Jessica Brockmole - Letters from Skye

But what I wish to do above all? That’s an easy question, but the answer is not one I’m willing to admit. I’m afraid you’ll have to accept my firstborn child after all.

Isle of Skye

1 September 1912

Mr. Graham,

Well, now my interest is piqued! What is it that you always longed to be as a wee boy? A naval captain? A circus acrobat? A traveling perfume salesman? You must, must tell, or I shall form speculations of my own. I am a poet, after all, and I live amidst people who believe in fairies and ghosts. My imagination is quite fertile.

You asked why I didn’t go to university somewhere off the isle, and I have a confession to make. Now, this is quite embarrassing, mind you.

Let me take a deep breath.

I’ve never been off Skye. My whole life. Really! The reason is… well, I’m afraid of boats. I can’t swim and am afraid to get into the water to even learn. I know you are probably falling from your desk chair, laughing. A person who lives on an island, utterly terrified of the water? But there you have it. Not even the lure of university could convince me to step foot on a boat. Oh, I tried. Really I did! I had actually planned to sit for a scholarship exam. I even had my suitcase all packed. Finlay and I, we were going to give it a go together. But when I eyed that ferry… oh, it just didn’t look seaworthy. It doesn’t seem right that boats float on the water. No amount of whisky could entice me on.

There! Now you have two secrets of mine. You know about my ridiculous aspirations towards geology and my even more ridiculous fear of the water and of boats. Now you surely can feel safe confiding your secret to me. You really can trust me, if for no other reason than there is no one else (apart from the sheep) for me to tell.

P.S. Please stop calling me “Mrs. Dunn.”

Margaret

The Borders

Tuesday, 4 June 1940

Dearest Mother,

That’s another batch delivered! I swear, there must not be a single child left in all of Edinburgh with all we’ve evacuated to the countryside away from those bombs. These three were better than most; at least they could reliably wipe their own noses.

I have to get this group settled and then I promised Mrs. Sunderland I’d pay a wee visit to her brood in Peebles. Any letters from Paul?

Edinburgh

8 June 1940

Margaret,

You’re running yourself ragged; you’ve only just come back from Aberdeenshire! Most lasses stay in one place, rolling bandages or building battleships or whatever it is that young women do these days. But there you are, tramping up and down the Scottish countryside like the Pied Piper, with all of those poor children running after. Don’t they know you can’t tell one end of the compass from the other? And that it was only recently you could reliably wipe your own nose?

But, no, dearest, no letters from Paul. Have faith. If there’s one thing you can expect from that boy, it’s a letter. And then about a hundred more.

Still the Borders

Wednesday, 12 June 1940

Dear Mother,

If my best friend can go flying about Europe with the R.A.F., then whyever can’t I fly about Scotland?

But you haven’t heard from him, have you? Everyone keeps saying the R.A.F. wasn’t at Dunkirk, but Paul said, “I’ll be right back,” and then hasn’t written since. Where else would he have gone? So either he’s out of stamps or he hasn’t come back from France.

But, really, I’m trying not to worry. The little ones, they fret enough away from their mothers; I don’t want to upset them more.

I’m for Peebles in the morning and then on to Edinburgh from there. Have tea and cakes from Mackie’s bakery waiting for me! Else I may just stay on the train until I get to Inverness…

Edinburgh

15 June 1940

Margaret,

If I knew all it would take to lure you home was a dish of Mackie’s cakes, I would’ve tried it ages ago, sugar ration or no!

Still nothing from Paul. But you can’t depend on the mail in wartime. I don’t remember you worrying so much about him before. Isn’t he just a pen friend?

Peebles

Monday, 17 June 1940

Mother,

Yes, I’m still here in Peebles. The trains are a muddle and I’ve had a very persistent Annie Sunderland trying to convince me to pop her in my suitcase and bring her along to Edinburgh. When I threaten to paste her feet to the floor, she begs for just one story more. You know her, with those big brown eyes. How can I resist? Of course she misses her mummy, but the family Annie and the boys stay with here are just wonderful. I can bring back a good report to Mrs. Sunderland.

I suppose I should tell you, Paul may be a bit more than a pen friend. At least that’s how he sees it. He fancies he’s in love with me. I think he’s quite ridiculous and I’ve told him so. We’re merely friends. Best friends, to be sure. You remember how we’d always go hiking and bouldering and then share a sandwich. But in love? I didn’t tell you before because I was sure you’d laugh. He is being ridiculous, isn’t he?

I should be home tomorrow or the next, if I have to walk every step of the way from Peebles. Onward!

POST OFFICE TELEGRAM

18.06.40 PLYMOUTH

MARGARET DUNN, EDINBURGH

MAISIE NO WORRIES I AM SAFE=

SHORT LEAVE IN PLYMOUTH=

THINKING OF YOU=

Mother!

He’s written!

I saw the telegram propped up on the table and I couldn’t wait for you to come home from church. I worried I might miss the train south. I wrapped up all of the cakes. They will be quite a treat for him. I hope you don’t mind.

My suitcase and I are heading right back to Waverley Station. I’ll write to you when I get there.

He’s written.

Edinburgh

18 June 1940

Oh, my Margaret,

I know I can never send this letter; it’ll end up on the grate the moment I put words to paper. If you only knew how my heart wrenches to read your note on the table, amidst the crumbs on the empty cake plate. If you knew how it feels to run after someone for a brief snatch of time, how the world stops spinning, just for a moment, when you hold them in your arms, and then starts again so fast that you fall to the ground, dizzy. If you knew how every hello hurts more than a hundred goodbyes. If you knew.

But you don’t. I never told you. You have no secrets from me, but I’ve kept a part of myself locked away, always. A part of me that started scratching at the wall the day this other war started, that started howling to get out right now, the day you ran off to meet your soldier.

I should have told you, should’ve taught you to steel your heart. Taught you that a letter isn’t always just a letter. Words on the page can drench the soul. If only you knew.

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

September 21, 1912

Dear Elspeth,

If not “Mrs. Dunn,” what, then? What is it that your friends call you? Ellie? Libby? Elsie? Around here I’m known as “Mort” (don’t ask), but my mother calls me “Davey.”

You’ve never been off Skye? I don’t know why I should find that so unbelievable. I mean, there will always be people with a fear of the sea, and someone who lives so close to the sea would see firsthand how frightening it can be. Have you never even crossed over a bridge?

Okay, do you really want to know my secret? My parents don’t know this, and my friends would bust a gut if they heard. Here goes: If I could be anything in the world, I would be a dancer. A ballet dancer, like Nijinsky. I saw him dance in Paris and it was amazing! Actually, “amazing” doesn’t do it justice. I went every night that I could get a seat, no matter how far from the stage I was. I didn’t know it was possible for a human to jump and twirl as high as he did. And he made it all look so effortless! I’ve never had any lessons, but I’ve always been thought of as a fair dancer. Perhaps the next Nijinsky?