over supper! I think I prattled on enough for the both of us. I was nervous, though, dining at my very first restaurant. So many people, so many forks, and not an oatcake in sight. But when we walked back to the Langham, when you stopped my words with a kiss that left me breathless, that’s when I saw the Davey I love. That’s when I saw the fearless boy who stole my heart.
Ah, the Langham! I felt like a princess just walking through the front door. All marble and glass and electric lights, like a palace. Did you not expect me to come back to your room? It certainly seemed so, the way your eyes grew huge and your hands trembly when I suggested it. You dropped the key to the room five times; I counted. And there was nothing to be nervous about in the end.
I wish we could’ve stayed up there the whole time. Nine perfect days. Waking up and seeing that funny startled look in youreyes each morning to find me still there. Falling asleep in your arms with our drowsy conversation in the dark. I collected each word like a bead, to string together on my lonely nights back on Skye. Yours is the very first American accent I’ve ever heard. I like it best when it’s saying, “I love you.”
I know you had to leave. Even after all that, even after
me
, you had to leave. And I hate myself for hating it. I hate myself for wasting a single second of our precious time wishing things could be different.
Of course, I couldn’t tell you any of this in person. I couldn’t say much at all. The very sound of our voices was so …
odd
. So banal. I confess I couldn’t wait to get back to my notepaper and pen to tell you how I felt. And to tell you how my mind is collaborating with my heart and my body to make me miss you unbelievably, more than I thought I could.
I love you. Stay safe. Stay safe for me.
Sue
The Langham, London
29 November 1915
My own boy,
You probably don’t yet have my earlier letter, but I thought it could never be too soon to tell you again how much I miss you. The hotel seems so big and lonely without you (does the room echo or it just my imagination?). The scent of oranges linger in the air and I swear I can still see the shape of you in themattress. As lovely as the Langham is, I shan’t be too sad to leave. It isn’t as lovely when you aren’t here.
I went out shopping today. Davey, why didn’t you tell me about all of the books? While out walking, I turned a corner and was confronted with a street packed full of bookshops. You may laugh, but even if I were to have let my imagination run loose, I never would’ve conjured up an image of an entire store filled with
nothing but books
. I’m afraid I looked quite the “country yokel,” standing in the doorway of the first establishment I entered, staring around me goggle-eyed at the shelves upon shelves. It was Foyles, so of course it was some time before I reemerged, blinking, into the sunlight. I swear I became lost a dozen times. The rest of the day I traipsed from one end of Charing Cross Road to the other, ducking into every single bookshop I passed, and not leaving without buying at least one thing. I became quite adept at saying, in an offhand sort of way, “Send this to the Langham,” and then was flabbergasted at the stacks of parcels awaiting me at the hotel that evening.
I puzzled over what to get for you, Davey, my dear, as I know that you have only a limited amount of room in your kit bag. All a person really needs to get them through the vagaries of life are the Bible and W. S. (both of them). I guessed you already had a Bible, so I’m sending you Scott’s
Lady of the Lake
and the most compact edition of Shakespeare’s works I could find. And a little sliver of room left in the package which I’ve filled with Dryden. After all, “words are but pictures of our thoughts.”
The funniest thing—I was greeted in one bookstore by a displayof my own books. I must’ve looked amused as I picked up a copy of
Waves to
Ah, the Langham! I felt like a princess just walking through the front door. All marble and glass and electric lights, like a palace. Did you not expect me to come back to your room? It certainly seemed so, the way your eyes grew huge and your hands trembly when I suggested it. You dropped the key to the room five times; I counted. And there was nothing to be nervous about in the end.
I wish we could’ve stayed up there the whole time. Nine perfect days. Waking up and seeing that funny startled look in youreyes each morning to find me still there. Falling asleep in your arms with our drowsy conversation in the dark. I collected each word like a bead, to string together on my lonely nights back on Skye. Yours is the very first American accent I’ve ever heard. I like it best when it’s saying, “I love you.”
I know you had to leave. Even after all that, even after
me
, you had to leave. And I hate myself for hating it. I hate myself for wasting a single second of our precious time wishing things could be different.
Of course, I couldn’t tell you any of this in person. I couldn’t say much at all. The very sound of our voices was so …
odd
. So banal. I confess I couldn’t wait to get back to my notepaper and pen to tell you how I felt. And to tell you how my mind is collaborating with my heart and my body to make me miss you unbelievably, more than I thought I could.
I love you. Stay safe. Stay safe for me.
Sue
The Langham, London
29 November 1915
My own boy,
You probably don’t yet have my earlier letter, but I thought it could never be too soon to tell you again how much I miss you. The hotel seems so big and lonely without you (does the room echo or it just my imagination?). The scent of oranges linger in the air and I swear I can still see the shape of you in themattress. As lovely as the Langham is, I shan’t be too sad to leave. It isn’t as lovely when you aren’t here.
I went out shopping today. Davey, why didn’t you tell me about all of the books? While out walking, I turned a corner and was confronted with a street packed full of bookshops. You may laugh, but even if I were to have let my imagination run loose, I never would’ve conjured up an image of an entire store filled with
nothing but books
. I’m afraid I looked quite the “country yokel,” standing in the doorway of the first establishment I entered, staring around me goggle-eyed at the shelves upon shelves. It was Foyles, so of course it was some time before I reemerged, blinking, into the sunlight. I swear I became lost a dozen times. The rest of the day I traipsed from one end of Charing Cross Road to the other, ducking into every single bookshop I passed, and not leaving without buying at least one thing. I became quite adept at saying, in an offhand sort of way, “Send this to the Langham,” and then was flabbergasted at the stacks of parcels awaiting me at the hotel that evening.
I puzzled over what to get for you, Davey, my dear, as I know that you have only a limited amount of room in your kit bag. All a person really needs to get them through the vagaries of life are the Bible and W. S. (both of them). I guessed you already had a Bible, so I’m sending you Scott’s
Lady of the Lake
and the most compact edition of Shakespeare’s works I could find. And a little sliver of room left in the package which I’ve filled with Dryden. After all, “words are but pictures of our thoughts.”
The funniest thing—I was greeted in one bookstore by a displayof my own books. I must’ve looked amused as I picked up a copy of
Waves to
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