White Feathers

by Susan Lanigan

  ‘You might disapprove of what I have written.’

  ‘I might,’ he said, ‘but so what? I’ll disapprove even more if you don’t tell me right this minute what it is.’

  ‘I had an article published in a suffragette magazine. About evading the 1911 Census.’

  ‘Oh? And how did you manage to do that?’

  ‘I attended a suffragette gathering in Wimbledon Common when I was fifteen, and then I wrote about it.’

  He whistled. ‘Did you indeed? You little monkey!’

  Her arm began to throb again. ‘I believe my right to vote is a serious matter, sir.’ Oh, now she had gone too far! He would surely be angry with her. But instead he looked thoughtful.

  ‘It is serious, you are right,’ he said, half to himself. ‘It is! I am sorry I joked about it.’ Then he continued, less confidently, ‘I do not write such things myself but I have taken the occasional foray into literary criticism. I have a few articles in print. I believe Miss Hedges insists on keeping some of them in the library. I should have written more, but I am an indefatigable sloth …’ He seemed to become even more interested in his feet. Then, before he could elaborate, the bell-ringer walked past the classroom for one last reminder of class change. Clang-clang-clang! Mr Shandlin put the chalk back in its place under the blackboard and picked up the essay, folded it and put it inside his battered brown satchel with the rest of his books.

  ‘I suppose it’s Flower Arranging next. Far be it from me to keep you.’

  ‘My essay?’ Eva reached for the buckle on his bag, but he smiled and gently knocked her hand away.

  ‘No. I will keep it for the present, I think.’

  Eva just nodded. He was behaving bizarrely now, so there seemed little point in questioning him.

  ‘You are still here, Miss Downey.’

  ‘I have not been dismissed.’ That came out more pertly than she had meant it.

  He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Eva. You can go now.’ As she ran to the door, she could hear him laughing. ‘I want more writing from you,’ he called after her retreating back. ‘More, do you hear?’

  Sybil had stayed a discreet distance away. It would not be right to abandon Eva if she were really in trouble – though she never thought that was the case. Mr Shandlin was not a small-minded man and would hardly punish Eva, the only one who bothered paying attention in his class, would he?

  ‘Sybil!’ Eva exclaimed, seeing her. ‘Are you waiting for me?’

  ‘Yes, dearie. I was worried about you. I thought there might have been some trouble – was there?’

  Eva shook her head.

  ‘So he’s not going to report you to Miss Hedges, and you aren’t going to go home in disgrace?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Did he even give you lines, for goodness’ sake? What went on in there?’

  When Eva told her, Sybil’s look of incredulity deepened. Eva could not blame her. Had she not been there, she would not have believed it herself.

  ‘I’ve never heard of him praising anyone like that,’ Sybil said at last. ‘He must have a very high opinion of you indeed. And keeping your essay for himself! What’s that about? Is he missing some bedtime reading? Does his landlady not bring him cocoa?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eva said, laughing, ‘but I shall have to make sure I only ever write on loose paper so I don’t lose a whole exercise book to him next time.’

  ‘Next time?’

  ‘He wants more … essays, I think.’

  ‘Does this mean we all have to write them?’ Sybil asked in alarm. ‘Because I will not be pleased if I’m forced to do that.’

  ‘No,’ Eva said. ‘Just me, I think.’

  Sybil made a breathy noise, something between a sigh and a huff. ‘That’s very odd, Eva. Then again he is a bit odd, isn’t he?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Eva laughed, then stopped.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She had just remembered. When he dismissed her, he had called her by her first name.

  6

  3 March 1914

  Dearest Imelda,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Things here are the same. Except that Ada Barton is leaving to get married next month, to a Mr Colquhoun who is much older than she is and an equerry at court. They say they want to hurry it up because of the rumblings in Europe. On that subject, Sybil’s brother is going through parade drill in Cardiff. They’re horribly strict. One second lieutenant called his captain by his first name when they were in the mess, and another officer overheard and made him stand out in the yard half the morning while the rest of the company marched around him. And the second lieutenant and the captain were friends at school! That sounds ridiculous to me – how on earth is one supposed to fight a war when trying to remember the correct title for one’s superior officer? The enemy would have burned down the city by the time one had it right.

  I’m quite busy with my literature classes, for my reading list has doubled. Mr Shandlin thinks it would be beneficial for me to read poets and essayists who are ‘in the now’ – his words – rather than the stuff we’ve been doing so far. He feels that the curriculum as it stands is a bit unadventurous for a mind like mine. (Those are his words, Imelda, I make no special claims for my intellect.) He just said this to me once and handed me a sheaf of mimeographs – he guessed correctly that the library would be inadequate – with all the poems I needed. Meldi, I didn’t know what to say. He must have gone to some trouble. I tried to thank him but he waved me away and walked off. He can be very strange.

  It doesn’t stop with poets either. I have just finished reading a short story by a girl called Katherine Mansfield. She is from New Zealand and has written stories about Germans, and Mr Shandlin thinks she is going to be a very great writer. The story he showed me was in a magazine, and it is called ‘The Woman at the Store’. The style is uncommon, Meldi! So strange and sad and brutal. It is not a universe I recognise but it’s one of the most powerful, real stories I have ever read. Then there is The English Review – he has a subscription to it and lets me read it when he is finished. So far I have seen only two issues, but the stories there are so varied and interesting. I found one of his articles in an issue in the library about a poet called T. E. Hulme and the emergence of a new poetic style. It was very well written, if dry – but when I mentioned it, he clammed up completely and refused to discuss it any further.

  The strange thing is, Meldi, he rarely speaks to me, just clips little comments on lined notepaper to the pages telling me to write a piece about some aspect or other. He never comments on what I hand up either, but the one time I forgot (on purpose!) he left a piece of paper on my desk. It said ‘Miss Downey, I do not hand out such materials as a diversion or a joke. Please ensure that you comply with all such requests in future.’ Oh, I felt about three foot tall, I tell you. I cannot fathom the reason for his behaviour. Perhaps he feels honour-bound to help me but doesn’t really like me. That’s the only explanation I can think of, though it doesn’t seem to make any sense.

  The whole school is buzzing with the news that we are going to a social on April 3rd – a dance with the boys from Marlborough College. Apparently there was a terrific row about it still being Lent – but Miss Hedges prides herself on being a freethinker who doesn’t care about such strictures. We will have dance cards and a band, but we won’t be going to Stowe for the dance, as it’s too far away. Miss Hedges has hired a private house near Winchester – she’s also promised to bring us on a tour of the Cathedral. It is like a preparation for being ‘out’, though Sybil says that as far she’s concerned she was ‘out’ ever since she left her mother’s womb, which brings me to my request.

  Meldi, I’ve just found this pattern for a beautiful evening dress in a magazine. It’s by Lucile and made out of organza silk with a wonderful metallic sash. I’d put it in the letter and show you but it’s from one of Sybil’s magazines, and I don’t think she’d want me to tear it up. I’ve drawn a little sketch over
the other side. Do you think there would be money available to have it in for the Friday before Easter? I know it sounds like feminine avarice – but I want it. And I’ve not even included the sleeves!

  Darling Meldi, I hope you don’t think I am too selfish talking about clothes when you are at home and alone. It’s hard when I haven’t seen you since Christmas. I hope you are learning French well and remember all your verbs. I am learning German too, and enjoying it, in spite of the lack of enthusiasm from Miss Hedges, Rhona, Sybil et al.

  Viele liebe Grüsse, as they say,

  Your loving sister

  Eva

  6 March 1914

  My dear Eva,

  I am so sorry about the delay in replying; everything was at sixes and sevens here. Mother was agitated because the butcher’s bill was a day later than usual and she had not put it in her monthly calculations. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I am afraid the cost of the material for your dress is prohibitive. Why, the kind of voile that would suit the pattern you sent is a half crown a foot, not to mention the insertion! That is all according to Mother. Such a pity, because it is a lovely dress. I am so very sorry! Mother says you have enough materials and should manage. I wish I could help, I feel wretched about it.

  I am well, though I have a cough here and there. Dr Fellowes is so much nicer these days. Remember the examinations with that steel speculum down my throat and the horrible tar drink? I thought I would choke.

  Father is well too. He is here more often. Apparently a lot of these Acts of Parliament concerning Ireland mean that his business is not so involved. I did ask about the dress for you, but he was very reproachful, and told me in future to go directly to Mother about these matters. I think it’s probably better to do it that way in future, in order not to displease him.

  You write a lot about this Mr Shandlin. He seems like a very interesting character. I find it inconceivable that he would dislike you. Perhaps he values you and finds it hard to say so.

  Anyway I had better finish this letter as I am getting too tired and I will doze off in the middle of the next sentence.

  All my love and kisses,

  Imelda

  7 March 1914

  Dear Bo,

  Drop your silly bayonet and stop this parading around because this is an EMERGENCY. I need about ten feet of voile at 2s 3d a foot, and the strip is to be 44 inches wide. (Yes, yes, I know you’re a man and how can I ask you to run such womanish errands. Et cetera.) You can get it in Conklin’s, I presume they have a store in Cardiff?

  I would never dream of asking you, but it’s urgent, and I’ve no spare loot. My friend’s stepmother has decided that Cinderella can’t go to the ball. She’s putting a dashed brave face on it but I can tell she’s really upset, no matter how often she says ‘I’m perfectly fine, Sybil’.

  Look, I know it’s a bit much asking a man to walk into a fabric shop, but I swear if you do me this one little, little favour I will do anything for you, be forever grateful and you would make a sad girl very happy! Think of it as Needful Charity Work. Don’t they have that in the Army, or what are you good for?

  Lots of love,

  Pinkie

  9 March

  Dear Pinkie,

  Who the blinking blazes is Cinderella and what’s she got to do with your letter? (Also: I am now the laughing stock of my whole platoon. Thank you very much for that!)

  Bo

  10 March

  Dear Bo,

  Cinderella is my friend, you idiot. The one who needs the dress. Do you even read my letters? Just tell your CO I’ll make sure he gets a frilly dress if you don’t comply.

  Pinkie

  10 March

  Dear Pinkie,

  Well, thanks for nothing, my dear sister. After your last letter, I am no longer the laughing stock of my platoon … No, more like the entire battalion! Mind you, I showed them a picture of you and they relented somewhat. To the point where it got a bit much. I am your brother and there is only so much of that kind of talk I will tolerate. Is this girlie Eva as fetching as they seem to think you are?

  The material is on its way. My forgiveness might take a bit longer.

  11 March

  Dear Bo,

  Oh, I knew you would, I knew it, I knew it. Thank you so much! I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Just remember that it was worth it. Remember: Help the Needy!

  Love, Pinkie

  P.S. She is not a standout beauty, but in the right dress she draws the eye.

  11 March 1914

  Dear Miss Downey,

  I thought this spare copy of Rupert Brooke’s Poems might be of interest to you. Brooke is one of our foremost young poets, a man of great promise who can surely only go from strength to strength. Some of his poems are rather derivative, you will find; others transcendent. It is quite a recent collection, just three years old. His style is reminiscent of my friend Gabriel Hunter’s, a poet we will hear more of in the future. You might have a read of it. I would be interested to hear your thoughts, summarised in 500 words or less.

  Respectfully yours,

  C. Shandlin

  ‘Eva,’ Sybil said, ‘look.’

  Eva looked up. Sybil was carrying a brown paper parcel by the strings.

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘It’s for your dress, of course.’

  ‘My dress?’

  ‘Cinderella is going to the ball,’ Sybil announced, sitting on the bed beside Eva. ‘Have you a penknife?’

  ‘Er … no.’

  ‘Right. Well, it’s a waste of paper, but there’s nothing else for it.’ She ripped at the parcel and tore it open. A soft, filmy fabric poured out. ‘Here,’ she said, putting it into Eva’s hands. ‘Feel.’

  Eva let the material slip through her fingers. It slid between them, over her hands. She clasped it in bunches, then let it go. It was filmy to the touch, slippery, soft and shining. She shook it out into a square, a reflecting grey colour. There were also two strips of mink fur. Eva caressed them gently, as if the mink were still alive.

  For a moment she couldn’t say a word. Sybil had done this for her. ‘Syb, how much did this cost? How can I ever repay you?’

  ‘Well,’ Sybil said, ‘there is something, as it happens.’ She looked a bit awkward.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Miss Hedges pulled me in for a talk the other week. She says that I’m close to failing some of my classes. She’ll be on to the Mater for sure, and I won’t hear the end of it. The next time we get an essay like that Tolstoy lark I need you to help me out.’ She crouched so that she was looking Eva in the eye. ‘I can’t do those essays, but you can. And I can sew this for you and make it into the most marvellous dress you have ever seen or imagined and Princess Eva shall go to the ball!’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Eva said, ‘you want me to help you cheat?’

  ‘Oh, Eva,’ Sybil laughed, ‘everybody cheats. Unless they’re frightfully clever, like you are. Some day you’ll do it too.’

  Eva was torn. She knew that behind the bravado Sybil really did suffer in class. ‘All right then. I’ll see if I can imitate your rather … inimitable style.’

  Sybil’s eyes shone with relief. ‘Eva, dress or no dress, I will not be able to thank you enough for this if I live to be a hundred.’

  ‘Steady on,’ Eva grinned. ‘It’s fine. But are you really going to sew all this? For me?’

  ‘Why not? I sewed my own jacket, even the leather patches on the elbows.’

  Eva loved Sybil’s long, flared, green velour jacket, though by fashionable standards it shouldn’t have worked. Too mannish, some jealous classmates whispered, and a bit angular. Eva disagreed. On Sybil, with her height and red-gold hair, it looked perfect. Her beauty looked out of place in flounces and hats. But a jacket was one thing. A full ball gown was another matter entirely.

  ‘Eva, don’t look so horrified. Trust me, when it comes to a needle and thread, I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Do you not get a dressmaker
to do it?’

  ‘Oh, at home I have servants for that. But I enjoy it. It’s nice to learn a skill and feel useful. Give me a few weeks and I’ll create something for you beyond a fairy godmother’s wildest dreams.’

  She was as good as her word. Eva felt slightly guilty whenever she passed the sewing room out of school hours and heard the creak of the machine wheel. But after Sybil insisted repeatedly that she did not mind, to the point of being irritated when Eva asked, Eva relaxed and accepted the favour. All she had to do in return was Sybil’s homework. That would be easy.

  7

  The following Monday at Assembly, Miss Hedges announced that there would be a concert in Eastbourne that weekend. A local choral group would be singing motets and Bach cantatas for the Lenten season. Eva put her name down. She had always loved the sound of the choir at mass. In the hallowed, hushed space, the smell of frankincense wafting as the censer swung to and fro, she was reminded of her mother, her face forever turned towards her yet forever blank.

  Imelda remembered more about their mother, being older, but seemed to feel Angela’s absence less acutely than Eva did. And how frustrating it was when Eva asked Imelda what Mama had been like and she could provide only vague answers, unsatisfactory for a longing as bottomless as hers. Why did she not remember the details? The smell of clove oil before bedtime; the moments sitting in the church with the light catching the ever-moving beads in Angela’s fingers; the rather heavy-set face bent over the piano keys, until she would lift her hands and turn around with a smile? That last memory was a fantasy Eva had invented: she could not remember if her mother had smiled or not. All she remembered were the way the fingers hit the keys and the room all singing.