Last Christmas in Paris, Page 3

  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 Noël 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?

  How are your toes? You complained of them giving you trouble in your last letter, although I can never be sure if you are being serious or teasing me. Such is the burden of having a brother who was popular in school: having to tolerate the endless teasing of his wicked friends. In any event, I have sent you some socks (poorly knitted by my obstinate fingers, which would much rather have been sketching or writing than twirling wool around infuriating needles). Everyone is knitting comforts for the troops these days. Socks, hats, gloves. The entire nation seems to move to the click clack of knitting needles. It is all we women can do to help, and for those of us not blessed with nimble fingers and a steady hand, this is rather unfortunate. I hope the enclosed OXO cubes and tobacco make up for the “socks.”

  Cook has sent a pudding. She insisted, although I told her you were never especially fond of plum pudding. She’s been steeping the fruit for weeks so I couldn’t bear to decline. Also, I read in the papers that Princess Mary is raising funds to send a Christmas parcel to British troops. You must write to tell me if you receive one. Is there anything else you need? I hear lice powder is helpful, although I shudder to think of it. Is this true?

  Alice Cuthbert visited recently. It was wonderful to see her again, but it was far too brief and only made me wish she lived closer. I could use a daily dose of her good cheer. We lamented the postponement of our plans for a Parisian Christmas, and settled on a stroll down Regent Street instead to look at the shop windows. They are very pretty, decorated with Union Jacks and patriotism and festive wishes to our brave soldiers. It brings a lump to one’s throat.

  Well, I must close. We have a goose to find or Christmas must be cancelled. Please send my regards to that dreadful brother of mine. We’ve still only had a few letters from him, and all of them too brief. Perhaps you could give him some instruction in letter writing. You have a particular talent for it.

  With all good wishes for the festive season, and remember we are incredibly proud, and think of you often. More often than you might believe.

  Your friend,

  Evie Elliott

  P.S. The lanes are too icy for cycling. My trusty steed, Rusty, has been stabled for the winter. My mad dash to Brighton will have to wait until the spring.

  From Thomas to Evie

  10th December, 1914

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  I’m sorry I haven’t written the last couple of weeks. Lots happeni
ng here with new troops arriving, and my responsibilities have shifted.

  The socks you knitted are jolly things! Perfect in their Oxford blue and white, even if the stripes are a bit jagged. I imagine Miss Needham would have rapped your knuckles each time you missed a stitch. She’d rap anyone’s knuckles given half an excuse. What a mean old windbag for a governess you had. Will and I used to fill her wellies with sand, do you remember? We would do the dirty deed, and launch off the back porch, laughing so loud the whole house could hear us. She would tear after us then at full tilt, chasing us with a broom as we raced to the river’s edge like rabbits. She never did catch us. Maybe secretly she wanted us to get away. She always had a twinkle in her eye when she yelled at us.

  As for your poor fingers, I can understand a stabbing needle pain with the best of them. We spent three days in the trenches this week without sleep, and only a few stale loaves of bread to keep us company. The cold was mind-numbing, Evie. I could barely load my gun. That’s not a good thing when the enemy is so close you can hear him pant in fear, or rummage through his stash of bullets. War is nothing like I expected it to be. An adventure, certainly, but I didn’t count on the way it would destroy my easy view of things, make me ache for home and the simplicity I had taken for granted, like the solitude of my bedroom, or a cup of scalding tea first thing in the morning. I dream about taking my skiff out on the inlet behind the house, and watching the dandelion seeds float by until they descend and skate across the pond’s surface. It all seems like a lifetime ago.

  Tell Cook her pudding was the best I ever ate. There are few pleasures these days, but I appreciate her care. And the tobacco! I’ll ration it into the New Year, if I can manage. You’re a peach for sending. Speaking of tobacco, we all received the Christmas gift from Princess Mary: a tin with a sachet of tobacco and letter-writing tools. She tucked a signed letter under the lid as well. It was generous of her to go to such trouble for the soldiers. We’re all very grateful for these small tokens from home.

  Your brother is making a nuisance of himself among the nurses at the field hospital here. He seems to have set his sights on a French nurse. The poor girl will be heartbroken by the New Year, without doubt. But don’t let on I told you. You know how secretive he likes to be about his girls. I may visit the nurse myself this week, show her my dreadful toes (which are slightly better because of the socks you sent).

  I keep thinking about our plans for Christmas and try not to become discouraged. Still, I’ll go on hoping that the war will end in the next couple of weeks, and that I’ll be home to enjoy some festive cheer. I’d like to see that pretty smile on your face, reminding me there’s still plenty of happiness out there waiting for us.

  Sincerely yours,

  Lieutenant Thomas Harding

  P.S. I’ve enclosed a note from Will. I think he may have strained his hand writing it.

  From Will to Evie

  Dear Evie,

  I’m not much for writing, as you know, but I’ll try to make use of the stationery you sent. We spend long hours doing nothing at times, so your letters are a welcome distraction. Don’t tell Papa, but I’ve been enjoying his stash of Cuban cigars. I took every last one I could find before I left. I figured a man at war needed something to look forward to.

  You shouldn’t spend so much time in the house, especially not in my room. It isn’t good for you. You never were the idle sort. Less letter writing and more bicycling. I insist.

  Your loving brother,

  Will

  P.S. Please pass on my regards to Alice. Tell her I will take her dancing when I return.

  From Evie to Alice

  13th December, 1914

  Richmond, England

  Dearest Alice,

  Dreadful news. Charlie Gilbert is dead. Killed in action. Papa saw his name in the casualty lists yesterday. I’m afraid I’m taking it rather badly and Mama is distraught.

  Poor Charlie. He may not have set my heart alight or my mind spinning with intellectual thought, but he was a good man. I didn’t wish to marry him, Alice, but never did I wish him dead. And now I can hardly sleep for worrying about Will, and Tom Harding and the other boys. Any death is a sobering reminder of the dangers they face. The death of someone who might very well have become one’s husband—it is all so terribly upsetting.

  Goodness, Alice. However did this happen to us? To us?

  Please come and visit again soon. I am in desperate need of your endless good cheer.

  Evie

  X

  From Evie to Thomas

  15th December, 1914

  Richmond, England

  Dear Thomas,

  I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. You might have heard about poor Charlie Gilbert. He was killed in action. Shelling, I believe. I’m afraid I have taken the news rather badly.

  It’s difficult to think of you and Will in the trenches, hunkered down in your dugouts while I sleep in comfort. You’ll think me silly but I slept on the floor last night, with only a thin blanket for warmth. A troubled mind and a cold hard floor do not make for the best bedfellows but I plan to do it again tonight. Every night, until you come home. It won’t be long now, will it?

  I expect you’ll also have heard about the bombing of Scarborough. Seventeen innocent lives lost. Women and children among them. Ninety minutes of shelling from the German ships, the papers are reporting. What unimaginable horror. The War Office already has posters up saying: Remember Scarborough and Enlist Today. People are angry, Tom. And rightfully so.

  Sometimes, when I wake in the morning, I pretend it is all a dream and that Will is taking breakfast downstairs and you’ll arrive shortly with some outlandish scheme or other for an outing to Somerset to drink scrumpy cider. I don’t even care for scrumpy cider, but I would drink it all the same.

  At least you still have time to think of love and romance—or at least my brother does. I’m encouraged to hear he is making a nuisance of himself among the nurses. The poor girls won’t stand a chance against his amorous advances. Is this French girl very pretty? There’s nothing like a foreign accent to turn a man’s heart—she must be quite impossible to resist. How quickly Will forgets his flirtations with Alice. You might remind him of the saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Alice still hopes to hear a few lines from him but I won’t breathe a word to her of this nurse (does she have a name?). Promise to keep me fully informed of any romantic developments?

  In less romantic news, we finally have a goose. Not as big as Mama would like, but a goose nonetheless. She forgets (or denies) that we have several fewer mouths to feed this year. I hardly dare mention it. She becomes wretched at the slightest mention of war. None of us can really believe you’ll be away for Christmas, especially since they promised us it would be over. So much for our Parisian plans.

  Join me in a little daydreaming, Tom, will you? Look, there we are strolling along the Champs-Élysées, marvelling at the Arc de Triomphe as fat snowflakes tumble from a soft sky. There we stand, watching the artists at Montmartre, the soaring majesty of the Sacré-Coeur behind us. C’est si beau. And look at us now, tipping our necks right back so that we can gaze up at the soaring heights of la tour Eiffel. There are three hundred steps up to the top, you know. I’ll race you!

  My foolish heart clings to these happier thoughts. But it isn’t just the charm of the capital city that pulls me towards France. You’ll think me silly to say it but part of me longs to be closer to the war. I need to DO something, Tom. Anything, except sit here wondering and worrying.

  Do take care, and if I don’t hear from you before, have the happiest Christmas it is possible to have there. We will be thinking of you at every waking moment, and in our dreams.

  Joyeux Noël.

  Yours,

  Evie

  From Thomas to Evie

  20th December, 1914

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  As I sit here in my bunker, completing the never-ending paperwork f
or my superiors, I’m dreaming of oysters and champagne, roasted chestnuts dusted with sugar, a roaring fire. I never was one for dancing, but I’d give my right hand to be at your mother’s Christmas party right now. Last year I only danced twice—once with you and once with your mother, if you recall—and then I scooted off to the fringes for another scotch. You wore a peacock-blue dress and sparkled like the tinsel on the tree. After a while, the heat in the ballroom had me running for the garden. You found me there and we shared a cigarette beside the rose bushes. Do you remember? I gave you my jacket to keep you warm. That’s when we found your brother huddled behind the holly hedges with Hattie Greenfield. Will and his women!

  Will’s French nurse is called Amandine Morel. A pretty French girl named after an almond flower—a perfect opportunity for bad poetry if ever there was one. I have to admit, I envy him the distraction. I’m rather glum. Battles rage on, regardless of season or sacrifice.

  My father wrote at last. He seems disappointed I’m not coming home for Christmas, which cheers me a little. The last time I saw him we had a dreadful argument and haven’t spoken since, so his few lines show progress, I suppose. The thing is, Evie, I have little interest in running the London Daily Times . It’s not the sort of work I see myself doing—I’m not interested in chasing the next story to make a few quid or become a star reporter. Nor do I care about status. Frankly, I don’t see why we can’t hire someone else to do it, or pass it along to the next of kin, but Father won’t hear of it. He’s never understood my passion for literature and yet, isn’t that what he does, at least in the most basic sense—share stories with the public? Perhaps I’m a fool to think we can bridge this gap between us.

  Forgive me for becoming sentimental. I’m certain this isn’t the sort of thing you were hoping to read in my letters.