Letters from Skye (7 page)

I really did intend to come, though. Trust me in that, Davey.

As long as you think I’m keeping secrets, I have another one. But this one I’ll keep close for a bit, for I know that you won’t be able to stop laughing once you hear.

Harry sounds like a simply splendid friend. I would say that I hope to meet him someday, but I suppose I can’t do that without meeting you—and we’ve already gone over that!

   Elspeth

P.S. I truly hope that not everyone has become a poet, else I’ll be out of a job!

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

July 15, 1914

Sue, Sue, you funny thing. Did you never stop to think that perhaps I worried about the same “what-ifs”? Avoiding a face-to-face meeting was to my advantage. You wouldn’t see how big my feet are or how clumsy I am when off the dance floor. I think you have a good opinion of me now (aside from my taste in jackets, I suppose). After all, I’m devilishly handsome. Wickedly clever. Witty and utterly brilliant. Why would I want to jeopardize that? All those illusions could vanish the moment we said hello. But for the elusive chance to meet you … all of those apprehensions pale in comparison.

We’ve been writing for, what, two years now? (I say that with a bit of nonchalance, as though I haven’t saved every letter you’ve ever sent.) Really, can there still be mystery after all of that time? We’ve told our deepest fears, confessed our secret longings. I
know
you, Sue, and I think you know me too. If I were sitting in front of you, saying this right now, I should hope my words wouldn’t mean less just because you disliked the sound of my Midwestern accent.

Think about when you first meet a person, Sue. You have to get past all the superficial nonsense, the appraisals of accents and checked jackets. An interrogation of appearance. After you’ve deemed each other worthy, then you can actually settle down to get acquainted, to begin those first tentative probes of the mind. Find out what sort of thing fuels the other—what makes them scream, what makes them laugh, what makes them tremble on the rug. You and I are lucky. We never had to worry about the first part, the visual sizing up. We got to go directly to the interesting bit. The getting to know the depths and breadths of each other’s soul.

I don’t know about you, but I find it refreshing. I am sick to death of having to worry whether people think I look old enough or respectable enough or whatnot. Always having to be polite and look interested. When I write to you, I don’t have to think about any of that nonsense. I don’t have to worry about my big feet. I can peel away the husk (if you will forgive a corn metaphor) and reveal the shiny kernels of my dreams and passions and fears. They are yours, Sue, yours to gnaw on as you will! Marvelous with a sprinkle of salt.

Now, after all that, you
must
tell me your new secret. I can
promise that I won’t laugh. At least not loud enough that you could hear me from Chicago.…

I’m starting to nod off and so pulled out my watch. I’m not going to admit to how early in the morning it is, but the streets have long been quiet. I hope you’re sleeping a bit more soundly than I am right now!

   David

Isle of Skye

18 August 1914

Davey,

What is the world coming to?

Eight weeks ago, I stood on the pier, trying to find the nerve to step on that ferry. I kept my eyes on that horizon, knowing that if I went to meet it, to meet you, everything would change. Not necessarily in the going, but in the leaving. Women like me don’t go across the water to rendezvous with fascinating Americans. They wait at home for their husbands’ boats to return.

So I went back to my cottage, to reread your letters and pretend I didn’t almost get on that ferry. To wait for Iain to return from chasing the herring up the Minch. To think of a way to tell him that, after so many years, I was pregnant.

The day he came home, I was out hanging the wash in the garden, ankle-deep in mud. He stepped through the gate, dropped his seabag, and said grimly, “We’re at war.”

Everything felt so cold, Davey, my news forgotten. I asked who he meant by “we,” but he just handed me a newspaper.

Four days before, Great Britain declared war on Germany. While I had sat alone in my cottage, reading through old letters and fortifying my heart, the world went to war.

He said he was joining up as soon as he could pack. He’d only just come home and he was leaving again. And for what? What makes him think this war has anything to do with him? With our island? With us? “Our world has already vanished,” he said. “I can’t get it back, but I’ll sure as hell try to keep the rest from going to pieces.”

He was so
calm
, Davey. I remember looking over his shoulder while he was talking and noticing a gull flying, as if in slow motion. Even the sheep quieted. The whole island slowing down to listen to his pronouncement. As if it made sense! And I felt a pain deep inside; I was sure it was the proverbial “heart breaking.”

Later that day I found that I had lost the bairn I’d been carrying. A bairn unasked for, but, truly, not unwanted. I’d had time to grow accustomed to the idea, but now, gone, with just a feeling of emptiness left behind. Perhaps I was right all along. Perhaps the universe never meant for me to be a mother. Just like that, I lost my husband, my child, and the peaceful world I had known. The next week, Iain marched off with Finlay and the other Territorials for training.

Oh, Davey, I need a letter from you. I need a kind word, I need a funny word, I need a picture of you in a silly checked jacket. I need to forget that all this is happening.

   Elspeth

Chapter Eight
 
Margaret

Edinburgh

Wednesday, 24 July 1940

Dear Sir,

I apologise for this unexpected letter. I’m not even sure that I am writing to the right Finlay Macdonald.

I have reason to believe that you may be my uncle. My mother is Elspeth Dunn, once of Skye, currently of Edinburgh. My cousin Emily Macdonald (Alasdair’s daughter) passed this address on to me after meeting you once in Glasgow. I have never met either of my uncles, and I would like to become better acquainted.

May I write to you?

   Sincerely,

   Margaret Dunn

Glasgow

25 July

Margaret,

   Haven’t you already done that?

      Finlay Macdonald

27 July 1940

Dear Maisie,

I’m airborne again! And not a moment too soon. We’re being hit all over the place down here in the south. I was really chafing being on the ground. How is it up in Edinburgh?

Have you sent the letter to your uncle? Any reply yet?

   Love,

   Paul

Edinburgh

Monday, 29 July 1940

Dear Paul,

He wrote. In a way. And, I suppose, by not disagreeing with me or
completely
disregarding me, he’s confirmed that, yes, he is indeed the Finlay Macdonald in question. When I asked if I may write to him, his only response was, “Haven’t you already done that?” Truly, he must be my uncle. He has Mother’s prickly wit.

I won’t write back to him. I’d be weighing each and every word to be absolutely sure he wouldn’t make fun of it. And that’s far too much work. Why couldn’t I have a long-lost uncle who declares me his sole heir or bestows upon me his priceless collection of artefacts from the South Seas, as in the books? Or, at the very least, inhabits an insane asylum. I’m sure I read a story like that once. Insane asylum, I think I could stomach. But a stinging reply? I think not.

   Margaret

P.S. Don’t ask about Edinburgh. A 1,000-pound bomb on Albert Dock, incendiaries all along the railway lines and in Granton. If Mother were here, she’d be a wreck. And now I have to worry about you too. Please be careful.

31 July 1940

Dear Maisie,

Where’s that sense of adventure I love so much? Where’s that curiosity to see what’s beyond the next peak, the willingness to hurtle headlong into any situation if it means it may make you breathless for at least a moment? I always say to the other lads around here that, if my fiancée were a man, she’d give them all a run for their money up here in the air.

Don’t you worry about me for a single second. I keep a snapshot of you in my pocket, and, when I look upon your bonny eyes, that’s all the luck I need.

You do realise, his reluctance to write you a proper reply
hints at an even better story. Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot!

   Love,

   Paul

Edinburgh

Friday, 2 August 1940

Dear Paul,

I’ll do it. For you. But only for you.

   Maisie

Edinburgh

Friday, 2 August 1940

Dear Sir,

Or should I say “Uncle Finlay”?

I must admit to being puzzled by your reply. Was it a dismissal? Discouragement? Tacit permission to write again?

Please, I have so many questions about my mother, things she’s never told me. You don’t have to join me for tea or come to my wedding. Just a few moments of your time to write and tell me about my mother. Help me fill in the blanks from the “first volume” of her life.

   Appreciatively,

   Margaret Dunn

Glasgow

3 August

Margaret,

Have you considered that your mother has kept that book closed for a reason?

Have you also considered that a man alone may just want to be left alone?

Really, I have nothing to say about Elspeth that you’d want to hear. Sometimes not even years can erase disappointment.

   Finlay Macdonald

Edinburgh

Monday, 5 August 1940

Dear Uncle Finlay,

I don’t mean to sprinkle salt on old wounds. Truly, I don’t. I don’t wish to pry into your personal business. I just want to know my mother better. And I believe you’re just as curious about her
now
as I am about her
then
, else you wouldn’t have replied. Twice.

So, to repay your anticipated kindness, I’ll tell you something about my mother every time you tell me something. Tit for tat.

   Sincerely,

   Margaret Dunn

Glasgow

6 August

Margaret,

Tit for tat. In the trenches, we used to call that “live and let live.” If the Boche did not fire, we did not fire. We left them a few moments of peace at times, and they left us with a wee bit of peace in return. Of course, Command didn’t agree with this. They told us to fire first, to keep the enemy on edge. To convince them to leave us alone.

You are a stubborn lass. I’ll give you that. Just like Elspeth. She was as stubborn as they come, though, in a house of three boys, I suppose she had to be.

Tit for tat. I never did think Command had it right.

   Finlay Macdonald

Chapter Nine
 
Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

September 10, 1914

Dear Sue,

I really wish I knew a good joke or an amusing story to tell you.

Have you heard from your husband? Do you know yet if he is being sent overseas? At least you can rest assured that you are safe up on Skye. I’m thankful for that.

And, Sue, it’s probably a breach of etiquette to say so, but my heart breaks to hear that you lost a baby. I wish I knew the right words, but know that I hold them in my heart.

I don’t have any more photos of me in my checked jacket, but I promise the next time I buy a ridiculous-looking coat, you will be the first person I send a picture to. I’m almost tempted to go out and buy one just for you, if it’ll make you smile.

You know, you’ve never mentioned your husband before. I suppose I knew you were married, being a “Mrs.” and all, but you’ve never talked about him. Funny, since we’ve talked about pretty much everything else.

Please keep me updated. I can read the reports in the newspaper, but, from way across the ocean, it’s hard to know what is really happening over there.

   I’m here for you,

   David

Isle of Skye

4 October 1914

David,

Well, I’ve finally heard from Iain. His battalion is at a training camp in Bedford. He expects they’ll get called up any day, but I imagine most men say that. What else do they have aside from anticipation? It was a short letter, talking cheerfully of training and weapons and how they all hope to “get a few Huns.” Not a word of me or our home or the bairn I’d lost.