Jessica Brockmole: Letters from Skye

The story was about her. Her husband, Iain, was a fisherman on Skye. He went missing during the war, was declared dead, and reappeared. Turned up on her doorstep with Davey’s letter in hand. She didn’t even get a choice.

The Next Morning

I wrote that to you and then, as the sunrise came orange through the window, I fell asleep too. When I woke, Mother sat propped up in her bed, watching me covered in her letters.

“You’ve read my story,” she said. I asked if she was angry, but she shook her head. “It wasn’t right of me to keep it. It’s your story too.”

My mind was full of questions, but seeing her there, pale against the pillows, eyes still on the letters, I couldn’t. Instead, I asked how she was feeling.

She straightened, but I caught a wince. “So much better. I think I’ll be going home soon.”

I told her I wasn’t sure about that, that the doctor might think it best that she stay and rest awhile longer, but she blinked and sighed. “I just want to go home, Margaret. I’ve been away for too long.” She wiped her eyes with a thumb. “I never should’ve left. I need to go back to Edinburgh, go on my walks, go sit in the quiet of the cathedral. I don’t know how better to build up my strength. Home.”

“Elspeth,” said a voice from the foot of the bed. “I’ll take you home.”

If you can believe it, Paul, it was Uncle Finlay. He came.

London

Saturday, 21 September 1940

Dear Gran,

Uncle Finlay came here, to London. He arrived this morning and has spent all day with Mother, catching up on the past two decades without saying much of anything at all. He’s taking her home tomorrow, back to Edinburgh.

I don’t know how you did it, convincing him to come down to London, to finally talk to Mother, but thank you. For the first time in a while, I see a moment of peace on her face.

London

Sunday, 22 September

Dear Paul,

Last night, before she fell asleep, Mother told me that I had only half the story. I had Davey’s letters but not hers.

So, instead of heading to the train station this morning with her and Uncle Finlay, I went to the Langham to see if they’d unearthed her other suitcase. Inside, she told me, were her copybooks, where she jotted drafts of all her letters. Ever the writer.

They had her other suitcase, full of the copybooks. Her half of the story. But, oh, Paul, they also had a letter for her.

To one of the many letters she sent out over the months of waiting in London, someone had sent a reply.

And I don’t know what to do. It’s her letter, to be sure, but I saw her spread out on that hospital bed, tired and defeated, saw her limping to the train station on her brother’s arm, just wanting to put London behind her. What if this reply is nothing? Or, God forbid, bad news?

I’m back to Edinburgh on the next train. I’ll have seven and a half hours to decide whether to give her the letter or open it myself.

Detroit, Michigan

September 10, 1940

Dear Mrs. Dunn,

I apologize for not replying sooner, but your letter was forwarded on to me from the secretary of our central branch of the American Field Service Association. They thought I would be in a better position to answer your questions.

I wish I had better news for you, but I do not have any contact information for David Graham. He’s never sent updates or news to our bulletin, nor has he attended any of our reunion dinners.

I do have a little bit of information, though, that may help you. Some of the other men kept in touch after the war. And I saw him in Paris. Ol’ Dave, he made it through the war. He always was a lucky one.

Dave—we called him “Rabbit”—was in a prison camp for a few years. He must have been taken prisoner in ’16, before the United States entered the war and the Red Cross took over the Field Service. He didn’t write to any of us, other than his good friend Harry, while in the camp. But I know he did make it out after the Armistice. After the war, we all saw him in Paris.

They’d tucked him in a hospital in Paris to get his strength back before sending him home, but Rabbit snuck out. He caught up with us at our headquarters at Rue Raynouard. Imagine our surprise! He was in good shape for having spent time in a prison camp. He begged a spare suit of clothes and our pocket change and all the chocolate bars he could carry, then said he wasn’t going home, not yet. He had to go up to Scotland after his girl.

You see, Mrs. Dunn, I recognized your name. No disrespect intended, but Rabbit could never shut up about you. He was head over heels. To hear him talk, you were every fairy-tale princess wrapped up in one. Harry kept mum about the whole deal, but the rest of us, we knew something had soured during those years he was at the camp. And then Rabbit turned up at Rue Raynouard, begging money so that he could go up to Scotland and apologize for something. I guess that was the last time you saw him too.

But some of the other guys kept in touch after we all got home to the States. Rabbit went back to teaching. He stayed in Chicago for a while, then went to Indiana to be nearer to his sister; I’m not sure where he ended up from there. I do know that he published a book, a fairy-tale book for children. You should’ve seen all of us old guys grinning like kids when someone brought it along to an AFSA reunion dinner. Our Rabbit, a published writer!

I’m sorry that I don’t have an address for him, but I thought you’d like to know that he was doing well last I heard of him and that he had a book published. And, although I don’t have Rabbit’s address, here’s Harry Vance’s. He’s much better than Rabbit at keeping in touch. Harry has been teaching at Oxford. That’s not too far from London, is it?

I wish you the best of luck, Mrs. Dunn. And, if you see Rabbit again, please give him my best.

Edinburgh

Tuesday, 24 September 1940

Dear Mr. Vance,

I am writing on behalf of my mother, Mrs. Elspeth Dunn. She has been trying to locate the whereabouts of David Graham, whom she knew years ago. I was given your address by Billy Ross with the American Field Service Association. He thought that you might have current contact information for Mr. Graham.

Please, anything that you can tell me would be welcome. My mother has been looking for Mr. Graham for quite some time. We would both be more grateful than you could know.

Oxford

27 September

Dear Miss Dunn,

I debated whether or not to send you Dave’s address. Old recluse that he is, he values his privacy. But he’s spent far too long alone, feeling sorry for himself. He’s spent far too long wishing he could change the past.

His address is below. He’s been living in London, at a flat around the corner from the Langham Hotel. He always did say that London was full of memories.

Isle of Skye

1 May 1919

Dear David,

You’re probably surprised to be getting this from me, but with my newest book of poetry out, how could I forget one who was once my “fan”?

Not having heard from you these two years past, I have no idea where in the world you might be. I am hoping that, by sending this parcel to your parents’ house, it will get to you somehow.

How have you been since the war? I wrote to you in the prison camp, soon after Iain returned home, but you never responded. Have you been well?

It’s very odd, but a few months ago I thought I saw you, standing in the road across from my parents’ house. I glanced down and then the image was gone. You do know that this island is populated by the spirits and ghosts of memory, don’t you?