Letters from Skye (2 page)

There! Now you have
two
secrets of mine. You know about my ridiculous aspirations towards geology and my even more ridiculous fear of the water and of boats. Now you surely can feel safe confiding your secret to me. You really can trust me, if for no other reason than there is no one else (apart from the sheep) for me to tell.

   Elspeth

P.S. Please stop calling me “Mrs. Dunn.”

Chapter Two
 
Margaret

The Borders

Tuesday, 4 June 1940

Dearest Mother,

That’s another batch delivered! I swear, there must not be a single child left in all of Edinburgh with all we’ve evacuated to the countryside away from those bombs. These three were better than most; at least they could reliably wipe their own noses.

I have to get this group settled and then I promised Mrs. Sunderland I’d pay a wee visit to her brood in Peebles. Any letters from Paul?

   Love and kisses,

   Margaret

Edinburgh

8 June 1940

Margaret,

You’re running yourself ragged; you’ve only just come back from Aberdeenshire! Most lasses stay in one place, rolling bandages or building battleships or whatever it is that young women do these days. But there you are, tramping up and down the Scottish countryside like the Pied Piper, with all of those poor children running after. Don’t they know you can’t tell one end of the compass from the other? And that it was only recently
you
could reliably wipe your own nose?

But, no, dearest, no letters from Paul. Have faith. If there’s one thing you can expect from that boy, it’s a letter. And then about a hundred more.

   Stay safe,

   Your Mother

Still the Borders

Wednesday, 12 June 1940

Dear Mother,

If my best friend can go flying about Europe with the R.A.F., then whyever can’t I fly about Scotland?

But you haven’t heard from him, have you? Everyone keeps saying the R.A.F. wasn’t at Dunkirk, but Paul said, “I’ll be right back,” and then hasn’t written since. Where else would he have
gone? So either he’s out of stamps or he hasn’t come back from France.

But, really, I’m trying not to worry. The little ones, they fret enough away from their mothers; I don’t want to upset them more.

I’m for Peebles in the morning and then on to Edinburgh from there. Have tea and cakes from Mackie’s bakery waiting for me! Else I may just stay on the train until I get to Inverness …

   Love and kisses,

   Margaret

Edinburgh

15 June 1940

Margaret,

If I knew all it would take to lure you home was a dish of Mackie’s cakes, I would’ve tried it ages ago, sugar ration or no!

Still nothing from Paul. But you can’t depend on the mail in wartime. I don’t remember you worrying so much about him before. Isn’t he just a pen friend?

   Mother

Peebles

Monday, 17 June 1940

Mother,

Yes, I’m still here in Peebles. The trains are a muddle and I’ve had a very persistent Annie Sunderland trying to convince me to pop her in my suitcase and bring her along to Edinburgh. When I threaten to paste her feet to the floor, she begs for just one story more. You know her, with those big brown eyes. How can I resist? Of course she misses her mummy, but the family Annie and the boys stay with here are just wonderful. I can bring back a good report to Mrs. Sunderland.

I suppose I should tell you, Paul may be a bit more than a pen friend. At least that’s how he sees it. He fancies he’s in love with me. I think he’s quite ridiculous and I’ve told him so. We’re merely friends. Best friends, to be sure. You remember how we’d always go hiking and bouldering and then share a sandwich. But in love? I didn’t tell you before because I was sure you’d laugh. He
is
being ridiculous, isn’t he?

I should be home tomorrow or the next, if I have to walk every step of the way from Peebles. Onward!

   Love and kisses,

   Margaret

POST OFFICE TELEGRAM

18.06.40 PLYMOUTH

MARGARET DUNN, EDINBURGH

MAISIE NO WORRIES I AM SAFE=

SHORT LEAVE IN PLYMOUTH=

THINKING OF YOU=

   PAUL+

Mother!

He’s written!

I saw the telegram propped up on the table and I couldn’t wait for you to come home from church. I worried I might miss the train south. I wrapped up all of the cakes. They will be quite a treat for him. I hope you don’t mind.

My suitcase and I are heading right back to Waverley Station. I’ll write to you when I get there.

He’s written.

   Margaret

Edinburgh

18 June 1940

Oh, my Margaret,

I know I can never send this letter; it’ll end up on the grate the moment I put words to paper. If you only knew how my
heart wrenches to read your note on the table, amidst the crumbs on the empty cake plate. If you knew how it feels to run after someone for a brief snatch of time, how the world stops spinning, just for a moment, when you hold them in your arms, and then starts again so fast that you fall to the ground, dizzy. If you knew how every hello hurts more than a hundred goodbyes. If you knew.

But you don’t. I never told you. You have no secrets from me, but I’ve kept a part of myself locked away, always. A part of me that started scratching at the wall the day this other war started, that started howling to get out right now, the day you ran off to meet your soldier.

I should have told you, should’ve taught you to steel your heart. Taught you that a letter isn’t always just a letter. Words on the page can drench the soul. If only you knew.

   Mother

Chapter Three
 
Elspeth

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

September 21, 1912

Dear Elspeth,

If not “Mrs. Dunn,” what, then? What is it that your friends call you? Ellie? Libby? Elsie? Around here I’m known as “Mort” (don’t ask), but my mother calls me “Davey.”

You’ve never been off Skye? I don’t know why I should find that so unbelievable. I mean, there will always be people with a fear of the sea, and someone who lives so close to the sea would see firsthand how frightening it can be. Have you never even crossed over a bridge?

Okay, do you really want to know my secret? My parents don’t know this, and my friends would bust a gut if they heard. Here goes: If I could be anything in the world, I would be a dancer. A ballet dancer, like Nijinsky. I saw him dance in Paris
and it was amazing! Actually, “amazing” doesn’t do it justice. I went every night that I could get a seat, no matter how far from the stage I was. I didn’t know it was possible for a human to jump and twirl as high as he did. And he made it all look so effortless! I’ve never had any lessons, but I’ve always been thought of as a fair dancer. Perhaps the next Nijinsky?

There! Now you have it! You hold my social future in the palms of your hands.

I think I can hear the laughter all the way from Scotland.…

Must go—the tree wars are beginning!

   Regards,

   David

Isle of Skye

10 October 1912

Davey,

Marvellous! This world needs more male ballet dancers, just as it needs more female geologists.

And what, pray tell, is a tree war? Is Urbana, Illinois, so arboreally poor that its citizens must go to war? Trees are scarce on Skye, to be sure, but we don’t actually have to do battle. If the situation is that dire, please let me know. I will post a sapling or two.

The seas here are said to be inhabited by the
each uisge
, a water horse who pulls his victims beneath the sea and tears them apart with his fangs until only the liver is left, floating up ominously
to the surface. Raised on stories like this, what could entice me to step foot in the water?

Really, though, I do have my reasons. The sea can be terrifying. My da is a fisherman. My brother Alasdair was too but one day never came home. His boat did, scattered on the shingle in bits and pieces. So, yes, I do understand the dangers of the sea.

If there was a bridge connecting Skye to the mainland, perhaps I might have left. But, until that day comes, as long as I have the ferry to contend with, I fear I shall always be a prisoner on my island.

   Elspeth

P.S. As strange as it may sound, my friends call me “Elspeth.” But you, not knowing me well enough yet to be a friend, may call me whatever you like.

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

November 3, 1912

Whatever I like? Then Sue it is!

Tree wars? They’re silly pranks. Every class plants a tree on the campus and then the other classes try to destroy it. My class has already lost one. We’ve planted anew and have high hopes for the newest member of the ’13s. We’re guarding it in shifts, armed with eggs and paper sacks filled with water. Danny Norton has been feeding the tree a formula he swears by, but I think it’s mostly beer with a bit of bay rum oil to mask the scent. It
must be working, as the tree hasn’t kicked it yet. The other night we yanked up the ’14s’ sapling, roots and all!

Despite the tree wars, things aren’t all fun and games around here. This term is already turning out to be pretty difficult. My friends think the senior year is the easiest of all, but I have such a heavy load of courses. I’m at the library so often, I’m considering moving my pillow and toothbrush over. What’s easy about it? I’m dreading exam time.

You know, it’s times like this that I doubt the future. I kept hoping that at some point the right professor or course would inflame me and I’d feel the passion others seem to feel. That I’d know, without question, what I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing. But here I am, my final year of college, and I still really have no idea.

I always assumed I’d follow my father into medicine. Well, I suppose
he’s
always assumed that and I’ve just followed suit, having no plan of my own. I’ve come to realize, though, that I’m not eager for it. As much as I hate school, I almost wish I could just stay. Then I wouldn’t have to go out into the “big, wide world.”

Well, there, you’ve heard my worries and my doubts. Perhaps they’re born of frustration as I move closer to end-of-term exams. I’m sorry to burden you with such glum ponderings. I’ll have to send this letter quickly before I change my mind.

   Tired,

   David

Isle of Skye

23 November 1912

Davey,

Don’t go jumping off your library tower, please!

We’re not always made for doing the same as the others. My brother Finlay, he could carve the
Mona Lisa
on an acorn if he wanted to. I’d just end up with a splinter. I could never be a Nijinsky, no matter how hard I was to try. Those classmates with passion and aptitude for their field of study, it’s what they were made to do. Davey, you can’t force yourself to be the same. You’re made for something on this earth, but maybe it’s not what your father thinks. Does he know how unhappy you are?

In my book, your aptitude lies in keeping a Scottish recluse from going mad during an island winter. The sheep aren’t nearly as fascinating.

Really, though, Davey, you have passion. There’s something out there for you. Hold fast to that hope. You’ll find it.

   Elspeth

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

December 11, 1912

Sue,

Your letter offered me a much-welcome break from studying. It even helped to soothe my throbbing head. I was in the hospital recently and still am not quite up to snuff.

I’m not sure if my parents know how I feel about school.
When I was starting college and mentioned I’d fancy studying American literature, my father actually laughed. Didn’t even look up from his newspaper. Just laughed and said, “Ridiculous.” He has a big walrus mustache, and when he laughs, he doesn’t make a sound. You only know because the tips of his mustache twitch. There he sat, sniffing, mustache twitching, saying things like “Ridiculous” and “No career in that.” “But I enjoy literature,” I protested. “Medicine. That’s what you need to study. You’ll thank me for it later. Nothing more rewarding.”

I really did try to tell him then, Sue, honest I did. But it only bloomed into an argument, with my mother wringing her hands and imploring me to just “give it a try.” My father finally thumped his newspaper down and declared that he wasn’t paying for that nonsense and that, if I wanted to study something frivolous like literature, it wouldn’t be on his dime.