Jessica Brockmole - Letters from Skye

And I haven’t received a single response. I know, after decades, I shouldn’t expect any. People move on, lives continue. I shouldn’t expect that these people still live at the same addresses. I shouldn’t expect that they know anything about Davey. I shouldn’t expect that they can bandage up my heart.

I’ve spent these long weeks of waiting just wandering around London. Going to every place we walked together, every railing he brushed against, every bend in the road where he stopped to touch my face. Did I ever tell you about the Christmas I spent with Chrissie in Edinburgh, when Davey and I both went outside at midnight just to feel the other across the miles? I thought if I went to all the right spots in London, I could feel him: his breath on my face, his voice in my ear, his hand in mine. I thought that I could find those moments and catch them up in my fingers.

But this isn’t the London where I gave away my heart. This is a city prepared for siege. Everything’s a little dimmer, a little greyer. Shop windows we pressed against are full of tinned food and gas masks. Doorways we paused in to kiss are edged in sandbags. There’s no romance beneath the chandeliers of the Langham. These days, it’s crowded with uniforms and officious-ness. The war is everywhere.

There was one moment when I stepped out of the hotel and swore I saw him on the other side of the street, standing on the steps of All Souls Church. But a bus passed and the image was gone. Even here, nothing but ghosts.

Màthair, there’s no hint of Davey here. Not any longer. Not even in our old room at the Langham. I thought being where we once were, would draw him to me. That I’d send out these letters and finally get some answers. That I’d finally find out what happened to my American.

I’m tired. Half my life has been waiting, it feels, and I don’t know how much longer I can do it. It’s exhausting.

I’ll stay another week at the Langham, just to be sure no letters come, but then I’ll head back towards Edinburgh, head back to again wall up my memories and continue waiting. I know no other way to be. I miss my Margaret so.

9 September 1940

Maisie,

Have you heard from your mother? Please tell me you have. Is she well?

The moment I heard the news about the bombs in London, I hoped she was already out of the city. None of the reports I’ve read seem to know exactly how many planes there were, exactly how many buildings were hit. Hundreds? Thousands? But London is still burning, they say. They are calling it a blitz.

I’ll find out more but, please, tell me your mother got out in time.

Beagan Mhìltean, Skye

Saturday, 14 September 1940

Paul,

Mother sent a letter that arrived at the same time as yours, only hers was written two days before.

Oh, Paul, we had no idea! We’d had no mail, much less a newspaper, for days. A blitz attack that left all of London burning? Gran sent me straight into Portree for news and for a telegram to Emily, in case Mother had left London earlier and made it to Edinburgh.

I can scarcely believe what I’m reading, Paul. Hundreds of bombs, all over the city. Sure, there have been air raids in London before. We’ve all had air raids. But for so much so fast on one city… I just can’t comprehend. When they fall, they don’t discriminate. The London my mother knew truly is gone.

And then almost every day since! A city besieged. I hope, I pray, she’s not there, but Emily said the house in Edinburgh is still shut tight, so I do what she’s been doing all these months. I wait. And watch the post.

I know that you’re out there flying in it all. Paul, please be safe. For me.

After hundreds of German raiders swarmed over London last night and early this morning in the fiercest air attack yet, the city stands strong, with only a single casualty and minimal damage.

During the day, London heard a number of alarms, including one lasting nearly four hours—the longest yet for a daytime warning. The attack was made difficult by patches of fog hanging low over the city. The sirens began again in earnest sometime after 8 P.M., when the skies cleared, and they continued, unabated, until 2:42 A.M., when the anti-aircraft shells finally succeeded in driving off the Nazi attackers. But the citizens of London did not rest for long in their shelters, as a new warning sounded at 3:52 A.M. and another wave of raiders hit the besieged city.

High-explosive bombs were dropped in Central London in wave after wave, damaging buildings and shattering windows within a half-mile radius. Incendiary bombs fell on a popular shopping area and a number of residential neighbourhoods, keeping the fire watches busy with their gallant fight. In Portland Place, a heavy bomb fell, destroying a coal-gas main in the street and causing damage to the fashionable Langham Hotel….

Isle of Skye

6 April 1917

My love,

I’m not sure if I can send food as well, but I can’t bear to think of you hungry when I have so much more. Apples, bread, smoked sausage, cheese, beans, rice, salted herring, onions, jam. Not much fresh coming through my little garden yet, so I’ve included some dried peas. I hope they all make it to you with no trouble.

This time last year you were in hospital and I was frantic with worry. I won’t say I don’t worry about you now, as I worry every day we’re apart, but at least I know that you are safe and whole and missing me dearly.

I’ve also started writing to Minna. Did you know she’s had a baby? The bonniest wee boy, with a sprinkling of pale hair, like Harry. She sent a photo. Do you hear from Harry at all? It must be hard for her to be alone.

I’m tucking a kiss inside this envelope with the letter. Be sure that you grab tight to it before it wiggles out and escapes!

Kriegsgefangenen-Sendung, Postkarte

April 23, 1917

Sue,

Last night I saw the most beautiful sunset. It made me think about the time we took the tram out to Portobello and watched the sunset from the beach. Even though the water was freezing, you dared me to roll up my trousers and wade in. Then you sat on my lap and buried your toes in the sand and we shared that god-awful pie that you made. God-awful or not, I wish I had that pie now. And the sand. And the sunset. But, most of all, I wish I had you.

Isle of Skye

2 May 1917

Davey,

Of course I remember that sunset. I think that was the first time I’d ever sat and just watched the sun slip below the horizon. I truly felt the earth rotating beneath me. Or that could have been the kiss.

Isle of Skye

18 May 1917

Davey,

I haven’t heard from you in a while. I wish I wasn’t starting to feel the first fingers of worry plucking at my heart, the way they always do when I miss a letter or two from you. You have to admit, your history in that respect hasn’t been exemplary. When you don’t write, it’s usually for a reason that makes me have to sit down to read the letter when it does come—being wounded and in hospital, being taken prisoner. What is it this time? What is there left?

I did something different this time. I left Emily with the boys and I went to church. I didn’t go to the stuffy Presbyterian church of my youth but rather to the tiny Catholic chapel in Portree. I remembered the warmth and mystery of St. Mary’s and, besides, I thought if I wanted to put in a special request to God to keep you safe, perhaps I should appeal to the Catholic God you pray to.