Jessica Brockmole: Letters from Skye

If all goes well, we should be arriving in Edinburgh on the sixteenth. I know I won’t be able to wait a moment longer than that. The seventeenth at noon? St. Mary’s Cathedral on York Place?

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS

SRP 5.55 EDINBURGH 25

18 JUNE 14

E. DUNN ISLE OF SKYE=

WAITED IN CATHEDRAL AS PLANNED WHERE ARE YOU

PLEASE REPLY=

Liverpool, England, United Kingdom

June 22, 1914

What happened, Sue? I thought we had a deal. Did that ferry prove too much for you? You’re lucky I’m not one to hold a grudge. But you do realize that, at the very least, you owe me an explanation! One that doesn’t involve a ravaging water horse.

The trip has been great. Harry and I have had years to catch up on. He’s not been the best of correspondents and, you may be surprised to hear, neither have I. You seem to inspire something special that makes me never run out of things to say.

Harry has got himself a sweetheart, Minna, a demure young lady who writes the most saccharine verse. I met her: very polite but quite flirtatious. She spent half the time discussing the weather and the price of tea in a precise, clipped accent and the other half trying to get Harry alone in the many corners of her parents’ vast house. She’s only eighteen, so no matter how much the rest of his anatomy was telling him otherwise, his head cooled long enough for him to decide not to pop the question just yet. He’s heading back to the States to start medical school and a savings account. In the meantime, he hopes (although not too ardently!) that she develops at least one other skill or passion aside from trying to maneuver him into the bedroom at every opportunity. Harry’s not holding his breath that Minna will be faithful, but we drank a toast to her trying anyway.

The cities we visited were lovely, but, truth to tell, I could’ve been back in Urbana and it would’ve been fine, as long as I was with Harry. Does that sound overly sentimental? He’s started smoking a pipe and writing poetry (is everyone a poet these days?). Aside from that, he’s the same old Harry, and we felt like little boys. I’m sure there were some occasions where we acted like little boys too.

We’re getting ready to board the ship, but I wanted to write so I could mail this before I left Great Britain. I have a few more souvenirs to buy before we leave. I asked Florence what she wanted me to bring her back from my trip and she firmly requested an English pony. I don’t think a pony would fit in my stateroom (that’s what I get for sailing second class!), but how could I refuse the wishes of my favorite little girl?

Harry is going to send one more cable to Minna and has offered to drop this letter by the post office for me, so I’ll close for now. I’ll be looking for a letter full of fervent explanations and humble apologies from you! No more secrets, Sue!

Isle of Skye

3 July 1914

David,

I must say, I was amazed to get a letter from you so quickly; then I noticed you had mailed it from England, so it didn’t have as far to go as usual.

You have every right to be angry at me, Davey. We had an agreement. Goodness, you traveled across an ocean to meet me. All I had to do was ferry across the sound.

What is my excuse, you may rightly ask? My old fear would be a handy one, for sure. But, alas, my fears in this case are sillier, perhaps even a bit more primitive. I’m afraid that, if we meet, the mystery will be gone. We might not get along the way we do on paper. What if our conversation doesn’t flow like this in person?

You were waiting in St. Mary’s Cathedral to meet an ideal of Elspeth Dunn. I didn’t want you to be disappointed with the real thing. What if you thought I was too short? Or too old? Or you didn’t like the sound of my voice? I just want to keep things the way they are, where I’m mysterious and, I hope, interesting.

I really did intend to come, though. Trust me in that, Davey.

As long as you think I’m keeping secrets, I have another one. But this one I’ll keep close for a bit, for I know that you won’t be able to stop laughing once you hear.

Harry sounds like a simply splendid friend. I would say that I hope to meet him someday, but I suppose I can’t do that without meeting you—and we’ve already gone over that!

P.S. I truly hope that not everyone has become a poet, else I’ll be out of a job!

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

July 15, 1914

Sue, Sue, you funny thing. Did you never stop to think that perhaps I worried about the same “what-ifs”? Avoiding a face-to-face meeting was to my advantage. You wouldn’t see how big my feet are or how clumsy I am when off the dance floor. I think you have a good opinion of me now (aside from my taste in jackets, I suppose). After all, I’m devilishly handsome. Wickedly clever. Witty and utterly brilliant. Why would I want to jeopardize that? All those illusions could vanish the moment we said hello. But for the elusive chance to meet you… all of those apprehensions pale in comparison.

We’ve been writing for, what, two years now? (I say that with a bit of nonchalance, as though I haven’t saved every letter you’ve ever sent.) Really, can there still be mystery after all of that time? We’ve told our deepest fears, confessed our secret longings. I know you, Sue, and I think you know me too. If I were sitting in front of you, saying this right now, I should hope my words wouldn’t mean less just because you disliked the sound of my Midwestern accent.

Think about when you first meet a person, Sue. You have to get past all the superficial nonsense, the appraisals of accents and checked jackets. An interrogation of appearance. After you’ve deemed each other worthy, then you can actually settle down to get acquainted, to begin those first tentative probes of the mind. Find out what sort of thing fuels the other—what makes them scream, what makes them laugh, what makes them tremble on the rug. You and I are lucky. We never had to worry about the first part, the visual sizing up. We got to go directly to the interesting bit. The getting to know the depths and breadths of each other’s soul.

I don’t know about you, but I find it refreshing. I am sick to death of having to worry whether people think I look old enough or respectable enough or whatnot. Always having to be polite and look interested. When I write to you, I don’t have to think about any of that nonsense. I don’t have to worry about my big feet. I can peel away the husk (if you will forgive a corn metaphor) and reveal the shiny kernels of my dreams and passions and fears. They are yours, Sue, yours to gnaw on as you will! Marvelous with a sprinkle of salt.

Now, after all that, you must tell me your new secret. I can promise that I won’t laugh. At least not loud enough that you could hear me from Chicago….

I’m starting to nod off and so pulled out my watch. I’m not going to admit to how early in the morning it is, but the streets have long been quiet. I hope you’re sleeping a bit more soundly than I am right now!

Isle of Skye

18 August 1914

Davey,

What is the world coming to?

Eight weeks ago, I stood on the pier, trying to find the nerve to step on that ferry. I kept my eyes on that horizon, knowing that if I went to meet it, to meet you, everything would change. Not necessarily in the going, but in the leaving. Women like me don’t go across the water to rendezvous with fascinating Americans. They wait at home for their husbands’ boats to return.

So I went back to my cottage, to reread your letters and pretend I didn’t almost get on that ferry. To wait for Iain to return from chasing the herring up the Minch. To think of a way to tell him that, after so many years, I was pregnant.