Soldier Doll (5 page)

“He's going off to war, you know.” Meg tried to sound casual, but her father looked up. He was a perceptive man and caught the change in her tone immediately.

“He's a strong boy,” said her father, his tone brusque. “Doctor says he's in good shape now. He'll do fine. Everyone is saying the war will be over soon. He'll be back in no time at all. You'll see.” His voice was strong and reassuring, but he didn't look at her. He busied himself with the hammer in his hands, as if inspecting it for some sudden and previously overlooked defect.

“Tom and George didn't come back.” Meg sat down across from her father in the little chair he'd made especially for her so she could watch him work. It was a touch small for her now, but it was still her favorite place to sit. She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them, and crossed and uncrossed her feet.

“Now, Margaret.” Her father's tone was sharp. “Is that any way to talk? To think, even? You must be strong for Ned.” With a loud bang, he hammered another nail into the cabinet.

“I know, Father.” Meg looked abashed. “But I can't help worrying. He's been so ill. And then I think of all the boys who haven't come back…” Her voice trailed off.

Mr. Merriweather sighed. “It is a terrible war,” he acknowledged. “There's never been one quite like this before.”

“He doesn't want to be wed right away,” said Meg. “He wants to wait until he returns. He wants a proper wedding. And he says I'm too young.”

“That seems sensible. And he's right. You are very young. Little more than a child.” Her father put the hammer down and stared across the room, his eyes softening. “Your mother and I, we had a beautiful wedding.”

“Oh?” Meg looked at her father in surprise. He rarely spoke of whimsical things like weddings. She waited, hoping he'd say more.

“Oh, yes.” Her father had a faraway look in his eyes. “We didn't have much money, of course. But it was June, and the flowers, they were lovely. Your mother, she must have spent days gathering them. And her dress. Such a pretty white dress. Made it herself, she did. She was a fine seamstress, Bess was. She would have made you a beautiful dress.” He looked down at his daughter, his eyes sad now.

“I know, Father.” Meg smiled and gently placed a hand on his arm. She sighed inwardly, resigning herself to wait for a fancy wedding. There seemed to be no escaping it. “I'm certainly not a good seamstress, though. I'll have to enlist some help.”

“No,” admitted her father. “But you have other gifts. Like the writing.” His face shone with pride. “Imagine, a daughter of mine who can write like a scholar.”

“I'm working on some new poetry, actually.” Meg stood up. “I'm going to do some mending, and then I'll get the tea started,” she said. “And afterward, I'll read you some of my new poems.”

“That sounds lovely.” Mr. Merriweather went back to his workbench, and Meg made her way to little the room at the back that was hers. The cottage she shared with her father was small—only four rooms—but it was more than enough space. Made of stone, it had been built over three hundred years earlier. It still had a thatched roof. Some of their neighbors had replaced these roofs in recent years, trading them for modern shingling, but Jim Merriweather wasn't one to fix something that wasn't broken. “It keeps out the rain, and that's good enough for me,” he'd say, and Meg tended to agree.

A wicker basket of clothing requiring her attention sat on a corner of the writing desk her father had fashioned just for her. Meg picked up the basket and, in doing so, knocked over the small wooden figure that had been hiding behind it.

Meg crouched to the floor to retrieve the little doll. It had a cherubic face, like a baby's. Her father had made it for her years ago, when her mother died. As a child, the doll she'd named Will had served as a special friend and confidant. Though she didn't play with dolls now, she still frequently spoke to the small figure. She knew it was silly, but her feelings toward her childhood friend were still very tender.

“I'm to be wed, Will,” Meg told the doll as it stared back at her blankly. “Imagine that.”

“It's to Ned, of course,” she went on. “And you don't have to worry. He already knows all about you, so he won't mind if you come and live with us.”

With a smile, she laid the doll gently back down on her desk and picked up her writing journal and a pen. There was mending to do, but there were poems to write as well.

. . .

“I can't believe it's May already,” said Meg, half to herself. Ned was leaving on the fifteenth. When he had received the official letter, the one Meg had so dreaded, May had seemed far away still. Now she felt they were running out of time.

“Don't you fret, dear.” Mrs. Tanner, the local seamstress, stuck a pin in the yard of silk she was wrapping around Meg's waist. Meg felt a prick at her hip and winced. “I heard from my cousin in London that the war isn't going to last much longer. Now, let us try to make you a beautiful dress, shall we?”

Nights were the most difficult. Alone in the dark, Meg's thoughts would turn to Ned and to the stories about the war that she'd read in the papers her father sometimes brought home. Unable to sleep, she would toss and turn with no one to keep her company save the little wooden doll. As she'd done as a small child, Meg would clutch Will to her chest when she felt fearful or couldn't sleep.

The day before Ned was set to leave, Meg asked him to join her on one of their walks to the river. Hand in hand, they strolled in silence. The daffodils were in full bloom now, and they covered the fields so completely with yellow that it was almost as if someone had buttered the landscape.

“Ned,” she said, “Have you ever heard of handfasting?”

He laughed. “Like the Scots?”

“Yes, darling. Traditionally, they would hold hands and promise marriage for a year and a day. A trial, of sorts.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Meg took a deep breath. “Hold my hands and tell me you're my husband.”

“Come now, Meg. We've been through this. We'll have our wedding when I return.”

“It's only temporary. Until you get back.” Meg's eyes were pleading.

Ned smiled. “This will make you happy? Settle your fears a bit?”

“Yes, Ned. Please?” Meg's voice shook slightly. She moved closer to him.

“Fine, then. What do I do?” Ned was grinning, like it was a game. Meg took a deep breath. “Hold my hands,” she said quietly.

Meg grasped his hands and held them firmly. They felt hot. “I will take you to be my husband,” she said.

Ned repeated the vow and gave Meg a questioning look. “Is that all?”

“Well traditionally, I think we would exchange rings. You've already given me one. I don't have a ring for you, but…” Meg's voice trailed off. She turned to him and unwrapped the small bundle she had hidden in the apron of her skirt. “I want you to take this with you to the front.”

Surprised, Ned looked down to see Meg's little wooden doll. Only now, it had been painted. Meg had carefully decorated the tiny figure in a soldier's uniform: khaki trousers and tunic with tiny buttons. There were even painted breast pockets, shoulder straps, and rifle patches.

“I painted it.” Meg's voice was shy now. “I thought it could be a friend for you. When you feel lonely or afraid. It's always been a friend for me.” She offered it to him.

Moved, Ned took the wooden doll, staring at its shiny painted boots. “I can't possibly take this, Meg. Your father made it for you.” He tried to give it back to her.

“Ned, you must.” She pushed the doll back into his hands. “It will comfort me to think Will is with you. And when you look at him, you'll think of me.”

“Well,” said Ned. He sounded doubtful. “If you really want me to take it, I will. I daresay it will be nice to have some company on the battlefield.” He smiled. “I promise to keep him safe, Meg.” He took the keepsake and tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. Ned tapped the pocket and pulled her close.

Meg pulled him to the grass. “There is one other part to the handfasting,” she said. She was blushing now, and her heart was beating fast.

“What's that, love?”

“You have to make me your wife, Ned.”

It was Ned's turn to blush. “Here? Now?”

“Now.”

He took her in his arms.

. . .

Ned wrote regularly. This both relieved Meg and put her ill at ease. The euphoria she first felt at seeing his handwriting on an envelope quickly deteriorated into a ceaseless worry as the letters came, first detailing his experiences at the training camp and then describing the trenches in Flanders. Nonetheless, Meg treasured these letters. She slept with them under her pillow while at the same time chastising herself for having turned into a hopeless romantic, the kind of silly girl she would have once mocked. When she looked in the mirror now, clad in her almost-finished wedding dress, a stranger stared back at her. Each day when it was time for the post to arrive, she lurked at the front stoop, pacing nervously. When the postman arrived, she would look up hopefully, searching his face. A grin and a nod meant good news: a new letter! A rueful shake of the head meant another day of waiting and hoping. His latest letter had both comforted and unsettled her.

Dearest Meg
,

How are you, love? I do hope you're taking care and keeping dry, as I hear England is nearly as wet as Flanders this spring. I must say, it is quite cold here, and I have never seen rain such as this before. It rains almost constantly. The fields, as a result, are a sea of mud. The mud is almost as dangerous as the Krauts. There is mud everywhere, and I will confess I long for a hot bath and a clean bed!

We are preparing for another battle at a town called Ypres. It is not much different than Vimy Ridge, as far as I can tell. All these small Flemish towns look alike to me, though I suppose one could say the same thing of our little English towns. Trenches are being dug, and the men are getting ready to fight once more—though I must confess, I cling to the rumors that hint that the war will be over any time now.

I do miss Harry Stevens dearly. You remember Harry, whom I mentioned in my early letters? Harry caught pneumonia shortly after the fight at Vimy Ridge. It isn't natural to spend the night in the rain and mud in the trenches. It is hard on the body and on the lungs, I reckon. I am lucky that so far my cough has not worsened. The army doctor says my lungs are functioning well and that I am healthy as an ox. Poor Harry. He had a sweetheart waiting for him at home, too. I do think of her, then think of you, and us, and feel overwhelmed with sadness. What will become of her, his Violet? I wish I could write to her and tell her of his bravery, but I do not even know her surname.

Never fear, Meg darling, as I still have your little soldier doll. It is a great comfort to me as a token of you as well as a companion during the long, cold nights. I keep it in my breast pocket at all times. The other lads think the doll is lucky and regularly rub it or pat it on the head prior to going down to the trenches. I thought you might find that amusing!

Please take good care of yourself. You are in my thoughts at all times, and not a moment goes by when I do not see your smiling face in my mind's eye.

All my love,

Ned

Meg read the letter over and over. She had replied, of course, right away. Meg wrote even more frequently than Ned did. She hoped that her letters would boost his morale in the endless rain and mud.

Dear Ned
, she wrote most recently,
Thank you for your last letter from Ypres. As always, it was wonderful to hear from you. The conditions you describe sound intolerable. It has perhaps been slightly more rainy than usual here, but not to the extent that you are describing. I worry to think of you sleeping in a rain- and mud-filled trench, though I am relieved to hear that you are doing well and that your cough has improved.

I am so sorry to hear about poor Harry. I will add his Violet to my prayers.

Things here are as they ever were, dear one—pleasantly boring. The most exciting thing that happened since your departure occurred last week. Leaving church on Sunday, Mrs. Tremont stood up, and her skirts and slip were tucked into her stockings! People tried not to laugh but they couldn't help it. Mrs. Allen kept trying to signal to Mrs. T. what the problem was, but she simply was not catching on, and finally, Mrs. A. reached over and yanked them out herself! Poor Mrs. T. was mortified, and of course everyone is still talking about it.

I miss you constantly. I am so pleased that the doll is a comfort to you as it was to me after my mother died. I think of the two of you often, and the fact that you are together gives me much happiness.

I love you, Ned. Keep safe.

Yours,

Meg

The weeks passed. Day after day, the postman would look down regretfully, shaking his head. Soon, he began averting his eyes, as if he couldn't bear the disappointment he saw in hers. Meg grew increasingly worried and despondent.

“He's busy, Meg.” Her father dismissed her fretting. “He's at war. Not much time to write when you're busy fighting the enemy. And besides—it's likely that the post is moving much slower than usual, given the war.”

Meg felt skeptical, but said nothing. The day before, she had realized that she hadn't had her courses since Ned left. She didn't have a mother, but she was privy to the whisperings of the seamstress and the women at church. One month might not mean anything, but three left little room for doubt. Her clothes still fit, but she was sure that was only because her appetite had diminished when Ned left. She touched her stomach. What would her father say? She crossed her arms over her waist protectively: she could endure the shame. Ned had suffered worse.