Jessica Brockmole: Letters from Skye

There! What do you think? Can you picture me? If I had sketched that for you, I certainly would’ve padded out the bosom.

A sack full of squirrels, Davey? My, but you are a scamp! Those poor women. Why do these things if they end in yet another visit to the fine medical facilities of Urbana, Illinois?

I was quite excited to get the copy of Huckleberry Finn . I don’t have much of a library and so any book, no matter how battered, is welcome. Books get read and reread during those long Scottish winter nights.

Plymouth

Wednesday, 19 June 1940

Dear Mother,

You can give it to me. I ran out without even saying goodbye. And after a boy who, until recently, was nothing more than a pen friend. And a poor pen friend at that, what with the weeks of not hearing from him. But if you could have seen how sweet and plaintive he looked waiting at the station, you would’ve forgiven him too!

He’s well but had a near miss. Nothing worse than a few scrapes and a sprained wrist, though he won’t tell me what happened. Just that he’s glad to see me and feels better already.

I don’t have any vackies scheduled to escort, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay down here for a bit. Paul doesn’t know when he’ll next get leave and, Mother, he needs me.

Edinburgh

22 June 1940

My Margaret,

You don’t know how I worried about you, traveling all the way to Plymouth by yourself. You’ve never been so far from home.

Perhaps you shouldn’t stay longer. You’ve gone down, you’ve cheered up your friend and satisfied yourself that he is as well as can be. You’ve even brought him every last crumb of the precious cakes bought with my ration coupons. You should come home now. You should come home before this becomes anything serious. Please.

Plymouth

Thursday, 27 June 1940

Mother,

I know you love me, but I’m old enough to decide on my own. And, besides, things have already become serious. Paul asked me to marry him.

Edinburgh

1 July 1940

Margaret,

Don’t make any rash decisions. Not for my sake; for yours. It’s been half a year since you’ve been in the same city as Paul. There were days when the two of you couldn’t stop bickering. And then all this love and marriage out of nowhere?

It’s the war talking. I know; I’ve seen it. They head off, invincible, feeling as if the future is a golden pool before them, ready to dive into. And then something happens—a bomb, a sprained wrist, a bullet that whizzes by too close for comfort—and suddenly they are grabbing for whatever they can hold on to. That golden pool, it swirls around them, and they worry they might drown if they’re not careful. They hold tight and make whatever promise comes to mind. You can’t believe anything said in wartime. Emotions are as fleeting as a quiet night.

Please be careful. Last week, we had planes overhead. One dropped five bombs and more than a hundred incendiaries around Craigmillar Castle. Nothing on the city, thank God, but the planes go right above us. Two nights, crouched down in the neighbourhood shelter in my dressing gown, hearing the air-raid sirens and the growling engines and the rattle of the anti-aircraft guns, but not really knowing what was happening. It’s wearing on me. All I want is my Margaret by my side.

Please don’t make any decisions you’ll regret later. Please don’t give away your heart without realizing it, because, my sweet girl, you may never get it back.

Plymouth

Friday, 5 July 1940

Mother,

You always told me to reach out and grab happiness with both hands. Other mums pushed their daughters towards university or factory work or pouring tea in a NAAFI canteen. You didn’t. You knew I’d be miserable. Instead, you found for me children needing an escort out to the country. I could escape the city just when it started to become crowded with pillboxes and Anderson shelters and home-guard exercises in the park. Those tromps in the Borders or the Highlands are pure happiness.

I never said that I accepted Paul’s offer. I told him I had to think on it. See? I’m not as rash as all that. But I’m happy , Mother. Just the way you always wish for me to be. I’ll be home soon.

Edinburgh

9 July 1940

Dear Margaret,

Thinking is good. It’s what separates humans from cockroaches.

Plymouth

Saturday, 13 July 1940

Dear Mother,

You’ll be happy to know, Paul is all patched and rested and back to serve Fair Britannia on the morrow. I’ll be starting to work my way north then, though I can’t promise to the efficiency of the rails these days.

Edinburgh

Thursday, 18 July 1940

Paul,

Mother is furious at us. Well, at me, really. It’s preposterous! It’s not as if we did anything shocking. It’s just a ring, after all. A ring and a promise.

We’ve had a terrible row over it, though, so I’m up here on the roof with this letter and no idea how to apologise. She said I was ridiculous for saying “yes” to the first boy who asked me. But then she said that, in war, happiness was hard to find. I told her she was the ridiculous one and she should make up her mind. What if the first boy to ask me was the one who made me happiest? Then she threw a spoon at me and said she just doesn’t have all the answers.

So I crawled onto the roof to stew. She finally leaned out of her bedroom window and said that the war unsettled her. She’d already been through one, but this war came with the constant edge of fear, the nights when the air-raid sirens sounded, and the nights when they didn’t. “War is impulsive,” she said. “Don’t spend the rest of your life looking for ghosts.”

I asked what on earth she meant, but she turned away and wouldn’t say a word. “You’re talking about my da, aren’t you?”

“I’ve told you before, there’s nothing you need to know about him.”

“And why not? He’s my da.”

You know it all, Paul. You’ve heard me rant and rant how she’s never said a word about my father. How she always deflects my questions and says the past is past. And I understand what she means. I do. She raised me alone; she wants me to be satisfied with that. To treasure the time we have together. But to not know where I came from or how I came to be… you know all the questions I have.

While she hovered in the bedroom window, I said all of this. She tried to pass it by with a joke. “The first volume of my life is out of print,” she’s fond of saying.

But this time I didn’t let her. I pushed back. Regrets? Ghosts? She’s never talked like that before. “Why won’t you talk about him?” I asked. “What about him is so horrible that it makes you write him from your memory?”

I thought she’d pace and wring her hands, but she stood very still. “I have never forgotten him,” she finally said. “But I’ll remember for the both of us.” Her eyes shone as she left.

I can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen now. Attempting to cook is (unfortunately) her form of apology. Whatever she’s doing, it smells dreadful. I don’t even want to think about which vegetable she’s ruining right now.

I really should go in and tell her I’m sorry for calling her ridiculous. For even starting an argument at all. I should apologise for pushing her to tell me about my father, about the regrets, about the ghosts. I know she means well and is tired and just misses having me around. She’s doing her best. I do treasure our time together.