Peinchorran
, as a salesclerk hurried up to me. “Twee little verse,” she said, quite seriously. “The author lives up in the Highlands of Scotland. You get a lovely sense of their superstitions and almost primitive lifestyle.” I nodded sagely, then took the book to the counter and signed the flyleaf with a very distinct “Elspeth Dunn.” I handed the book back to the astonished salesclerk and said, with what I hope was an airy tone, “We’re regular savages but don’t
always
eat our own young.”
I am running water for one more long, luxurious bath; a bath where I don’t have to draw and heat the water myself. Just to sink back in the steamy water and rose oil is heaven itself. In the morning I’m meeting my publisher in Cecil Court (where he’s promised me even more bookshops!), and then I’m heading back to the station to catch my train north. I’ll write to you again when I get there, but I’ll be crossing my fingers, my toes, and maybe even my eyes (when no one is looking) that there will be a letter from you waiting for me.
With every inch of my being,
Sue
Paris, France
December 5, 1915
My Sue,
What a surprise to get here and find not one but two letters from you waiting!
I’ve been busy, running from one end of Paris to the other, itseems, securing the necessary paperwork, buying my uniform and the last bits of equipment, taking my driving exam. Did I tell you that, when I was on the boat trip across the Atlantic, I had the childish urge to go to Paris first and then to London, so that I could greet you all kitted out in my uniform? I think I look quite well turned out. All dressed up, but nowhere to go!
Until we get to the front, we’ve been trying to enjoy what bit of time we have before we’re really put to work. Our uniforms get us all sorts of boons—half-priced theater tickets, discounted drinks. It’s been fun, but … it still doesn’t seem like the “Gay Paree” I remember. Many of the theaters and music halls are shut or operate on shortened hours. Cafés are closed early, lights are dimmed on the street at night. Even so far from the trenches, it’s a city at war.
The books are much appreciated, as I’m sure you knew the moment you bought them. You’re determined to turn me into a poetry reader, aren’t you? Haven’t I told you that Elspeth Dunn is the only poet for me? I just have room left in my duffel bag for the Shakespeare, but Harry’s going to read the Dryden and W. S. and then we’ll swap.
My Bible is one that I’ve had since my First Communion. It’s a slim little volume bound in limp brown leather with pages as thin as dragonfly wings, so it’s the perfect size for my bag. My name is scrawled in the frontispiece in round, childish letters, and I have a lock of Evie’s hair tucked somewhere in the Book of Ruth, so it can’t help but remind me of home.
I also brought along my battered copy of
Huck Finn
, more for comfort than for reading, as I could probably recite the whole book verbatim. But that dog-eared book has been the firstthing in my suitcase when packing for anything stressful or upheaving—hospital visits (of which, as you know, there have been more than a few), first ocean voyage, going away to college, moving to the apartment. I take it out, read it straightaway, and it immediately makes me feel that I’m back curled in the green armchair in my parents’ library. It only stands to reason that I’d bring it along here.
Perhaps it’s superstitious, but I also view the book somewhat as a lucky charm. My mother bought it to read aloud to Evie and me when we had the measles. We finished reading the book and then, the next day, Evie’s fever broke. I’ve always somehow associated that collective sigh of relief with
Huck Finn
.
You may rightly wonder, why does the invincible Mort need a lucky charm? Well, Sue, I’m afraid. For the first time in my life I’m really afraid of something tangible. I was fine on the boat ride
, as a salesclerk hurried up to me. “Twee little verse,” she said, quite seriously. “The author lives up in the Highlands of Scotland. You get a lovely sense of their superstitions and almost primitive lifestyle.” I nodded sagely, then took the book to the counter and signed the flyleaf with a very distinct “Elspeth Dunn.” I handed the book back to the astonished salesclerk and said, with what I hope was an airy tone, “We’re regular savages but don’t
always
eat our own young.”
I am running water for one more long, luxurious bath; a bath where I don’t have to draw and heat the water myself. Just to sink back in the steamy water and rose oil is heaven itself. In the morning I’m meeting my publisher in Cecil Court (where he’s promised me even more bookshops!), and then I’m heading back to the station to catch my train north. I’ll write to you again when I get there, but I’ll be crossing my fingers, my toes, and maybe even my eyes (when no one is looking) that there will be a letter from you waiting for me.
With every inch of my being,
Sue
Paris, France
December 5, 1915
My Sue,
What a surprise to get here and find not one but two letters from you waiting!
I’ve been busy, running from one end of Paris to the other, itseems, securing the necessary paperwork, buying my uniform and the last bits of equipment, taking my driving exam. Did I tell you that, when I was on the boat trip across the Atlantic, I had the childish urge to go to Paris first and then to London, so that I could greet you all kitted out in my uniform? I think I look quite well turned out. All dressed up, but nowhere to go!
Until we get to the front, we’ve been trying to enjoy what bit of time we have before we’re really put to work. Our uniforms get us all sorts of boons—half-priced theater tickets, discounted drinks. It’s been fun, but … it still doesn’t seem like the “Gay Paree” I remember. Many of the theaters and music halls are shut or operate on shortened hours. Cafés are closed early, lights are dimmed on the street at night. Even so far from the trenches, it’s a city at war.
The books are much appreciated, as I’m sure you knew the moment you bought them. You’re determined to turn me into a poetry reader, aren’t you? Haven’t I told you that Elspeth Dunn is the only poet for me? I just have room left in my duffel bag for the Shakespeare, but Harry’s going to read the Dryden and W. S. and then we’ll swap.
My Bible is one that I’ve had since my First Communion. It’s a slim little volume bound in limp brown leather with pages as thin as dragonfly wings, so it’s the perfect size for my bag. My name is scrawled in the frontispiece in round, childish letters, and I have a lock of Evie’s hair tucked somewhere in the Book of Ruth, so it can’t help but remind me of home.
I also brought along my battered copy of
Huck Finn
, more for comfort than for reading, as I could probably recite the whole book verbatim. But that dog-eared book has been the firstthing in my suitcase when packing for anything stressful or upheaving—hospital visits (of which, as you know, there have been more than a few), first ocean voyage, going away to college, moving to the apartment. I take it out, read it straightaway, and it immediately makes me feel that I’m back curled in the green armchair in my parents’ library. It only stands to reason that I’d bring it along here.
Perhaps it’s superstitious, but I also view the book somewhat as a lucky charm. My mother bought it to read aloud to Evie and me when we had the measles. We finished reading the book and then, the next day, Evie’s fever broke. I’ve always somehow associated that collective sigh of relief with
Huck Finn
.
You may rightly wonder, why does the invincible Mort need a lucky charm? Well, Sue, I’m afraid. For the first time in my life I’m really afraid of something tangible. I was fine on the boat ride
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