Exerpts

(Reproduced with the permission of Jeremy Bannerman and Susan T. Lynch)

[Postmarked Newington Green, addressed to L. Nathaniel Thomas, St. Dennis' School, East Sussex]
4 March 1903
Dear Nathaniel,
How strange to write that name now!
How are you? Miss Thorne has kindly given us thirty minutes to write to you so that you won’t think that, though you are gone from our schoolroom you have gone from our thought. So I am writing to you in the school room, and through the window, I can see the first of the robins searching from branch to branch of the thicket by the fence, looking for a good place to build his nest. I got a new pinafore yesterday. It is white and Mamma says I can help embroider it with primroses in the evening. Miss Thorne says that I am getting on in my penmanship beautifully. Alice’s new pinafore is blue. I think white looks better but Mamma says she can’t be trusted to keep it clean. She wants to embroider hers with water lilies, which is a charming little thought, but I think they look too much like callalilies at a funeral.
Are you enjoying school and learning a great deal? Are the other boys nice? Mrs. Chester’s son always brings his mates home from school for the holidays. You must be the one to come home, and bring lots of friends back to keep us all entertained.
Miss Thorne says I must get back to my sums. Until later, then,
I remain,
Your Loving Sister,
Tabitha

[Postmarked Newington Green, both in the same envelope, same address]
4 March 1903
Lucy,
Miss Thorne wants us to write to you. She says I can't call you Lucyfer anymore and we have to call you Nathanial. That is Poppa's name. No one calls me Cecilia.
Why do you get to go off to school and why did you leave me here? Are you coming home soon? Miss Thorne says you get a holiday in the summer.
Willie Chester pulled my hair yesterday after I told him he couldn’t walk with me to the park. So I hit him and he cried.
Alice
PS: Miss Thorne says this isn’t a nice letter and to write you one about cheerful things.

4 March 1903
Dear Nathaniel.
How are you? I am well. We had lemon tarts at tea and I had two.
Mr. Elliot The Gardener says I can help him prune the roses this weekend.
I like reading but not maths.
Yours truly,
Alice

[Postmarked East Sussex, addressed to Miss Tabitha Thomas, Newington Green, London]
7 March 1903
Dear Tabitha,
Thank you for your letter. I am well and enjoying school very much. I am afraid that I am still lagging behind in my mathematics, but the tutors are all very understanding. I have entered a competition to see which boy can remember best and deliver a passage from Virgil.
I am afraid I haven’t made too many close friends, so don’t pin your hopes on any company over the holidays, but I’m sure you won’t need too much help in filling your schedule. Good luck with the pinafore and tell Miss Thorne to stop talking like a pillow sampler.
Yours,
L.N. Thomas

[Postmarked East Sussex, same address to Miss Alice Thomas]
8 March 1903
Dear Alice,
I liked your first letter much better. Tell Willie Chester if he so much as looks at you, I’ll turn him inside out when I come home. The end of term here is 30 May, and I will be home two days later, on the first of June. Mark that on the calendar in the schoolroom so you will remember. I won’t forget you.
Until then,
Lucifer
PS: I hate maths, too.

[Postmarked Newington Green, addressed to St. Dennis' School]
10 March 1903
Dear Nathaniel,
Many thanks for your kind letter. It came just as we were sitting down to tea and was welcome indeed, as the Rector came to call on Miss Thorne and Alice was sulky. I hope your recitation goes well—I am sure that you will do brilliantly!
My pinafore is nearly finished. Mina Hatterly was over with her Mother the other day and Mrs. Hatterly says that it is some of the best work she has seen in someone of my years. Mina was jealous enough to spit. John Chester just called with his Mother and little brother. John is taller than me now, but I don’t think he is as yet as tall as you.
I should stop, as I am meant to be copying a passage of Mrs. Beeton before the end of lessons.
With affection,
Yours truly,
Tabitha
Later: Alice just came in covered in dirt and with thorns and twigs in her hair. Apparently she has been bothering the gardener all afternoon. Mamma is beside herself and Alice is perversely pleased with herself. Quite pandemonium.

[Postmarked Newington Green, same address]
12 March 1903
Dear Lucy,
Mr. Elliot says I am the best helper he has ever had and that I am welcome to come anytime and help with the roses. Mamma was mad when I came in muddy but Jacob The Footman laughed and Mamma sent him out of the room. Don’t worry about Willie. He won’t come near me since I hit him.
I put a big x on the calendar on 1 June. Come home.
Alice

[Postmarked East Sussex, addressed to Mrs. Nathaniel Thomas, Newington Green, London]
15 March 1903
Dear Mrs. Thomas,
I am sure you will forgive my writing to you directly, but we have had word of your husband's recent illness and, out of consideration for his recuperation, I thought it best to address my term assessment to you.
Nathaniel (I fully concur with your decision to use his second name in all public settings) seems to be settling in well here at St. Dennis'. He is a quiet young man with neat habits and very good manners both in his lessons and at table. I believe that Mr. Thomas has already noted that Nathaniel shows a natural talent for music, and we have arranged for him to continue his lessons here outside of schoolroom hours. According to Dr. Foster, our Latin Master, Nathaniel shows a unique proficiency for language which he is encouraging. Though not gifted in mathematics, I am proud to say that Nathaniel shows determination in his work, which will serve him well in the future.
I note one other memoranda in Nathaniel's file but, Mrs. Thomas, I worry about bringing it to your attention in such a cavalier fashion as through the post. If I had the ability to travel up to you, or Mr. Thomas was well enough to travel, I should say it could wait until such time as we can meet face to face, but since, regretfully, neither eventuality is likely in the near future, I must apologize in advance for what I am about to relate. Our school's physician, Dr. Francis, has noted that Lucifer suffers from a slight disruption of the heart. I believe the medical term is a 'heart murmur'. According to him, it means that the boy's heart does not carry on a regular rhythm, but skips a beat, or beats irregularly for a certain length of time. We are fortunate that he is otherwise perfectly healthy and strong, and thus it would seem that this condition does not pose a significant problem at the present time. However, it should be monitored, and, according to Dr. Francis, could be the cause of ill-health in later life. I am very sorry to trouble you with such news, my dear Mrs. Thomas, but I hope you know that I share it in good faith and in the hope that it will not add to your present worry.
If there is any other matter in which I can be of service, you have but to ask. As discussed, another letter will follow at the commencement of the summer term. Until then, Madam, I remain,
Yours Faithfully,
Deacon H Mather
Master of St. Dennis' School for Boys

[Postmarked East Sussex, addressed to Miss Alice Thomas, Newington Green, London]
22 May 1903
Dear Alice,
I haven't read that book yet but perhaps you can read it to me when I come home.  Tell Mrs. Bateman that I want treacle pudding for tea when I get there.  

Next week seems farther away than Mars today.
Soon, though I'll see you,
Lucifer

Words for Breakfast: In Which We Meet Another Supporting Character

Mitch scooped the last piece of toast, blew me a jam-sticky kiss and banged out the door about ten minutes later.  I took a few minutes to finish some unnecessary chores around the house, realizing there was plenty of time before I was actually due at work (I had managed to fall head-first into a freelance archival job at a museum in South London that needed First World War expertise, which was frankly far more fun than anyone deserved to have at their job). 

The day that waited for me on the other side of the door was warm and sunny, with a breeze that warned of colder days and shorter nights that were all too fast approaching.  Consequently, I resolved to walk at least to Angel Station before subjecting myself to the fetid air and inhumanely close quarters of the London underground and set off down the road with the slightly melancholy air that late summer mornings always bring.

Newington Green was full of children squawking and shrieking on the swings and tumbling across the grass as if determined to squeeze every instant of sunlight left in the sky and the earth.  I rounded the corner and was almost immediately collared by the smell of fresh-baked bread.  Suddenly, irrationally ravenous, I allowed myself to be led down the street to a aqua-fronted bakery by the smell that was strong enough to be like a physical force, pushing me to the door.  

The shop looked empty as I peered around the door frame, save for the paralyzingly delicious smells, now not only of bread, but of crumbly pastries and the snappy tinge of sugary frosting.

"Come in!  Come in!  How are you?"  The voice came from behind a cooling rack of small, crusty rolls and, heeding it, I saw a man--or, rather, his head, peering through the loaves at me.  He soon came around the racks to rest his elbows on the pale wooden counter before him, his floury fingers having left streaks up his arm when he rolled up his sleeves.

He wasn't exceptionally tall, but he had long limbs, and carried himself with enough grace that he seemed to be much taller.  He had dark hair that fell across his forehead and just brushed his eyebrows, which shaded some of the brightest eyes I'd ever seen.  He had a constant look of expectancy, as if the world was unfolding for his sole entertainment.  The skin around them was wrinkled with traces of past laughter and as I came into the shop, they folded up into a smile.  I had originally thought him around fifty, but the transformation that came over his face with that grin made me wonder if indeed I wasn't a little older than him.  You couldn't look at such an expression without feeling a reciprocal gladness from it, and I came up to the counter, eyeing the basket of croissants just behind him.

"You are new, yes?  Such a face I would remember."  My eyes jerked back onto his face, missing the compliment in my surprise.

"Govoritiye parussky?"  I said automatically.  His eyes widened and he snapped up to his full height, which was barely equal to my own.

"Of course I speak Russian!" He cried (in Russian), throwing his arms wide, "the surprise is that you do, as well!"

"I spent five years learning to read it, but I don't speak as well as I should." 

"Then your Russian is no better than my English.  We shall fumble together?"  He finished in English with a small wink.  "I am Sergey," he offered me a flour-dusted hand and squeezed my hand with a strength for which I wouldn't have previously given him credit.

"Kipling," I replied, smiling in spite of myself.

"Like the author?  Of the Phantom Rickshaw and the Jungle Books?"  

"The same," I said, relieved that there was one person who didn't need any further explanation.

"This is brilliant!  I have just finished the Just-So Stories, and they are for me quite wonderful."

He bent down as he spoke, pushing the release button on a battered microwave behind him.  The door sprang open and I saw that it was full of paperback novels, many with pastry-dribbles across the covers, and all dog-eared and well-loved.  He pulled out a volume from the far left, leaving a flour smudge across the spines of two nearby books, and set a 1960's Penguin edition of Kipling's Just So Stories on the counter between us.

"That is fantastic!"  I tried in Russian, "I need to start keeping books in my microwave!"  He laughed out loud at this, a sound of pure delight that made him look almost elfin.

"If my Sonya found me reading during working hours--well, there would be darkness and storms around here for days.  So I hide them away where she doesn't think to look and practice my English in between batches."  He winked conspiratorially, nodding sideways as if to indicate Sonya's relative position.  I could only smile back, marveling at the sheer energy of the person before me.  There ensued a few inevitable minutes of literary banter, mostly about my namesake, but it turned out that his microwave also held Sherlock Holmes, Dracula and, incongruously, a book of Wittgenstein's essays on mathematics.  

"Yes, yes.  My taste in books is...quixical?"

"Quixotic?"  I tried, unsure if his look of concern was over Wittgenstein or the word.

"Quixotic?"  he tried it slowly, as if trying it on for size, "Quixotic....this is it?"

"Yes, it's from Don Quixote, describing--"

"The windmill man!"  I jumped, but he didn't notice it, as he suddenly produced a notebook from his back pocket and began writing with the stub of a well-chewed golf pencil.  "I must..add...'Quixotic'...yes.  To my collection."  He smiled, sliding the notebook and pencil out of sight once again. 

"So, Miss Kipling,"  he began, clearly as comfortable in English as Russian, "if you don't mind me noticing, you are from far away, are you not?"  I nodded, not feeling the same sense of embarrassment that usually comes from being a transplant.  "Where is home for you, then, where they teach you to speak such good Russian?"  I laughed.

"Home is Boston,"  I said simply.

"No!  I have been to Boston!"  Sergey cried, slapping his side of the counter with an open hand, "it is where I first start learning English!" 

"Really?"  his excitement was infectious.

"Certainly.  My Sonya and I go to visit my niece and nephew in New York and our plane lands in Boston.  And it is while we are waiting for the train to New York that I buy my first English dictionary.  And I begin to learn English."  I smiled, already enchanted with this bizarre baker, but also feeling every mile between me and that train station he described.  He squinted ever so slightly at the expression he saw on my face and his eyes softened.

"You are a long way from home as well, aren't you?"  he said quietly.  I nodded, suddenly unable to speak.  This happened every once in a while.  I could talk about home for hours on end, or relish in my distance from the familiar for days, but every so often, something, often too subtle to even warrant mention, would inspire a melancholy homesickness to sneak up and sucker-punch me, causing my eyes to fill and my throat to contract before I had time to throw up my defenses.

"As am I."  Sergey said, still quiet, but with sunshine in his smile again.  "It's not easy, but think!  Think of the stories we have to tell!  No one believes me when I tell them the things I have seen!  And now," his linguistic shifts were making me dizzy, "I find this beautiful American who speaks Russian!  There are too many surprises left for me!"  I laughed in spite of myself, slightly confused by his real meaning but too charmed to let it bother me long.

"Come, come," he said, suddenly slightly flustered, "if Sonya sees tears here, she will never forgive me."  He passed a napkin over the counter to me and started staving off the mascara trails that were building in my lower lashes.  

"Thanks," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.  

"Not at all.  I am glad to have met someone with such--immaculate, yes?--taste in literature.  You are close by?"  I nodded.

"About twenty minutes that way," I pointed through the far wall.

"Excellent.  Then I expect to see you soon, yes?"   I nodded again, and he beamed.  "Brava!  Now, that I have taken up all this your time with talk of books, here,"  he slid one of the plump croissants into a thin paper bag and handed it over to me.  I took it eagerly and moved my hand to my sweater pocket for my wallet.  Before I could do any more than shift my weight, he had snatched the bag back and was glaring at me in mock severity.

"No, no!  Here is the bargain, my friend,"  he jerked his head to the microwave library, "I am in need of 'The Valley of Fear' still.  You have a copy of this?"

"Of course!"  

"Excellent!  You bring it for me tomorrow, then.  Words for breakfast, yes?"

"I think that sounds perfect."  I answered, wondering how I had made it through twenty-something years of existence without a croissant-dispensing bibliophile friend like this.

"Until then, my quixotic friend."