Letter 1
The creak of Mr.Elm’s rusty bicycle paired with the buttery morning sunlight of early June made
firstly, the weather and ambience much warmer than the prior rainy April and secondly emitted
this sense of optimism in waves, or at least that’s what Emily deduced, waiting expectantly by
the window, for the tell tale opening of the gate and the march towards her porch.
The gate did indeed swing open and rather than a stern march, old Mr.Elm ambled along the
drive to deposit Emily’s letter along with the morning paper she’d not collected yet, scared of the
scatter of names printed under an ominous title, a title Emily would happily ignore.
As soon as the letter fell with a soft thud on the polished wood of her quaint porch littered with
potted plants she ran, well more like she tried to run, tripped on a flyway shawl or coat she
couldn’t bother to pick up and then scurried towards the ornate white oak door and snatched up
a slightly battered cream envelope with a familiar scrawl that made Emily’s heart beat vigorously
and settle at the same time, quite an oxymoronic and odd manner she was put in due to a piece
of paper, but it was an important piece of paper none the less, one she had been unconsciously
expecting.
She then proceeded to carefully undo the glued tab and slid the letter out, filled with more
scrawl and words and flourishes that made Emily’s surroundings and the words on the thin
paper blur a little. Now she refuses to cry due to promises she made about being brave and
strong but she couldn’t help the small tear sliding down her cheek in a melodramatic fashion that
she quickly brushed away.
Hands trembling ever so slightly she clutched the thin piece of parchment as if it were a tiny
infant and afraid the moment her fingers stopped brushing the paper, the letter would evaporate
and join the motes of ash littering the unlit fireplace.
From: Private James Ledwin,
no. 36457,
16th royal Scots,
B.E.F, France
To: Emily Carlisle
Cotswold, Wicarage lane
My darling Emily, June 1st 1916
The letter started, the handwriting had nothing magnificent to it, the script a rushed pencil
scribble with a singular crossing out at the very end (still messy none the less) but the hopeful
lilt of the letter at the thought of travelling from so far and reaching her hands and being read,
made deciphering each curve and misformed line worthwhile.
I wonder if you’re still mad that I left, I can almost picture your furrowed brows and pursed lips
as you read this letter. God I wish every hour I hadn’t left but the draft came at the most
inconvenient of times.
Emily did indeed have a crease in her brow which she quickly smoothed out and continued
reading.
I hope you’re doing well Em, maybe you’ve baked a sponge cake for tea today, maybe you’re
curled up on the settee with a book and decided to give my letter a cursory glance or maybe
you’re in the garden, tending to the strawberry patch and the rose bush.
If you’re angry I deserve every insult you hurl my way and I desperately wish I could come back
and beg for your forgiveness, but I know I hurt you by leaving and for that I don’t deserve any of
your kindness, good lord I don’t deserve a letter back let alone you.
A single tear blotched that particular passage though there was nothing grim to it anyway.
I can’t tell you where I am due to confidentiality and letter interceptions but there’s nothing much
here except for war torn land and a hot beating sun, the trenches are measly at best, the earthy
construction will fill with mud if it were to rain (luck will have it, no rain yet, only mocking blue
skies) and the stench of cramped bodies and decay has become the norm out here.
I miss our cottage with its alabaster walls and wooden table with an odd assortment of chairs
you think looks charming. Mostly though and with all seriousness, I miss the bed most, or more
so the idea of sleeping peacefully. But don’t worry, I’ll come back to you if you still want me,
maybe with a furry pet to earn my favour but don’t lose anything due to my decision, should that
be sleep or peace. I want you to be happy Em.
More than the comfort of our house, I miss you.
The evening light is flickering into night and a rat just scurried across my paper, I know this letter
is dreadfully short but I’ll write again, perhaps I’ll fill your desk with a scatter of my letters like
autumn leaves and when I come back you can belittle me about my “illegible hand” (don’t throw
a book at me if I grin like a mad dog this time around Em). If I don’t come back for this scenario,
don’t wait up for me like your stubborn self.
She grinned a little at his imagination, maybe she’d throw a pencil instead as his handwriting
was still a disgrace and try as she might, Emily couldn’t wade through the scratched out line.
All my love,
James
As she finished the letter, slightly teary and hysterical with joy that he was alive (even in the
most dubious conditions) she folded the letter neatly and placed it into her dress pocket, rushing
towards her little desk facing a window looking out to the hydrangeas and silver birch in her
beloved garden, to pen out a letter of her own.
Letter 2
The next letter came in 8 days, during a wistful summer storm that whirled around a quiet
Cotswold, even though Emily’s cottage lay on a secluded piece of green pasture, she could
always faintly hear the village children laughing merrily as they chased each other along the
picturesque rolling hills.
Mr.Elm didn’t creak along in his unhurried manner today but kicked at the pedals of his old bike,
urging it to go faster in order to escape the torrents of water droplets spattering his crinkled skin
and rust ridden bicycle. He flung open the gate in a rush causing it to bang against the fence
with a resounding clank, and ran quite comically along the cobbled drive up to Emily’s porch.
Before the man could hurriedly take leave after quite literally tossing the letter at the porch and
peddle back to his house on the other side of Cotswold in his rain sodden cloths, Emily ushered
Mr.Elm in despite his constant insistence at not wanting to be a bother.
With her precious letter tucked in her dress pocket she sat Mr.Elm down and made each of
them a steaming cup of tea, planting a tray of warm Vanilla cookies next to the cups. Though
Emily was impatient to rip open her letter and devour the contents in order to ease her anxious
heart that had milled around restlessly for days, she waited as the roaring fire warmed Mr.Elm
and he had downed his cup of tea.
After conversing with Mr.Elm about all 7 of his grandchildren, one of whom was in the army now,
and nattering indignantly about the weather, which had subsided to a steadfast drizzle, Mr.Elm
was on his way, his bicycle creaking along Emily’s drive and cruising farther away from her
vicinity.
Emily, unbeknownst to herself, had nervously traced the edge of the envelope and as soon as
she shut her front door, carefully undid the tab of the letter and read it leaning against the white
oak.
From: Private James Ledwin,
no. 36457,
16th royal Scots,
B.E.F, France
To: Emily Carlisle
Cotswold, Wicarage lane
My darling Emily June 4th 1916
A small, slightly foolish part of me was in vain hope you’d write back even though you had all
the reasons not to, so imagine my utter elation when I received a letter, written in your neat print
with my evening rations. I promise I have not smiled as much as I did since the day we got
engaged (it was most definitely a feeling I’d like to feel again and again Em, and only you can
make me ecstatic)
At this, Emily bit back a smile, that page radiated a wholesome sense of contentment that Emily
was certain she saw a ray of sunlight peek through the blanket of grey rain clouds. She went on
reading:
It’s raining here, a slight shed to battle the June warmth in France (as you know I prefer the
colder months), I wonder if it’s raining there, if it is then you must finally admit that I am a psyche
of some sort my love.
At the last remark Emily glanced out into the grey abyss and her eyes widened ever so slightly.
Remember how you’d tell me how you’d love to travel the world, well I’ve only seen the trenches
for now, and I’m sure the southern coasts of France, with its frothy beaches and seaside cafes,
doesn’t resemble my dreary lodgings in the slightest. When I come back, we shall travel the
world, we could go to the sandy dunes of Egypt if you like, or the frozen glaciers of Norway, I’ll
go anywhere as long as it’s with you.
I forgot to ask in my last letter what you’ve been reading, I’m sure you’ve gone through at least
10 tomes in my absence, I want to hear about each and every one of them, given I want to hear
you chatter in that fairy voice of yours, but alas I must settle for your otherworldly font and
imagine you talking to me in your soothing, semi eccentric voice.
Emily had indeed read a few books as she’d modestly claim, ranging from the supernatural of
Poe to the beautiful mundane of Charlotte Brönte, and in her later letter described each novel
read in vivid detail.
Sometimes Em, as I lay down in a dugout (a cave of sorts carved into the trench) and see
glimpses of the moon, I wonder if you’re staring at it too, you can say it’s awfully poetic but I
think, pondering such things puts me at ease, knowing you’re almost here, beside me.
I miss you Emily and I wish upon each star that I had never left.
I’m scared I’ll lose you Em, maybe I’ll be gone too long and you’ll tire of waiting, I won’t blame
you in the least but I believe I might break.
I’ll come back to you Em
All the love in the world,
James
Again Emily couldn’t decipher the scratched out phrase but that didn’t bother her as she
contently traced the penmanship of her Jamie. Sure a couple of stray tears brimmed in her eyes
and she felt a hollow ache in her chest, caving in most painfully but she put her letter in the
drawer with the first one and wrote a reply back.
Letter 3
The third letter came on an unbearably hot June afternoon as Emily walked up her drive after
teaching the children at the village school. The precipitation of the hike from the weather worn
village school to her green field encircled cottage. The battering heat put Emily in a rather sour
mood, so imagine her delight when she set sight on a cream envelope laying on her porch,
shining like a beacon of hope against the dark wood tiles, expectantly waiting for her to peel it
open.
Emily didn’t care for her distraught state at the moment, for the baby hairs stuck down to her
forehead in a sweaty cluster, or the fact that she was parched (the hike was quite meandering
and long!). She raced towards her porch, heavily panting a bit more from the extra excursion as
she grabbed the letter in one hand, opened the door with the other and edged her way indoors.
The door shut itself behind her and Emily sank into the cushioned settee as she peeled the
envelope with utmost care, not that she found envelopes in general sacred or anything but
these particular ones arriving at her doorstep, meant the world and she treasured each flyaway
scrap.
The letter read:
From: Private James Ledwin,
no. 36457,
16th royal Scots,
B.E.F, France
To: Emily Carlisle
Cotswold, Wicarage lane
My darling Emily June 9th 1916
It’s quite dreary today, the sky an abysmal grey and honestly the sense of joy, enclosed with in
muddy walls and rat invested nooks is quite low, but there’s a warmth in writing this letter, it’s not
as good as walking with you down to the village square towards the tiny library on the street
corner, where we talked about everything and nothing.
Remember that’s where we first met, or more like slammed into each other like hurtling lightning
bolts, your wicker basket of fruits rolling around on the straw dust floor and your demonic glare
piercing into the very fabric of my being. You became even more indignant at my charming
smile.
Well, the nostalgic lane can wait till I get back, as thinking about sunlight memories in this damp
hell scape where the sounds of explosives ringing in the background and the cry of falling
soldiers reverberate around the barren countryside make me ill. I’m sorry for my gory ramblings
but I feel as though I can share it with no one else my love, I’m most scared of learning about
the others lest they die, like so many others have died, half of their corpses rotting away in no
man’s land and the other half, piled high in trucks, being carted away.
Emily took a sharp breath and forcefully stopped her mind from speeding into the dark corner
where she shoved all that’s dark and skeletal.
Are you faring well my Em? I wish I could desert my post and come racing back home to you but
alas the consequences are far to grave. Though it’s only been a fortnight since I took my post in
this desolate, half ruined town, it feels as though I haven’t seen you in decades, each
monotonous hour seems to tick by at a dreadful pace. I wish I knew when I will get my first
leave, I swear by all that’s holy, it won’t come around for a long while as I’ve only just taken up
my post, and in the midst of a battle to boot.
I’m utterly grateful for the package you sent with the tin of oatmeal cookies and I’ve tried to start
the book you’ve sent me “Just David” and as appealing as it sounds I’m scampering to find
minuscule slots of time to read, having to always be in constant alertness or have a heart full of
pounding dread, I primarily spend the free time I get staring solemnly at the brown walls
crawling with spindly insects in the late June noons or pencilling out scratchy letters on
makeshift dinner tables to send to you. I must admit I’ve joined in a few card games people
indulge in in order to briefly forget about the dire situation.
I agree with you most totally now my love, your arguments about the lack of pride that goes into
dying for one’s country makes an abundance of sense yet it feels almost treasonous to go
against such popular beliefs ingrained into the heart of every man here.
I shall return to you as soon as I can my darling Emily but till then you must wait patiently.
Yours,
James
Emily noted how very grotesque this letter was yet there was a sense of acute relief at James
trying to sound less aloof and obtuse as he hid the things that bother him from her, yet a small
sliver of Emily’s soul couldn’t help feel as though he was hiding away even more of the horrors
of his situation at the other side of this letter and that made her worry. Sure, she reflected, that
he was sharing at least some of his problems yet it wasn’t enough, she wanted to scour every
inch of his soul and tie him to her firmly with a piece of cord.
Getting up from her comfortable spot on the settee she paced the freshly cleaned floor of her
cottage before snatching a wad of paper from her desk, a positively chewed pen and went
outside, settling herself on the grass under the shade of the white birch tree as she wrote an
almost desperate letter back, this one had an unusual amount of crossing outs that Emily
despised but she barely noticed.
Letter 4
Emily waited and waited and waited for the next letter. She paced the wood in front of her door
each morning until she was sure she shaved off a fine layer of mahogany with her battered
house slippers. The annoying minutes cascaded into yearning hours that lead to restless days.
Each day, like clockwork, the sun rose, painting the summer sky in pinks and yellows and faint
strokes of periwinkle, then the moon rose and plunged the world in shadows and stars. These
long dreary days she spent cursing James for making her fret and sometimes she sat in a
desolate corner, closed off from the steady tick of the grandfather clock or the faint buzz of the
bees in her flower patch, and every night when she lay upon her cold bed as she imagined the
worst, she thought of blood, torn limbs and lifeless eyes. Soon dark circles marred her pallid
features.
The fourth letter did arrive though, in its usual white envelope and painstakingly placed stamp
and hurried scribble. And it came on a glaringly windy Tuesday afternoon, the usual soft breeze
caressing the trimmed lawn turned into violent gusts, impatiently ripping at trees and dragging
knived fingers in screeching motions across her vegetable plot. Mr.Elm looked quite bedraggled
as he raised his closed fist to knock at the door when Emily, who had been childishly and
despairingly spying through the curtained window, flung open the door, said a perfunctory hello
and snatched the letter away, clutching it like a lifeline thrown to her drowning form in a frozen
ocean.
Emily wandered to her bedroom, feeling slightly faint and sank into her bed, the cool mattress
and duvet dipping slightly as she shifted about to get comfortable, and finally she tore open her
precious cargo, slipped out the slightly crumpled letter and began to read. Only everything was
crossed out, and by everything; every inch of the parchment was broken out of existence.
Simply striked, the haywire crosses snaking and coiling along each and every word like
overgrown vines.
From: Private James Ledwin,
no. 36457,
16th royal Scots,
B.E.F, France
To: Emily Carlisle
Cotswold, Wicarage lane
Dearest Em 4th July 1916
It has been a long time since I’ve written to you Em, a long long while and I know the unknown
makes you fret and fear but if this letter is nestled in your smooth palm and your sharp gaze
rakes these words, I’m alive. I vainly apologize for not writing sooner, I wish I didn’t cause you
such grievances on my behalf, though god knows that’s all I do. Make you worry and worry and
worry.
There was a big push Em. So much blood. So, so much blood. And all those blank eyes. So
blank.
Sometimes I sit here and ponder and muse why you would ever put up with me and my antics
and naïve school girl insecurities, yet you do.
I’m sorry this letter is so frazzled, I feel all over the place and it’s hard to accurately describe the
obtuse dread shredding at my very soul Emily, it’s very hard.
You know, I never realised till now, I’m at war Em, I’m standing in a withered field with a revolver
clasped in my hand and blood smeared across the dead grass. Emily I could become the
smatter of blood, the loose limb floating somewhere in the ocean of gore. I have never feared
the loss of life, but I fear it so overwhelmingly, it eclipses all reason like a blood red moon. I
realise I have so much to lose Emily, you and the memories I have yet to make. I can’t die when
I have so much to live for, to work towards.
It’s a pathetic form of treason to desert my post Em, and I’m cowardly enough to dream.
What am I thinking, I can never send you this letter, never, never, never.
I can’t put you through even more pain and suffering. I won’t make you walk a mile in my shoes
and make you face the burning blisters and the aching vacuum. I don’t think you’re weak and I
must shelter you from horrors untold, but I don’t want your pain and tear filled being. I want your
smiles and love and bright, beaming spirit. I want till the end of time, when everything alive is
gone, when everything is cold and barren.
But I don’t think I’ll make it till then, to see the sunrise on a wooden porch, or buy bread from a
bakery, so don’t wait, never wait for delusional hope, it’ll only break you worse. Every day
someone dies, a gaggle of nameless faces carted off to the edge of the world and then tossed
into the abyss. I won’t make it out, don’t wait.
There was no signature at the end, no name but his handwriting was unmistakable. The familiar
swoop and swirl and cross, it was so earth shatteringly familiar, Emily’s hand shook. They shook
uncontrollably, the tremors wracking her bony frame and she snatched the envelope again to
search in anguish for signs.
Crossing outs were never good, never good, not good at all.
Her breath came out in sharp, clinical pants as a slip of parchment delicately fluttered out onto
the floor, its papery wings mocking Emily’s forlorn face and numb legs. All that was written on
the parchment was:
I’m alive and well. Can’t write much more.
James
A good minute must have passed as Emily stared, and stared, and stared, trying to find
meaning behind the cryptic words and sharp intones. In her disbelief at the mild proclamation of
being alive, as though she hadn’t worn her nails down to bloody stubs for weeks on end had all
been for bemusement. Something broke in her very essence, almost as though a delicate gold
thread, wrung taut for a million miles finally snapped, and she raged. She fumed with
indescribable anger but honestly, it wasn’t anger at all, but a drowning sadness doused in fire.
Fire to make the simple pain go away, fire to make the hurt turn into tear stains and become but
a memory.
Emily didn’t remember much of what happened next, she simply took out a sheet of paper and
then she wrote. That’s all she did, write the fury and damage and longing away. She wrote it all
into desensitised oblivion. For what else could she do, stranded a channel of water and miles of
land away from what really mattered.
Letter 5
Emily’s rage mellowed over the passing days, the furious thump of her heart as she eyed the
offending letter, sprawling lazily on the polished wood of her desk, dimmed down to a slight
deep bellied irritation nuanced with fundamental sadness. It was a clinical name for her
melancholy, but there was no better way to capture the abstract currents of pure, raw, agonising
heartbreak that barrelled through her mockingly. It was almost as though she mourned
something alive and breathing but that was dead to her, a lifeless body haunting her being
without rest, sending grief-stricken, woebegone arrows into her heart again, again, and again.
Her garden slowly started to wilt with her diminishing health. The once healthy and hopeful
roses, eaten away by the lack of care as the anxiety ate at her, slowly, tortured inch by inch, until
nothing was left but obelisk bone. Her rough skeleton strung across her aged, always constant
smiles given a lifetime ago. Emily was nothing but bones herself, a recluse, only leaving the
confined prison of her sterile cottage when she taught at school. The cottage itself was bursting
to the seams with carefully collected memories dipped in a distant, daunting joy, and it was
slowly killing her. It was poison, yet she stayed in vain hope for the brief glimpse into something
more, something better.
It was better to hate and sob and feel than be detached from the very essence that made the
fabric of society and be indifferent to all that conspired. Yet every morning, rousing from her bed
was a labours task and sleep always evaded her. Every morning, walking to the simple village
school and gazing upon the plethora of war posters made her want to scream and tear the
paper into ribbons and string them like butchered animals dripping in the blood of her malice,
but her aching limbs protested at the thought of taking another step, let alone murdering
patriarchal preaches that stole from her. Every evening, returning to her once bright home she
shared with the other half of her soul, and finding it empty was like a noose on her throat that
tightened until she gasped raged breaths and felt like dying, erasing herself from this painful,
lacklustre life.
Why wouldn’t he confide in her, Emily thought again and again, a hectic mantra racing through
her mind. The brutality was freezing him in stone, trapping the serenity in an unbreakable vow.
He wouldn’t tell her the brunt of the war, wouldn’t let her shoulder his hurt for he had some
preconceived notion that it would break her. Yet it was his silence that amputated her heart,
cleaved it in two and made it bleed a litany of blood. Emily was losing her grip on her James, the
one who gave easy grins and made a graveyard lighter and less foreboding. He was changing
and floating beyond her reach as she stood cemented in the decay of her mind.
Emily understood change was inevitable, she was not naïve, but it was hard. She knew people
were like the seasons, everchanging and growing and regressing and learning, yet it was
difficult to accept. It was arduous to see it all moving.
The next letter arrived a week later, it lay on her porch like a reluctant beckon and she felt a
subtle sense of dread, snake its way through her, weaving its slithering body somewhere along
her gut and squeezing.
From: Private James Ledwin,
no. 36457,
16th royal Scots,
B.E.F, France
To: Emily Carlisle
Cotswold, Wicarage lane
Dearest Emily 11th July 1916
I got your letter and I understand why you’re upset, the scratched out letter wasn’t meant to
reach you, it wasn’t for your eyes or knowledge and I know this will anger you further but there
are some things I want to keep you safe from. You would do the same and I know from the
bottom of my heart you would. It’s not because you’re faint hearted but it’s because I don’t want
to show you the horrors, I don’t want to be the one guiding you into the dark, grim and filthy
corners of the world.
I’m not a brave man, not letting you see the grisly rifle or the muddy trench, and I wish I did not
need to hide all the pain but I fear you will only see the damage when I return, you will look for
the man that left and not find him. I think I lost him some way between the channel and the big
push. I wish I could be better for you but I can’t but I’ll try Em. Don’t take my distance as
anything but discomfort, I love you Emily, I will always love you and I’ll try to be better for you.
There was a boy, Em, fresh faced and 17, with such an optimistic and youthful glow. He talked
Em, told stories about the stag he and his father shot, told us about the days he snuck out of
lessons to go chase his sweetheart. He was always there Em, until one day he wasn’t. He was
gone within the blink of an eye, his death so sudden I don’t know what to do. I have never seen
a full chair empty.
I’m sorry I keep it hidden.
In this everchanging battle that pulls and pushes and uncertainty is all you can be certain of.
You are my constant, the moon and sun and constellations.
All my love,
James
A certain tranquil calm washed over Emily in gentle waves, and while the young boy’s death
made the growing pit in her stomach expand to the fearsome depths of the abyss, she felt an
akin sense of relief. James was letting her in and that was all that mattered.
In her everchanging world, James was embroidered to the very core of her being, he was there
in the delicate stitches and bold folds. And maybe, just maybe, everything would not end in
doom and visceral sadness.
Letter 6
July was rolling to a slow yet steady end, the lavender fields were in full bloom, and during the
sunrise, as the sun was mellow and the clouds soft, Emily spotted badgers foraging. Each
morning, She rose at the brink of dawn, when the world climbed out of a dark chasm into a
frolicking rays of dazzling light. Emily, though basic, felt contentment as she watched the slow
assent of the glowing orb, almost as though the sunbeams could fill the ache in her heart.
Each midday, she wandered into the village square and browsed the occasional market stalls
before entering the sparse library and bookstore, where the stern librarian with a pulled back
bun welcomed her with pursed lips and a light shimmer in her eyes.
And each evening, she came back to her empty cottage, curled up outside if the weather was
nice or inside with her book, seeking refuge from reality in the weather worn pages of her well
loved tomes. And each night after she ate supper in flickering candle light, she went to bed.
On this particular day, Emily found a letter on her porch as she came back from the market, a
twine basket of bread slung on her sore forearm. She immediately set the basket down and
opened her letter in one neat swipe. She didn’t bother going in, sinking onto the cushioned
bench she pored over the letter, noting each curve and flick.
From: Private James Ledwin,
no. 36457,
16th royal Scots,
B.E.F, France
To: Emily Carlisle
Cotswold, Wicarage lane
Dearest Em 21st July 1916
It has been a quiet week. I wake up at 5 and eat my rations and feel this ever present sense of
foreboding looming over my shoulder, but maybe I’m turning shrivelled and pessimistic, I guess
constant bloodshed does that to you but who am I to presume. Anyway, the tarts you sent were
a delight, meringue and strawberry, you should start a bakery and I’ll come every day to pig on
your food, maybe in a month you’ll have to get a bigger door and roll me through it.
I’m coming back home Em! I got leave after a bit of pestering and maybe mentioning a newborn
daughter I conjured up. So Em, how’s our ray of sunshine, sleeping well I hope? Not causing
you any trouble I hope? Well swiftly moving away from the imaginary babe who has your eyes
and my luscious hair. How are you Em?
I physically cannot wait to return home, even if it’s for a week. A bed has been a foreign fantasy,
and running water and a proper bath seem like a far fetched luxury. How has Patty been, and
Mr. Elm and Duncan (I hate that smug bastard but I care not). Well don’t tell me, I’ll see them
myself.
It will be a wonderful week, we can go to town and see a show, we can go on a walk around the
lake and we can feed the ducks. We can go anywhere you want.
You know what, let’s get married that week, we’re already engaged. Life is too short and it would
be the greatest honour to be your husband. And when I come back for sure from this wretched
war, we’ll go on our honeymoon, anywhere you like.
My darling Emily, I love you so much , I don’t think you’ll ever understand the extent.
I must keep this letter brief but I’ll see you in three weeks.
All my love,
James
Emily was grinning like a mad fool, her smiling stretching across her face, dimples and all
making a long appearance.
Her James was coming back.
Telegram
The late august evening sky was painted in whorls of rose pinks and honey orange. And the
creak of old Elm’s bicycles permeated the thickly floral air. There was a sharp, almost prodding
stillness throughout Wicarage lane, the once swaying grass stood still and stiff like seasonal
soldiers, honed in discipline. It unnerved Emily, her stomach a rolling pit and her limbs
constantly trembling as though she was on a ragged vessel at sea.
The tense bunching of her soul didn’t relax, despite the constant rereading of James’s letter that
he would be with her soon or the copious amounts of hibiscus tea she downed. The gnawing
doubt and fear never left and it didn’t coexist with her spirit either. Rather it belittled her and
strode for absolute dominance, the insecurity choking each puff of air she breathed out.
The loud croaks of the tarnished bicycle came to a sudden and abrupt halt and Emily gazed up
from her battered edition of Jane Austen, and she knew, before Mr.Elm had handed her the
letter. She knew through his dubiously pale skin and burdened eyes. She knew through the
slight tremor raking his stick thin frame yet she dared hope, she dared believe that she might be
grasping for darkness when all that should have been is light. She dared believe her story with
him would flourish like her garden. She dared to search for anything but doom.
She took the envelope from Mr.Elm’s papery hands and gently pried it open.
We deeply regret to inform you Private James Ledwin died due to wounds on August seventh.
The thin fraying thread that is gossamer and delicate snapped with a resounding crack as Emily
fell to her knees on her gravel drive. Tears unconsciously pouring a salty waterfall along the
planes of her cheeks.
”Oh James you were supposed to come back home…”
A glimpse into grief
Her garden wilted and slowly over grew, bright yellow weeds overtook her once lush vegetable
patch. The grass grew to abdominal height and the tips were burnished brown under the heavy
sunlight. Her beloved rose bush reeked of rot and various rodents scampered through the
upturned soil.
An oppressive blanket covered the house, its grey weight smothering the inhabitant inside and
the old man who stood at her door with a tin of fresh butter biscuits. He came there every day in
the evening for two weeks, with some sweet treat and stood outside but the door never opened.
He would lay the food down and return the next day. The only sign of life was the tins and trays
and pots he brought the food in would be cleaned and mailed to his address in cardboard
boxes.
Eventually she would come outside and quietly thank Mr.Elm and soon enough she would
wander outside for a brief stroll or to her school.
The grief never disappeared, sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in
cold sweat, panting profusely and a stream of tears would run down her cheeks. But she
learned to live with it, she learned that loving meant losing, but the time spent loving was worth
the hurt, pain and tears. Each memory was worth the grief.
She would continue to live, she would learn to swim even if all she could manage now was thin
gasps of air between drowning.
It is what he would have wanted.