Jessica Brockmole: Letters from Skye

Isle of Skye

13 December 1913

David,

I’m so glad you aren’t cross with me. You may find this funny, but I don’t have many friends, at least not many who read poetry, ride cattle, or wear atrocious checked jackets. Why would you keep writing to a raving Scottish woman from some remote island in the Atlantic? At the risk of sounding horribly sentimental, I would quite miss your letters if they were to stop.

Officially engaged? My, my, but you are growing up, dear boy. Though perhaps I should lend you my rock-and-mineral guide, as you seem to have mistaken your Diamond for a Pearl.

I suppose we’ll have to add commitment to the list of things you approach without fear, wild boy. What does scare you? Certainly not the college administration. Perhaps your father?

My fear at the moment is that I will run out of ink before I’ve finished this letter. Horrid old pen!

It will likely be after Christmas when this reaches you, but I’ve made you one of my famous Christmas puddings (in miniature). Eat it in good cheer and have a marvellous holiday.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

January 12, 1914

A Happy New Year to you, Sue!

You’re right, you do make a marvelous Christmas pudding! It’s similar to the fruitcake my mother insists on making for us each Christmas. The woman doesn’t set foot into the kitchen all year, unless it’s to make a last-minute change to the menu. But every year, as the Christmas season approaches, she dons a lace-edged apron about as effective as a paper cake doily and waves all the staff out of the kitchen. Mother emerges hours later, hair floured, a smear of molasses on her cheek, and a shine in her eyes that could only be brought about by “sampling” the brandy, but victoriously bearing a fruitcake. It generally has the appearance, texture, and taste of a paving stone, but we must all eat a hearty slice on Christmas Eve.

The joy we had this year, Sue, was eating your delightful Christmas pudding. Both Evie and Hank insisted on examining the box you’d sent, to make sure I wasn’t holding out on them. Even my father begged for more. When my mother asked, with the air of a jealous mistress, how this pudding compared to her fruitcake, we were quick to reassure her, “Oh, the Christmas pudding is good, but it’s very… you know… British .” We left it to her to interpret just what that meant.

Did you have a peaceful holiday? Any more kettles this year? I regret to say that Santa Claus didn’t leave a kettle for me, but I did get a splendid new tennis racket. I can hardly wait until the snow thaws to go try it out. Evie stitched a beautiful bookmark that reads “A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.” And my father presented me with a watch, a gold number with a thick chain. He told me it was his father’s watch and his father’s before him. “Now that you’re a man, David,” says he, “and have some direction in your life, you’ll need something to help guide you. You know where to go, but now you will know when to go.” The whole speech was rather stodgy, but Mother was dabbing at her eyes and even Evie was sniffling. It’s a handsome watch but makes me think of my grandfather. I had been hoping for a wristwatch, something I could wear while driving, climbing, and cycling, without looking as if I had just stepped out of the nineteenth century.

My dad has been quite pleasant over the holidays. But I think you might be right; if I have a fear, it would be my father. I eventually did stand up to him about not going into medicine, but if I hadn’t done as poorly as I did my last semesters, I wouldn’t have had such an easy time of it. Even after all of his talk about me “becoming a man,” I still live under his roof, like a child, obeying his rules. He doesn’t approve of anything I do or anyone I do it with.

I’ve always found it funny that my friend Harry is the one person my dad should approve of but in actuality is the person he disapproves of the most. Harry has to be one of my oldest friends. We went to school together as children, pored over my father’s anatomy texts (more specifically poring over those pages pertaining to the female anatomy), went on our first dates together under the philosophy of “safety in numbers.” Harry’s family moves in the same social circles, he’s actually completing his medical studies, he’s absolutely brilliant, and he’s flawlessly polite. What could my father find fault with?

I suppose that a sharp mind can be wielded like any sharp weapon, and Harry can be quite disapproving of the snobbery he finds at many of the social functions we are forced to. He’s lucky that most of the people he mocks don’t catch his sarcasm and dry humor, or he wouldn’t be invited back nearly so often. It’s been quite a few years since Harry set off for Oxford. We write back and forth—not nearly as often as you and I write—but I’m looking forward to seeing him.

And a Christmas gift for you, dear Sue. A mottled black-and-pen, so that you’ll always be able to write to me.

Isle of Skye

28 January 1914

Already 1914, and the world hasn’t ended yet!

Davey, you misled me! This isn’t a mottled pen at all. It’s marbled through with red and black, just like a polished length of jasper. What better pen for a budding geologist?

I have a new set of chalks for Christmas, for drawing, but the rest of my gifts were unhappily practical—socks, three new spoons, a giant washtub. Tennis racket? I’ve never played, but it certainly sounds more exciting than a washtub.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

February 14, 1914

Dear Sue,

I’ve just gotten back from a ski trip to Ishpeming, Michigan, with a few friends, which is why I’m a bit tardy in my response to you. Not only was your letter waiting for me when I got home, but I also had a letter from Harry. He’s proposed that I sail over to England, go on a sort of valedictory tour of Britain with him, before sailing back to the States together. I don’t know the precise itinerary yet, but Harry is talking about heading up to Edinburgh in our rambles. This is probably a wild idea, but, Sue, you should come to meet me! I know, a bit of a lark, but you have until June to figure out a way to get yourself on that ferry. May I suggest a great deal of whisky?

Isle of Skye

10 March 1914

David,

Are you completely mad? You think you’ll be able to do what all my family and friends have been unable to do? My whole life, no one has been able to get me onto a boat. But you think you’ll succeed where others have failed? You think the lure of David is greater than the lure of university? My, but you are the cocky one!

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

March 26, 1914

Sue,

You forget, my father is a doctor. I have ether.

Isle of Skye

11 April 1914

My dear boy,

Not nearly enough.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

April 28, 1914

Dear Sue,

Plans are afoot! Itineraries are set, tickets are bought, rooms at the Langham in London booked, and I am ready to step on that boat. The question is, dear Sue, are you?

Surely you are just as curious as I am to see who is at the other end of that pen-and-paper. You’re both scientist and artist, realist and dreamer. Curiosity is your middle name.

Isle of Skye

6 May 1914

Dear David,

Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen my niece and nephews in Edinburgh. They would adore a visit from their auntie, wouldn’t they?

I will expect that ether posted with your next letter. Buckets of it.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

May 21, 1914

Sue,

Be still my beating heart! Can it be true? Sue is going to brave the ocean for me?