‘Isn’t she magnificent?’ Sybil breathed as Patricia, with hardly more than the slightest turn of the wrist, scored against the home side. The ball slammed past the wide swing of the goalkeeper’s stick, evaded her clumsy attempt to run after it and came to rest in the corner of the net. This last goal, so carelessly delivered a bare minute before full time, won the match, and the players gathered at the centre of the pitch to shake hands.
‘I wish I could play like that,’ Sybil sighed.
‘You’ve never had much interest before now,’ Eva said tartly. ‘I’m not an expert, but I’d imagine if you wanted to play like Miss Arnason you would need some practice.’
‘If I practised till my fingers were chafed holding the stick, I’d never be anything like as good as her. She’s a natural. How can you not admire her?’
‘She’s very good, I’m sure, but … I’m not that interested in hockey.’
‘But neither am I,’ Sybil said to herself in low puzzlement.
Eva was about to ask her what she meant, but Sybil had half turned away, sitting on the narrow bench, her knee drawn up, elbow resting on it and chin jutting forward between her thumb and forefinger. She was obviously perturbed about something.
The players were beginning to disperse, and the rest of the watching girls were following them back to the school. Only Patricia Arnason lingered, occasionally looking towards the stand. Eva didn’t mind waiting. She took her letter from Imelda out of her pocket and read it again. It worried her to hear of Catherine’s harping on about Mr Cronin. For all that she had said ‘no’ often enough and that her father had conveyed her refusal, Eva knew who held the power in that house.
Although Sybil did not look in Eva’s direction, she must have noticed the letter, because she enquired, without taking her eyes off the girl on the pitch, ‘That from a suitor? Has Eva got herself a man after all?’
‘Oh, no,’ Eva laughed, then frowned. ‘Well, I hope not.’
Patricia Arnason was the last to leave the pitch. Passing where they sat, she smiled at both of them, and Eva raised her hand in greeting, but, to her surprise, Sybil ignored her completely. Patricia looked as surprised as Eva at Sybil’s rudeness, and not a little discomfited, but she brushed it off, walking away with an easy, powerful lope. Sybil did not take her eyes off her retreating back. Without turning around, she said to Eva, ‘Tell me about him, then.’
‘He is a friend of my stepmother’s,’ Eva said, ‘whom she was trying to persuade me to marry when your great-aunt died and saved me.’
‘Really? I take it that he is unsuitable?’
‘In every way,’ Eva said with sudden passion. ‘He’s nearly twice my age and could pass for three times that—’
‘Has he an occupation?’
‘He’s a clerk in a railway station in Limerick. He visits us in London a few times a year and constantly pays attention to me, but he’s got nothing to say. When he does open his mouth, his voice has this high-pitched, disagreeable wobble, and his lips are wet and shiny. He calls me Miss Eeeeeveeeeeeehhhh in this long, drawn-out whine. And, oh Sybil, his eyes! They are so watery and rheumy. And he smells of meat. I don’t know why, he’s not a butcher, but there’s no scrubbing the smell of it off him.’
‘I see,’ Sybil said. ‘You lost me at “railway clerk”, but go on.’
‘Indeed and I shall,’ Eva said, anger making her words tumble out. ‘When he’s about to say something, he always prefixes it with a sniff. A dry, miserable little sound that sucks the life out of any room he’s in. And then whenever he sees a stray dog, a mean little look crosses his face and he’ll kick it. Oh, Syb, when I last saw him, he shook my hand: it was cold and clammy. His fingers slid off mine. I swear my own were damp afterward. And he sniffed.’
‘So,’ Sybil said, ‘you don’t like him then?’
‘I despise him.’
‘Then you can’t marry him. Stands to reason. Besides, there’s no point finishing you just for a railway clerk. Waste of my aunt’s money, frankly. What’s wrong with your stepmother, has she got mercury to the brain or something?’
‘She doesn’t like me.’
‘I can see that,’ Sybil said. ‘And your own mother, is she—?’
‘She died a long time ago. I was very young.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Even if it’s long ago, you still remember.’
‘That’s what he said,’ Eva said without thinking.
‘Who did? That railway fellow? Sounds as if he’s got more sense than you give him credit for.’
‘No, not him. When I was at that concert last weekend,’ Eva said, heat rising to her face, ‘Mr Shandlin was there with the boys from his school. I went out at the interval to get some air, and he was there too, then the choir started singing some music that reminded me of my mother. I got upset and made a fool of myself and started crying.’
‘Oh,’ Sybil cried, ‘and you told him? He’s just about the last person I would ever tell anything to do with my personal life. I hope he was decent about it and didn’t start quoting some more wretched Tolstoy or Swinburne or whatnot.’
‘Oh, no, Sybil, he was so kind to me. And I was terribly embarrassed. But he was very understanding. He’s different outside class, much gentler.’
‘Maybe towards you,’ Sybil said, frowning. ‘I’ve noticed that lately. It’s becoming quite marked.’
Eva opened her mouth to protest.
‘Never mind that.’ Sybil, seeing Eva’s discomfort (a discomfort that confirmed a nascent suspicion of hers), changed the subject with her usual deftness. ‘I wonder if there’s any chance of getting into the hockey eleven for the next match?’
‘I would say it’ll be a cold day in hell before you’re picked, Sybil. Sorry.’
‘I disagree,’ Sybil said equably. ‘You would be surprised what I can do when I put my mind to it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Eva said, ‘but this match is over, and it’s a little chilly. Shall we go back inside?’
The half-holiday was preceded by an German lesson Eva had chosen to take. As she recited verb conjugations while a bluebottle repeatedly flew against the closed window, she couldn’t remember why she had. ‘Hilf mich,’ she said absent-mindedly.
Miss Hautbois frowned. ‘Hilf mir,’ she said. ‘It takes the dative case. You know this.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
Half an hour, one released insect, and ten conjugated German verbs later, she wandered out on the lawn where pupils and staff were gathering. She was in no rush herself. Imelda wouldn’t be there until three and it was only half past twelve. As the bell rang once more, the side door opened and Mr Shandlin strode out, in his habitual black, making some odd sounds as he goose-stepped across the lawn as if he were a soldier. It took Eva some time to realise that he was singing, in a thin, loud, rather tuneless baritone, swinging his satchel back and forth, almost hitting a few people. As he approached, Eva could make out the syllables, for God knew he was intoning them loudly enough: ‘Confu-TA-tis! Ma-le-DIC-tis! Flam-mis AC-ribus ad-DIC-tis!’
Rhona Lewis appeared in a dropped-shoulder dress with three flounces. She stood directly in his way so that he barrelled to a halt, his bag still swinging forward with the momentum from his earlier stride and narrowly missing her shin. ‘I must say you look very silly, Mr Shandlin,’ Rhona said, ‘and you sound even sillier.’ She hadn’t forgiven him for the Tolstoy incident.
‘I am in high good humour, Miss Lewis,’ he said, ‘because today is that rare jewel in my life: an afternoon off. I’ve had two classes this morning already, a good seven miles apart, and I’m done with school. Indeed, in about’ – he checked his watch – ‘forty-five minutes, I will be in a motor heading out to Dorset with my friend at the wheel, my hat whipped off my head by the wind. So you will forgive me if I seem in more exalted spirits than usual. Did you want to speak to me about something?’
‘No, sir.’ Rhona gave him a look that would have curdled milk. ‘I wanted to see Miss Hedges.’
/>
‘Then why don’t you try her office instead of standing here like a lemon? Hello, Miss Downey.’ He nodded at Eva, hardly glancing in her direction. Very proper, she thought. So there, Sybil. Meanwhile, Rhona scowled and flounced away towards the school entrance, her dress flapping importantly behind her.
‘Ah,’ he said, turning to Eva, ‘I see Miss Lewis has gone and the sun has returned. Hurrah, three cheers!’
‘They say it might rain later. But for now it’s pleasant, yes.’ Eva tried to be diplomatic.
‘Oh, don’t say that. It’s not allowed to rain on my half day, I won’t have it. I’m just about to get on my bicycle and head to my rooms to wait for Gabriel. Are you meeting anybody yourself?’
‘My sister Imelda is coming, but not until three; we shall travel to London this evening.’
‘I see. That sounds very pleasant. By then I shall be far away, at an encampment near Lulworth Cove, surrounded by charming individuals of both sexes discussing poetry and philosophy, and quite forgetting all of you, I daresay.’
‘Perhaps you should hurry up, then,’ Eva said with a grin. ‘How far away is your house?’
‘Oh, no more than five miles. It’s in Heathfield. You know it?’
‘I know where it is.’
‘Well, then. It won’t take me long to get there.’
Eva nodded politely, but she thought he was rather cutting it fine. Not that it was any of her concern. ‘I have to go, Mr Shandlin. Have a good weekend.’
‘But you’re not leaving till three!’ he exclaimed, ‘and did I not promise you a copy of the Iliad some time back? When we met in that church and you were …’ He stopped, presumably not wishing to embarrass her.
‘I remember you mentioned it,’ Eva said, ‘but you didn’t say anything about giving it to me.’
‘Did I not? I certainly intended to. Why don’t you cycle over with me and I’ll give it to you now?’
‘What, to your house?’ Eva said, astonished.
‘No, to the moon. Yes, to my house, where else? It won’t take that long. You can ride a bike, can’t you? Becky isn’t using her bicycle, look over there.’
Becky was the kitchen maid; Eva suspected she would not take kindly to the appropriation of her bicycle. ‘Yes, but—’
‘It’s all right. She won’t be back until four.’
How Mr Shandlin knew the servants’ movements Eva had no idea; it was surprising the quantity of information he managed to divine about his surroundings while seeming oblivious to them.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘while the rain holds off.’
Still she demurred. ‘I shouldn’t.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Why not?’
Eva found that she could think of no answer that would not offend him. Besides, what was wrong with a bicycle ride? Mr Shandlin was right. Why not give it a try? So she found herself wheeling Becky’s bicycle down the driveway, cautiously looking around to see if any disapproving presence might stop her. But the windows looked on blankly.
The saddle was far too high and the pedals rebelled at her approach, gashing at her ankles, banging her left calf through her stockings. She exclaimed loudly and rubbed the sore spot. ‘Christ! Hell! Damn!’ That was going to bruise, badly. She pushed the pedal roughly backwards, letting the chain rasp. The pedals did not move much. Ahead of her, Mr Shandlin had found his own bicycle, large, cumbersome and black; he hoisted his bag onto his back, tightened the strap with his free hand, put one foot on the pedal, then deftly threw his other leg over the saddle, bent low and headed off into the distance.
‘Thanks for waiting,’ Eva said aloud. She wondered if she should give up and go back. This whole caper of Mr Shandlin’s was really rather ill advised.
But when she reached the gates, he was waiting, waving to indicate she should follow him in a left turn. Once she was on the road, she realised that riding a bicycle is not something one forgets, even if the memory is somewhat imperfectly preserved. Wobbling and uncertain at first, she soon gathered speed, the wind lifting her skirts and petticoat so that she felt it in a pleasant shock against her naked knees.
The school was in the South Downs, a series of gentle, undulating hills that never went too high or too far, making her cycle undemanding. Unfortunately she could not prevent her clothes occasionally entangling with the wheel spokes and pedals, nor her stockings getting marked by chain oil, but she found she was enjoying herself. It had been a long time since she was last out in the countryside alone, accompanied only by sunshine, witch-hazel hedges and a stirring breeze.
Several times she caught up with Mr Shandlin at a crossroads; each time he waited long enough to show her which way she should go next, before disappearing once more, further along the road.
‘He’s so impatient,’ Eva grumbled, but even when the sun went behind a cloud for a few moments, it did not affect her good cheer. If she lost him, she reasoned, she could always cycle back. ‘Tawton Lane, just off the High Street,’ he had told her, but she was unsure if she would find it, he was so far ahead of her.
As it happened, the winding little road she was on joined the main road into Heathfield just past the vicarage and took her straight onto High Street. She found Tawton Lane soon afterwards, and Mr Shandlin even sooner after that. He was waiting for her at a door right next to a shoemaker’s shop, his bicycle secured against the railing opposite, his fingers tapping his pocket watch. ‘How did it take you half an hour? You must be the worst cyclist in the Northern Hemisphere.’
Half an hour! It had felt like barely ten minutes. As she leaned the bicycle against the wall near his, she realised what a state she was in. Her hands were covered in grease, God only knew how, and her dress, a crimson chemise, was looking decidedly muddy at the bottom. Mr Shandlin made no comment on her appearance; he merely opened the large door and indicated that she should follow him upstairs.
‘I …’ She felt rooted to the spot, too embarrassed to say anything.
‘It will only take me a few minutes to find this thing. Come on, I can’t leave you standing out here in the street.’
He took the stairs two at a time until he reached a small landing and unlocked the door directly in front of them. Feeling shy, Eva stayed out on the landing, although she took a good look at his room through the open doorway as he busied about, searching for his Homer. She saw that his task would not be easy: piles of books on the floor nearly tripped him up in his endeavours. The whole room was a bit chaotic: a shirt cast over the back of a chair, a mug upended on a plywood counter, a full brass ashtray on the window sill and what looked to Eva like a rather hastily made bed. A bookcase near the door was full; on top, between more books and periodicals, stood a framed family photograph: the father seated, the mother standing, holding the hand of a small, dark, unsmiling boy who was so obviously a younger edition of Mr Shandlin himself that Eva was touched. The other son, fair-haired and well into adolescence, leaned on the chair next to his father, looking as if he were suppressing the urge to laugh. Mr Shandlin saw Eva looking at it and remarked, ‘Ah yes. You’ve spotted the resemblance. Francis is the handsome one … was, I mean – I’m still alive and so is my mother.’
Eva nodded.
As he once again busied himself with his search, scuttling about the room, even poking his head under the bed, Eva could not help thinking that there was something disarming about how unabashed he was at showing her his modest circumstances. That he should live here, in this simple room that smelt of fried liver and shoe leather, impressed itself on her deeply.
He re-emerged, frowning. ‘I could have sworn I left it on my desk. I do when I’m lending something to someone – I leave it on my desk with a note to remind myself. And the right translation too. Not that rhyming nonsense. And the Muse should sing, not speak. I see you still won’t come in, you just hover in the doorway like the Recording Angel. Is my humble abode that bad?’
‘No!’ Eva turned red. ‘Not at all, sir. I just feel it would be more … appropriate to wait here
.’
‘You are very polite. I freely admit I don’t keep a very good house.’
Eva puzzled over his meaning. Surely he must know that she was not staying outside from politeness? ‘Does someone clean for you?’ she asked.
‘I do occasionally have a woman in to tidy the place, but only after I’ve spent several hours cleaning up for her first. The last time she arrived, Gabriel Hunter was here. We’d been up all night playing a spelling-errors drinking game with some exercises I had to correct. I had to stick my head under cold running water before I was fit to greet the lady, let alone go and teach eighteen truculent boys the finer details of the past participle.’
‘I won’t make any comment on that, Mr Shandlin,’ Eva said, ‘since it appears you were punished enough.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he winced, ‘with every known alcoholic substance short of absinthe. And the knock on the door from the cleaning woman that woke me up … horresco referens.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It means, “I shudder to recall”,’ he said with a wry grin.
Eva was surprised. She had not thought he had any tendency to drink in him. Mr Duncan sometimes smelt strongly of alcohol, and, as for Miss Dunn … it was well known that she topped up her little gin bottle regularly during the day. But Eva had never heard anything about Mr Shandlin. Then again, that encounter might have put him off.
‘Come in, for God’s sake, and help me find that book.’
Eva tentatively advanced a little further through the doorway, trying to ignore his gestures to sit down as he crawled into a corner, going down on his hands and knees with – there was no delicate way of putting it – his backside in the air. She hardly knew where to look.
And there was that off-key singing again, as earlier: Con-fu-TA-tis, ma-le-DIC-tis. Rhona was right: he looked and sounded ridiculous. Eva laughed. She meant for it to be under her breath, but he heard her and stopped mid-search, emerging from the dustiness under his bed, his hair nearly standing on end, his face flushed, and looked at her with mock indignation. ‘What are you tittering at there, Miss Downey? Don’t deny it, I heard you clearly.’
White Feathers Page 7
