Letters from Skye (5 page)

   David

P.S. Here is a photo of me in all my robes and mortarboard. That proud sapling next to me is Paulie. Both the tree and I have (amazingly!) made it through the year!

Isle of Skye

7 July 1913

Dear David,

You look so exuberant! I don’t know who looks prouder or straighter—you or the tree. I’m glad things are going so well for you.

Your niece sounds delightful, and you are lucky to be able to see her as often as you do. My brother Alasdair died several years ago, and his widow moved to Edinburgh with their children. I haven’t seen Chrissie or my niece or nephews since then. My two other brothers, Finlay and Willie, are still living at home, so no children forthcoming there (at least, Màthair hopes not!), although Finlay has a girl I think he’s quite serious about, so it may not be long. Kate’s a sweet thing; we are all crossing our fingers.

Now that you aren’t going on to medical school, what are you doing to fill your time? Have you joined up with the Ballets Russes yet? Learned to play the cornet? Started writing the Great American Novel?

I’m sure it’s much easier to have a sweetheart now that your evenings aren’t full of studying. You say that Lara attends university. Is that usual for American women? All of the girls I went to school with thought of nothing more than getting married, picking out curtains, and basically emptying their heads of ten or twelve years’ worth of lessons. They thought I was as mad as a March hare for even wanting to read a book not on the suggested school curriculum, let alone wanting to attend university.

   Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

July 27, 1913

Dear Sue,

No, I haven’t joined the Ballet Russes. To be honest, I’m not sure what to do next. I suppose there was something very neat and reassuring about having my future planned out by my father. I’ve been looking in the newspaper at the jobs available, wondering what it is I might want to do. I’m not even sure which direction to take. My mother thinks it is very undignified for me to be looking to the newspaper for career options and has been discreetly asking at her bridge parties to see if anything “respectable” comes up.

No, I don’t think it is very usual for women to go to college. There were female students at the University of Illinois but not many of them, especially not in biology. Even though they were attending college, they seemed to limit themselves to feminine courses of study, like modern languages, literature, home economics. Not a geologist among them, I’m afraid!

   David

Isle of Skye

14 August 1913

Dear boy,

Why is it that things such as languages and literatures are “feminine” courses of study? No censure to you, David. I know you were repeating a universal truth—albeit a questionable one.
We are in an age where women work in professions previously prohibited. Although there still aren’t many, women have proven themselves competent as doctors, scientists, businesswomen. Now that the doors are open, why aren’t more women rushing to gain entrance? Instead, they are settling down, saying, “Who wants to win the Nobel Prize like Marie Curie? It will be much more satisfying to learn how to dress a roast chicken.” Of course, everyone is welcome to their interests, and perhaps there are women who truly desire to learn nothing more than chicken-dressing or home economics. But why is a woman who has studied chemistry or geology less fit as a helpmeet than a woman who has studied literature? I’m not a suffragette, but when it comes to the topic of women and education, I do get irate.

   Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

September 4, 1913

Dear Sue,

At long last, I am gainfully employed! I’ve got myself a job teaching biology and chemistry at a private school right here in Chicago. Lara says that, before the term is out, all of the girls will be in love with me and all of the boys will want to be my pals.

I don’t have a good answer as to why some areas of study are designated as “feminine.” You’re right, we are moving into more-enlightened times, but are still far from there. With more
co-educational universities, a woman can go to college and study what she pleases. She can even go ahead and find a “radical” new job, working as a scientist or an academic. But it is still assumed—even expected—that she will give it all up when she becomes a mother. Pedagogy and Equality are always trumped by Maternity.

Now, I will give you that women seem to be much better at raising children than men are. Lord knows, my father would’ve made a mess-up of the thing if he had been in charge. But children grow up, move away. Why shouldn’t a woman be able to pursue a career later in life?

You make a good point, though, Sue. I hope for a wife who has more-interesting things to talk about than roasting chickens. Someone who reads the same things as I do and wonders about the same questions. Or even someone who thinks the exact opposite but doesn’t mind lively debate and loves me just the same.

   David

Isle of Skye

30 September 1913

David,

What, my dear boy, leads you to think that women are better at raising children? It sounds as though your niece adores you, so you must be doing something right with the child. Don’t you have confidence in your ability to raise children, to care for them longer than it takes to tell a fairy story?

   Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

October 17, 1913

Dear Sue,

Well, wouldn’t you agree women have something innate, something that allows them to be mothers? I’m not quite sure what it is. Women are much more selfless than men. They have patience and a generous spirit. A woman could get all of the degrees in home economics she wishes, but even without having been to college, she can still run a household and become a mother.

   David

Isle of Skye

31 October 1913

David,

Your letters have gone from merely rankling to downright infuriating. No innate quality makes us wives or mothers or homemakers. Are we born with something internal to make us good at cooking or darning socks? Do you think the Great Almighty had the foresight to know what would be required of the housewife of the twentieth century and reserve a special part of the brain for pie-making? Because, I tell you, I am proficient at none of those. No cooking, no pie-making, and certainly no darning of socks. Perhaps I was born with only half a brain, with something vital missing. Is that what you are suggesting?

You say that women, especially mothers, must be selfless.
They aren’t born with this, yet it is still expected of them. No one begrudges a man his pint after a day’s work or the chance to put his feet up in front of the fire or even the opportunity just to sit with the newspaper in the mornings. But if a mother wants to take an hour off for a walk, a quiet mug of tea, or (heaven forbid!) a visit to a friend’s, there would be an outcry. Mothers aren’t supposed to want to be away from their children. They are supposed to be completely selfless. A good mother would
never
eat the last slice of cake.

I’m not sure that I want children. I can’t be that selfless. If I had a bairn clinging to my legs, I wouldn’t be able to go on my jaunts through the mountains. I wouldn’t be able to sit for hours staring at the waves, writing poetry. I wouldn’t be able to get by with cooking only sausages and Christmas pudding. I couldn’t stay up late, watching the stars move across the sky, or wake up early to walk the hills until the sun explodes over the horizon. You can’t tell me that I could still have all of that with children in tow. And I could certainly never give up that last slice of cake.

Independence makes a woman greedy.

   Elspeth

Chapter Six
 
Margaret

Edinburgh

Friday, 19 July 1940

Dear Paul,

She’s gone.

The morning after the bomb fell, I went back to the house, intending to patch things up. All night, I couldn’t sleep a wink, thinking about how we argued and how she pushed me away after those letters came tumbling out of the wall. My stomach was in knots.

But when I got up to the flat, it was empty. The wainscoting still gaped open, but every last letter was gone. And both of my suitcases.

My mother, who has never been away from the house for longer than a few hours, has packed up and left. And I have no idea where she’s gone.

I went to the neighbours’. I checked in the library. I walked around Holyrood Park three times. I even stopped in St. Mary’s Cathedral, thinking it not out of the realm of possibility that she was in her usual pew with the suitcases of letters. But no one had seen her. I went to Waverley Station, thinking surely she hadn’t boarded a train, that she was just sitting on a bench, trying to work up the courage to board. No. She wasn’t there.

So here I am, back in the empty house, not knowing if I should be worried or not. If she wants to take a little holiday, she’s certainly entitled. She can take care of herself. But the way she looked last night, Paul. Her eyes, they were haunted. She looked defeated sprawled out there on the floor. I may not know where she is, but I know she’s not on a jaunt to the seaside. Wherever she’s gone, she’s chasing something. Memories, regrets, her past. I’m not sure.

What I do know, though, is that it involves a letter from an American to someone named Sue. I always did like following a good mystery. Shall I?

   Affectionately,

   Margaret

21 July 1940

Maisie dear,

I hope this reaches you before you set out in search of adventure. You always did long to be a detective. Remember the time we crawled all over the Meadows at twilight, in search of the Hound of the Baskervilles? We were such kids then.

I do wish I had a bit of adventure myself. I’m still grounded until my wrist is all mended. So, instead of being off flying, I’m back lurking around the airfield. Can I be your Watson?

I hope, though, that your proposed detecting takes you safely out of Edinburgh. Granny never said a word about air raids in the city. Though, knowing her, she stood on the steps, shaking her fist at the Jerrys as they flew over. Now that I know there are real bombs falling right there where we used to play rounders, I hope you go elsewhere.

Perhaps your mam had the same thought. Don’t worry about her, Maisie. She’s as tough as my gran. She’ll be just fine.

Be safe, my sweet lass.

   Yours,

   Paul

Edinburgh

Wednesday, 24 July 1940

Dear Paul,

I thought, if anyone I know could shed some light on Mother’s “first volume,” my cousin Emily could. She’s known Mother longer than I have. I took that single yellowed letter to her house and, in between loads of washing at the steamie, she told me all she knew. Which, really, isn’t much.

She remembers staying with Mother during the last war. Aunt Chrissie sent the children from the city to keep them safe after a Zeppelin attack. Even then there were evacuations. In their case, all the way up to the Isle of Skye.

I still can’t believe that my mother, who’s never walked beyond the edge of Edinburgh, once lived up in the Western Isles! It’s no secret—she’s told me stories of growing up, of skipping down the braes in search of fairy folk—but, nonetheless, I’ve always thought of her as an Edinburgher through and through. But she spent her girlhood there. Not so strange she should have a letter from Skye.

There was some bit of scandal with a girl and our two uncles. Perhaps the girl was called Sue? Emily couldn’t remember. And I can’t write to my gran to ask, as she only reads and writes in Gaelic. Emily suggested I write to our uncle Finlay, who stays in Glasgow.

I knew my mother had three brothers (two after Emily’s da died), but she’s never said much about them. Just that Alasdair was the smart one, Willie the cheeky one, and Finlay the one who lost something and never came back. About that, Mother never would explain further. Only that one day Finlay had more anger than he could keep inside and he left.

Emily never would’ve known Finlay was in the city at all—no one knew where he’d gone when he left Skye—but she was shopping in Glasgow one day years ago and passed a man who looked just like her da, Alasdair. She was young when he died, but Aunt Chrissie always kept a wedding photo by her bed. Emily chased the man down and, on a whim, threw out her da’s name and was shocked to find out that he was Alasdair’s younger brother. But it was no heartfelt meeting. Uncle Finlay shook her hand firmly, passed along his best wishes amidst other banalities, and then continued on his way. If Emily didn’t immediately hurry to find a telephone directory and learn that he had
an address in Glasgow, the family might have lost that one brief reappearance of Uncle Finlay.

Thank goodness for curiosity, else I’d probably not have the courage to write to an uncle I never knew existed. And a disagreeable uncle at that, if rumours are to be believed. Wish me luck!

   Affectionately,

   Margaret

Chapter Seven
 
Elspeth