Jessica Brockmole - Letters from Skye

I wasn’t the only one in the chapel that day. Other women were there, in veils and scarves, muttering prayers and lighting candles. I brought along your little Bible and traced your name with my fingertip. I lit a candle and, not knowing the proper prayers, just closed my eyes and thought about you. When I opened them, a woman was sitting by my side, quietly watching me. “Have you said a novena for him?” I admitted I wasn’t Catholic, half-expecting her to order me out of the church. Instead, she put her hand on mine and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll say an extra for you.” She gave me her carved wooden rosary and promised to teach me the prayers when she saw me again.

I felt much better after leaving. Even though it is a bit of a journey for me to get to Portree, I now know a place I can go when I want to feel close to you.

Isle of Skye

22 May 1917

Davey,

Please quell these fears within me. I have been bicycling to Portree nearly every day to pray for you, and I need some confirmation that my prayers have been answered. These Catholic prayers are newly learned, and I want to be sure I’m doing something right.

Anything, Davey! A postcard. A sentence. A word, even. Please.

June 1, 1917

Sue,

I’ve debated for a while about how best to write this to you. You don’t know how many versions have ended up in the grate. I suppose the best thing is just to come out and say it.

Iain is alive.

He’s not dead, Sue. He’s here, in this same camp.

A few weeks ago, we were out having our exercise. A group of British men had recently been transferred to our camp and were clustered on one side of the yard. I tell you, my girl, it brought tears to my eyes to hear English spoken after nothing but French and the occasional indecipherable bit of Russian for six months! I hurried right over to one of the guys, begging to be let in on a conversation, any conversation.

One asked where I was from. I said, “Illinois,” and another man called out, “Illinois? You don’t say! I have family there. What part?” Europeans never seem to realize the vastness of the United States, so when I said, “Chicago. Urbana, for a while,” this guy said to me, “Why, my cousin lives in Chicago! Frank Trimball. Surely you know him? I’ll ask him about you. What’s your name?”

I told him my name and heard a bellow from somewhere within the throng: “David Graham from Urbana, Illinois?”

I must’ve responded, Sue, because the next thing I knew, I was on the ground with a stinging cheek and grit in my eyes.

I heard someone say, “What’d you do that for, mate?” and I stood up, still reeling, to see a stranger, his fists clenched, his mouth twisted.

“That was for falling in love with my wife.”

Dizzy, I didn’t react quickly enough to avoid the second punch.

“And that was for making her fall in love with you.”

I spat blood. “Who the hell are you?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

“Elspeth’s husband. Or have you gone after so many married women you lost track?”

You really didn’t think I could let that comment slide by, now, did you, Sue? Of course I went after him. What followed could only be described as an old-fashioned schoolyard brawl.

It seemed to go on for ages, but it was probably only a matter of minutes before we heard shouts in German and the others finally succeeded in pulling us apart.

We collapsed in the dust, panting, and the crowd dispersed. Truth to tell, we were too tired, too hungry, and too demoralized to do much more.

“Why did you leave her? Why didn’t you write?” I had to ask, for your sake. “She thought you were dead.”

Iain knuckled his nose. His hand came away bloody. “She had you.”

Sue, he knew. The whole time. He found your letters, knew you’d been writing to me in secret for years. He divined all the hints between the lines that we both later found. He guessed how we felt before either of us admitted it. Why do you think he joined up so quickly? Why do you think he was so eager to get to the front? He didn’t feel he had anything more to lose.

I don’t know yet what this means for us. I’m still wrestling with my own conscience, so I understand if you don’t write back right away. If you want to write to him, he’s at the same address.

Isle of Skye

18 June 1917

What a horrible joke that was, Davey! I fainted cold on the floor when I started to read your letter. Brave Allie had his coat on, ready to run to town in the rain for the doctor, when I came to and reassured him that it was nothing but a mean joke.

It was, wasn’t it? Iain can’t be alive. All those letters I received confirming his death. My separation allowance turned into a widow’s pension. How could the War Office be wrong in this?

How am I supposed to feel? My husband joins up and heads out to battle as a grand attempt at suicide. He doesn’t write; he doesn’t come to see me. He’s been prisoner for over a year now, without a word to me or to his mother that he was alive. Is he surprised I fell in love with another man? Wouldn’t any woman do the same?

Oh, Davey! I can’t go through this. I can’t go through all of this.

Kriegsgefangenen-Sendung, Postkarte

June 23, 1917

Sue,

Tomorrow I spread my wings. It may be a while before I write again, but don’t worry about me. You are the blossom that I fly toward.

I miss your smile.

June 24, 1917

Sue, my dearest girl,

If you’re reading this, it means that Iain has gotten through. I know it must have been a shock to find him on your doorstep, resurrected from the grave, so to speak. But I once made you a promise that I wouldn’t stand in the way once he returned home to you.

I’ve written a fairy story for you, Sue. I trust that it makes clear what I cannot. Always know that I love you.

There was once a fisherman who had a beautiful wife named Lucinda. He’d sail off for weeks, following the fish, and Lucinda waited back on the shore, dangling her bare feet in the waves and making his nets. She wove and knotted the strong silvery threads and, as she wove, she would sing. She sang lonely songs of the sea, spirited sailing shanties, and achingly beautiful melodies that sounded as if they came from the mermaids themselves. But as she gazed out across the water, eyes fixed on the horizon for her husband’s boat, each of her songs was tinged with sadness .

Lucinda was so lovely and her song so pure that a water sprite had fallen in love with her. Every day while she sat by the water knotting her nets, the sprite floated nearby, watching her and growing more in love. With each crystal tear that Lucinda shed into the sea, the sprite swam a little closer, wishing there was a way to make her smile. He became determined to win her love and bring her to live in the sea with him .

The sprite swam out to sea, in search of the most precious gifts he could find, things Lucinda had never seen in her humble land, things that would make her realize there was more to the world than her little stretch of shore and the empty horizon. Once she saw how far the sea reached and how much hid beneath the waves, she’d come with him .

He dove to the deepest depths and found the most beautiful conch shell he could, large and creamy white, with a faint glow of pink and pale blue radiating from the inside. He brought it to Lucinda with a shy smile and was pleased to get one in return.

But she refused the gift, saying, “If I want a beautiful shell, I only need to walk along the beach and choose from the shells scattered there.”

“None will be as lovely as this conch shell from so far away.”