his tooth on one of those blasted Huntley & Palmers biscuits they’re feeding us, and the Maconochie I’m forced to eat is about the foulest version of tinned stew you’ve ever smelled, much less tasted. Sometimes I think I don’t deserve your kindness. The thick horror of my day-to-day existence has a way of making me see things through a queer light.

  Bird analogies are quite useful, you see? The wren puffs its little chest for fortitude and strength, the lark for luck, but what of the peacock with its proud turquoise chest and fancy tail feathers? You’re like a bird yourself. An eagle, meant to soar above, yet never losing keen sight. You are not a woman to be caged, are you? One day, you won’t be able to control that fire inside you and you will be off, on the road and unstoppable. Your column is the perfect start.

  I know the Thomas Hardy poem you sent—it’s as darkly beautiful as the name suggests and particularly apt just as you said. You know my ardent fervour for Shakespeare, of course. Did you know he used bird imagery in his work more than any other? His most obscure poem and addendum to another writer’s piece is called (at least now—it was published untitled initially) “The Phoenix and the Turtle.” It stars a pair of birds, a phoenix and a turtledove, whose love creates a union so perfect it defies concrete sense and earthly logic, and overcomes any obstacle. When I return, I’ll show it to you. I have a copy among my school things.

  How is your first article progressing?

  Tomorrow we move again.

  Ever Yours,

  Tom

  From Thomas to his father

  20th August, 1915

  Somewhere in France

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

  I received your letter and positively fumed at our relations, especially Uncle Arthur. I wish I had known all of this family history before. I’m sorry Hopper took advantage of your friends, and pulled our good name through the mud, but he would call it simple business practices, would he not? That seems to be his way, but I’m curious. If you and your brother-in-law had already gone your separate ways, how did John come to own stock in the business? I gather this means he owns rights in deciding the paper’s future. If he’s not to be trusted, as you suggest, we may find ourselves in a very precarious situation.

  You may also be troubled to learn that Hopper is looking into why the paper is losing money. Apparently the other two presses Hopper owns are booming (he is well set up with his connections at Wellington House, after all) so he insists his points are valid. He suggests we begin a column entitled “A Woman’s War.” For now, I’m on board with the idea as Evelyn Elliott is to be the authoress, but under a nom de plume. Remember the poems she used to write, how we kept them in a drawer in the kitchen? She’ll be brilliant at it. I must confess, however, that with Hopper steering things, I’d prefer you to be involved somehow. As soon as you’re well enough to receive visitors, perhaps you and Evie may discuss a variety of topics. I’m certain she would enjoy that immensely. She respects you, nay, loves you like an uncle.

  I wish you a speedy recovery, Father.

  Your son,

  Thomas

  P.S. I’ve included a short note to Abshire.

  Dear Charles,

  If Hopper is poking around in our books and looking into financial matters, I should also keep up on them as much as possible. I need to be on my toes where he’s concerned. I’d like a copy of the summary sheet from last year and the first six months of 1915 as well: business expenses, wages, stocks, and profits. There are hours I am not in battle and I would like to use my time wisely.

  I hope you are well, friend.

  Sincerely,

  Thomas

  From Evie to Thomas

  28th August, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dear Lieutenant Harding,

  I am much heartened by the news that I can still make you laugh, even from so far away. I imagine laughter is in short supply over there, along with a decent meal and a comfortable bed. The “Maconochie” stew you write of sounds awful. Can you put a dash of rum in it to liven it up (or a dash of rum in yourself to numb your taste buds)? I always had an ability to bring a
smile to your face, didn’t I, although it wasn’t always intentional. How you and Will used to tease me and get such great delight from your wicked tricks. If I have grown up to be full of mischief, I must place the blame firmly at your feet for setting such a dreadful example to an impressionable young lady.

  You say that you are on the move and I find myself anxious. I have grown to hate those words “Somewhere in France” at the top of your letters. It might as well say, “Somewhere in the World,” for all the reassurance it brings. Thinking of you marching closer to danger is unbearable. If only I knew where you are. If only Papa and I could consult our wretched maps and know with some certainty which direction you are moving in.

  We place black buttons on the areas where we believe you have been and red buttons on the locations where we know the worst of the battles have already taken place, or are likely to take place soon. Those black and red buttons have come to represent my greatest fears, Tom. I keep a blue button firmly on London. It fell off the blue dress. The one I wore to Mama’s Christmas party when we danced together. I must admit that I never especially cared for that dress, but now, whenever I see it hanging in the wardrobe, I think of you, and of laughter and dancing. I think of happier times. Which is why the blue button will remain on London until you are home and I will ask Sarah to sew it back on, and we shall dance again. Perhaps I will wear that dress to dinner in Paris. We will get there one day, won’t we Tom? This Christmas. Next Christmas. One day. Promise me?

  Oh dear. I am becoming hopelessly sentimental. War, it seems, can soften as well as harden people. And with all your words about Shakespeare’s “The Phoenix and the Turtle,” it would appear that you are still the same old Tom with a wordsmith’s heart and a book always tucked under his arm, and not just a soldier at war with a gun and a bayonet. “It stars a pair of birds, a phoenix and a turtledove, whose love creates a union so perfect it defies concrete sense and earthly logic, and overcomes any obstacle.” I wonder, is such perfect love possible? I do hope so Tom, or what on earth are you all fighting for?

  In other news, I had the pleasure of visiting with your father at his home in Bartholomew Close. He was pleased to see me and was in reasonably good spirits, if a little frail and easily tired. We spoke of you (with great fondness, might I add) and briefly discussed your concerns for the newspaper. I know you and your father have had your difficulties over the years, but I must say, he is most concerned for your safe return. He is also incredibly frustrated by his poor health—frustrated that he cannot help in the war effort, frustrated that he cannot protect you. You are still his only son, whatever your differences of opinion.

  I know he would dearly love for you to take the helm at the paper when the time comes. Couldn’t you tell him you will? Make your peace with him before it is too late? I know your heart is in the scholarly, and back in the hallowed halls of Oxford, but it would give your father such comfort to know that you will do the honourable thing, so to speak. If only to ease his conscience, can’t you say it will be so?

  I have probably said too much, so I will close.

  Stay safe, dear friend. You remain in all our prayers.

  Evie.

  X

  P.S. My first column is to be printed towards the middle of September. I feel quite sick at the thought.

  From Thomas to Evie

  1st September, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Miss Evelyn Elliott,

  We’re back to formalities, are we? Yet you sign with your Christian name without a care. I do like contradictions. It is what fiction is made of, is it not? As for your writing, I’m certain your column will be a smash, just you wait and see. Courage, as the French would say!

  You mentioned adding rum to my food, so I must tell you about this “rum” we are given (and which I, as a Lieut., distribute) in rations. It isn’t a sweet, tawny liquid mixed well with fruit, or drunk cool. It’s so strong it almost walks from the bottle, burns your eyes and nose, and slides down your throat like a violent tar, assaulting your stomach as it settles. But there’s no doubt it does the trick, dulls the mind. In fact, it’s a scourge. I’ve witnessed too many men stagger from the trenches in front of enemy fire to be struck dead instantly, without so much as their hand on their gun. Sure, the rum numbs the pain of loss for a time, but it’s short lived and as it dissipates, it seems to intensify the aching. It leaves a man in a darker place from where he started. I know, sadly. After Will, I remained in a stupor for weeks. It’s a miracle I survived it, Evie. But since, I’ve given it up completely. It’s too dangerous.

  We’ve had a slight reprieve the last two weeks, outside the usual daily sniper incidents. (Who knew I would consider a random shooting a relief?) I call it a reprieve, but the trench foot, typhoid, and pestilence make up for the lack of heavy bombing, and there are Blighty wounds, of course. I suppose I should explain the military lingo. Blighty wounds are serious injuries, in which a Tommy is in bad enough shape to be sent home, but the injury isn’t fatal, or even crippling. In truth, many of the men hope for them. I know some injure themselves on purpose. It is a measure of how desperate we have become.

  Thank you for visiting Father. I’m sure he enjoyed seeing you, as always. I must admit, it makes me a bit green. I should be home right now, caring for him, and looking after the LDT. Maybe I will tell him I’ll run the paper as you suggested, though I’m not ready to commit to such a permanent change in direction yet. At least through your letters, I’m coming to understand the real value in news, the honour in seeking truths. I had never thought of journalism that way before. Father has always focused on it solely as a vehicle to make money.

  Do you know what would make me happiest right now? Visiting a friend of mine who goes by the name of Genevieve Wren and talking about all of this over a roast and Yorkshire puddings.

  I am making myself hungry again. I’ll focus on that blue button instead.

  Yours,

  Lieutenant Thomas Harding

  P.S. The badge enclosed was Will’s. He slipped it into my hand before he died and I kept meaning to send it. I found it in my greatcoat pocket and wanted you to have it.

  P.P.S. I do hope you’ll send on a copy of your first column. I can hardly wait to read it.

  From Alice to Evie

  3rd September, 1915

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  How happy I was to receive your letter! Only a month away and I feel as if my life has taken on new meaning. I don’t mind nursing half as much as I thought I would; I’ve grown accustomed to the sight of blood, and am actually quite good at changing dressings, though I do hate to see our boys suffer. I fear many will never recover their wits fully. And the empty look in their eyes, Evie. It keeps me awake at night. I hope you never see anything like it.

  My mother is proud to see me doing my bit, but she scolds me in her letters as always, warning me to remember what I am there for and not to fall for the officers (it happens more often than you might believe). What good will it do, she says, if I go losing my heart to someone and then a German shoots out his eye or he loses an arm? Worse, what if he loses his soul to war? I suppose she’s right, but I ask you this—what valiant young man hasn’t stolen my heart, at least for a week or two? We both know the answer to that! And we are, after all, still human beings, even when we are in this hell.

  I can’t believe it has taken you so long to admit it, dear girl, but I knew you felt something for your ginger Tom! Perhaps you have always had feelings for him? He has been your friend since we wore pigtails and he’s a lively fellow with that big grin and wicked sense of humour, yet gentle somehow, and so scholarly, too, which you’ve always admired in a person. And like you, Tom loves nothing more than a little adventure. What could be more perfect?

  I can see you shaking your head all the way from here. Don’t deny it. You as much as said it in your letter. Fall madly in love, Evie. Have a little fun! You need it now, more than ever.

  Give my lov
e to your parents (and Tom, wink wink).

  Love,

  Alice

  From Evie to Tom

  5th September, 1915

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Tom,

  Thank you so much for Will’s badge. I will treasure it. Such small tokens become incredibly precious when they are all you have to remember someone by. A badge. A button from a tunic. A letter. A lock of hair. A crumpled photograph. I am sure I have delivered them all to a grieving mother or wife along with the final words of their loved ones. I’m not sure what else was returned to us with Will’s personal effects. Whenever I mention them, Mama bursts into tears.

  Whatever my personal feelings about losing my only brother, I cannot imagine the grief Mama suffers having lost her only son, so I do not press her on the matter. I’m sure she will show me, when she feels able to.

  I must say that your letters are being heavily censored by your superiors of late, so I cannot know where you are or what battles you refer to. (Can you not use an Honour envelope? A friend was telling me how her husband writes to her and uses the Honour envelope to prevent any intrusion by those in command. She says his letters are hopelessly romantic, so it is the contents of his heart, rather than any great military secrets, that he wishes to protect.)