5 Oct.
1917
Toul, France

Tommy,

Life has been treating us cruelly this past week. It's been the busiest week in a long time, and I've had very little sleep or rest in many days. There was an attack on the British trenches that left us quite overwhelmed, but things have finally died down today, and I've had a minute to write to you.

Alongside the work, the weather has also been terrible. I complained about the rain last week, and since then it's only gotten worse, as it started to snow on Wednesday. Walking to and fro through the mud is bad enough, but I really can't stand working in the snow. My feet haven't been truly warm once in these past few days, and it leaks through the tent much more than the rain does. The wind started up last night as well, shaking us half to death as we tried to work, and it keeps all the poor men awake.

It's not all miserable though. There really is nothing more beautiful than emerging from wherever you've been in the night to the outside world and seeing the expanse of white before you. It is truly breath taking, even if it's only for a minute, before it's turned brown by everyone walking across it. The snows everywhere you look, covering the scars of the land. And it seems to bring you boys such joy as well. The ones that can get up and move like to throw snowballs and then sit with hot cups of tea to warm their fingers. It's quite something. I wonder if it's snowing where you are?

I had a letter from Polly a fortnight ago, and Finn had written to me. His writing is getting along well, as I'm sure you know. He wrote to tell me that he did well in a maths test, that he'd helped Polly bake a cake for Rupert's fourth birthday, and that he's got a cat. There was little more information on the subject that that, but Polly explained. She said he found a bag of kittens in the Cut, that someone must have abandoned them. Some people are terrible. He wanted to keep them all, bless him, but Polly insisted he gave the others away. The one he's kept he has called Huckleberry. I imagine it's because that makes the two of them Huckleberry and Finn. Polly says it's a sickly thing, but Finn is determined to make it strong. I'm sure you know all this, but it's something sweet nonetheless. I try to think how different he must look after so long, but I imagine I will only ever think of your brother as six years old.

Thinking now, I'm certain I had a cat at nine as well. Was it the one that ran away? The one I made you and George look for all weekend?

Polly also said you would be back on the front at the start of this week, which must be difficult this time of year. I thought I'd try to cheer you up by writing about a thought I had whilst working last night. I was sitting with a soldier; his name is Private Edwards. He was talking about what he'd do when he got home (he's being sent back to England tomorrow) and he said he wants to go to a dance the first night he's back. He talked about a bar near his road, and a girl who's been sending him letters that he's going to ask with him. Then he said something that reminded me of you.

He said that he was actually a terrible dancer, but with a few drinks in him he could waltz for England. I couldn't help but laugh at that, and thought back to the times we went dancing, before you went away. We would go to the Empire in Birchfield. The place always stunk, and their drinks were awful, but no one knew us, or even recognised us, and the music was good. I'm sure we would go a few times a week, after my evening shifts. But it's been so long now I can't really remember. I do remember, though, that you wouldn't let us start dancing until you'd had at least two drinks. That's what reminded me of you when Private Edwards spoke.

You couldn't dare dance until you were a bit drunk. You would step on my feet or go the wrong way, which I admit was good fun, but embarrassing. I would tell you that you were just overthinking it, which I imagine is why you would drink before. You can't overthink anything with gin clouding your thoughts. You'd be the best dancer then, and we'd show up everyone else at the bar. You'd spin me around and make me out of breath, and they were my happiest nights of the week. After, we'd stumble home, and you'd make me laugh the whole way back. I don't imagine I ever told you, Tommy, but I wouldn't be able to go to sleep once I got back. I would stay awake, staring at the ceiling, smiling. Smiling like such a fool.

I know these nights only happened in the few months between the start of the war and you leaving. Perhaps they happened just because of the tension of war, or maybe because my brother wasn't home, or was there really something between us? I may never know if you felt the same about those dances as I did, but I can hope. One day we will dance again, Tommy, that I am sure of. Until then, I trust this memory will do. Although perhaps it ended up being more bittersweet than happy.

I hope you are doing as well as you can. Keep safe and keep dry, trench foot only gets worse in winter.

Missing you, as always,
Ever yours,
Liza

Another chapter! Another letter! I really enjoy writing these ones, not just because they're shorter, but also because I feel I can get her personality through quite nicely, as well as give an insight to the two of them before the war. I do like writing tragic things, and there's nothing more tragic than war, and all it brings.

e x

(26/10/2020)