How are your toes? You complained of them giving you trouble in your last letter, although I can never be sure if you are being serious or teasing me. Such is the burden of having a brother who was popular in school: having to tolerate the endless teasing of his wicked friends. In any event, I have sent you some socks (poorly knitted by my obstinate fingers, which would much rather have been sketching or writing than twirling wool around infuriating needles). Everyone is knitting comforts for the troops these days. Socks, hats, gloves. The entire nation seems to move to the click clack of knitting needles. It is all we women can do to help, and for those of us not blessed with nimble fingers and a steady hand, this is rather unfortunate. I hope the enclosed OXO cubes and tobacco make up for the “socks.”
Cook has sent a pudding. She insisted, although I told her you were never especially fond of plum pudding. She’s been steeping the fruit for weeks so I couldn’t bear to decline. Also, I read in the papers that Princess Mary is raising funds to send a Christmas parcel to British troops. You must write to tell me if you receive one. Is there anything else you need? I hear lice powder is helpful, although I shudder to think of it. Is this true?
Alice Cuthbert visited recently. It was wonderful to see her again, but it was far too brief and only made me wish she lived closer. I could use a daily dose of her good cheer. We lamented the postponement of our plans for a Parisian Christmas, and settled on a stroll down Regent Street instead to look at the shop windows. They are very pretty, decorated with Union Jacks and patriotism and festive wishes to our brave soldiers. It brings a lump to one’s throat.
Well, I must close. We have a goose to find or Christmas must be cancelled. Please send my regards to that dreadful brother of mine. We’ve still only had a few letters from him, and all of them too brief. Perhaps you could give him some instruction in letter writing. You have a particular talent for it.
With all good wishes for the festive season, and remember we are incredibly proud, and think of you often. More often than you might believe.
Your friend,
Evie Elliott
P.S. The lanes are too icy for cycling. My trusty steed, Rusty, has been stabled for the winter. My mad dash to Brighton will have to wait until the spring.
From Thomas to Evie
10th December, 1914
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m sorry I haven’t written the last couple of weeks. Lots happening here with new troops arriving, and my responsibilities have shifted.
The socks you knitted are jolly things! Perfect in their Oxford blue and white, even if the stripes are a bit jagged. I imagine Miss Needham would have rapped your knuckles each time you missed a stitch. She’d rap anyone’s knuckles given half an excuse. What a mean old windbag for a governess you had. Will and I used to fill her wellies with sand, do you remember? We would do the dirty deed, and launch off the back porch, laughing so loud the whole house could hear us. She would tear after us then at full tilt, chasing us with a broom as we raced to the river’s edge like rabbits. She never did catch us. Maybe secretly she wanted us to get away. She always had a twinkle in her eye when she yelled at us.
As for your poor fingers, I can understand a stabbing needle pain with the best of them. We spent three days in the trenches this week without sleep, and only a few stale loaves of bread to keep us company. The cold was mind-numbing, Evie. I could barely load my gun. That’s not a good thing when the enemy is so close you can hear him pant in fear, or rummage through his stash of bullets. War is nothing like I expected it to be. An adventure, certainly, but I didn’t count on the way it would destroy my easy view of things, make me ache for home and the simplicity I had taken for granted, like the solitude of my bedroom, or a cup of scalding tea first thing in the morning. I dream about taking my skiff out on the inlet behind the house, and watching the dandelion seeds float by until they descend and skate across the pond’s surface. It all seems like a lifetime ago.
Tell Cook her pudding was the best I ever ate. There are few pleasures these days, but I appreciate her care. And the tobacco! I’ll ration it into the New Year, if I can manage. You’re a peach for sending. Speaking of tobacco, we all received the Christmas gift from Princess Mary: a tin with a sachet of tobacco and letter-writing tools. She tucked a signed letter under the lid as well. It was generous of her to go to such trouble for the soldiers. We’re all very grateful for these small tokens from home.
Your brother is making a nuisance of himself among the nurses at the field hospital here. He seems to have set his sights on a French nurse. The poor girl will be heartbroken by the New Year, without doubt. But don’t let on I told you. You know how secretive he likes to be about his girls. I may visit the nurse myself this week, show her my dreadful toes (which are slightly better because of the socks you sent).
I keep thinking about our plans for Christmas and try not to become discouraged. Still, I’ll go on hoping that the war will end in the next couple of weeks, and that I’ll be home to enjoy some festive cheer. I’d like to see that pretty smile on your face, reminding me there’s still plenty of happiness out there waiting for us.
Sincerely yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
P.S. I’ve enclosed a note from Will. I think he may have strained his hand writing it.
From Will to Evie
Dear Evie,
I’m not much for writing, as you know, but I’ll try to make use of the stationery you sent. We spend long hours doing nothing at times, so your letters are a welcome distraction. Don’t tell Papa, but I’ve been enjoying his stash of Cuban cigars. I took every last one I could find before I left. I figured a man at war needed something to look forward to.
You shouldn’t spend so much time in the house, especially not in my room. It isn’t good for you. You never were the idle sort. Less letter writing and more bicycling. I insist.
Your loving brother,
Will
P.S. Please pass on my regards to Alice. Tell her I will take her dancing when I return.
From Evie to Alice
13th December, 1914
Richmond, England
Dearest Alice,
Dreadful news. Charlie Gilbert is dead. Killed in action. Papa saw his name in the casualty lists yesterday. I’m afraid I’m taking it rather badly and Mama is distraught.
Poor Charlie. He may not have set my heart alight or my mind spinning with intellectual thought, but he was a good man. I didn’t wish to marry him, Alice, but never did I wish him dead. And now I can hardly sleep for worrying about Will, and Tom Harding and the other boys. Any death is a sobering reminder of the dangers they face. The death of someone who might very well have become one’s husband—it is all so terribly upsetting.
Goodness, Alice. However did this happen to us? To us?
Please come and visit again soon. I am in desperate need of your endless good cheer.
Evie
X
From Evie to Thomas
15th December, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. You might have heard about poor Charlie Gilbert. He was killed in action. Shelling, I believe. I’m afraid I have taken the news rather badly.