White Feathers

by Susan Lanigan

  ‘Um, well, sir,’ Eva struggled for words that would not be too cruel, ‘your singing, it’s ah …’

  ‘Let me tell you something about my singing,’ Mr Shandlin retorted, rising to his feet and brushing the dust off his trousers. ‘When I was a boy, I was sent away to school where there was a junior choir. I remember we were singing – what was it, some sort of hymn? – oh yes, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. I’ve hated that song ever since. I was somewhere in the back row, singing my little heart out, forgetting anyone else, when the choirmaster came towards me. Mr Phibbs, a really oleaginous, nasty little so-and-so. He bent down and said in that unctuous voice of his, like pouring molasses, “Well, Shandlin minor.” He called me that because Francis was still alive then and we went to the same school. “You know, I don’t think there’s any need for you to actually sing at next week’s concert. You can just mouth the words.” I can’t tell you how that made me feel. I never forgave him.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Eva said, trying to keep a straight face, ‘that was cruel.’

  ‘And I promised myself two things: first, when I came to manhood, I would sing what I liked, when I liked. And second, after I became a teacher, if any student of mine showed enthusiasm, I would at least try to give him a chance, or her.’ He looked meaningfully at Eva.

  Eva looked away from him. She felt something dangerous in the pause, and the look.

  ‘I’m sorry I teased you about your singing, sir.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing. Just as long as you don’t try to stop me.’

  ‘I would never do that.’ She allowed herself a smile. ‘Though perhaps I might put in some ear plugs.’

  ‘Why you little—’

  He was interrupted by sounds from the street below. Somebody banged the door knocker with such violence that the whole house vibrated. A voice shouted through the letterbox: ‘Hey Christopher, what are you doing up there? Self-abuse? Leave that for later and get downstairs!’ That comment’s effect on Mr Shandlin was immediate: he flushed red. ‘Gabriel only matches his charm with his subtlety,’ he managed at last. He seemed to be mortally embarrassed, though Eva could not see why. He’d only been drunk the once. That hardly counted as self-abuse.

  Mr Shandlin ran to the window, flung it up and shouted out into the street, ‘Could you be a small bit louder, Gabriel? I don’t think they heard you across the Channel!’ The car hooted in response, and Eva heard cheering. Mr Shandlin shut the window and rushed around the room, piling various forgotten items into his bag. Then he stopped dead and looked at Eva. ‘I never found that blasted book after all!’

  ‘That’s all right, sir, I didn’t want it in the first place.’

  He sighed and looked to the ceiling. ‘Lord deliver me from such ingratitude, you cheeky brat.’ He put his bag on the ground. ‘You’d enjoy this weekend. It would be fun. What a pity you can’t—’ but then he recollected himself and laughed lightly, taking up his bag once more.

  The man at the steering wheel of the motor car shot Eva a look as she came out after Mr Shandlin. Gabriel Hunter’s smooth-skinned face was as close to a heart in shape as masculine beauty would allow. His hair was raven-coloured with a cowlick, and he had thick, red lips that looked as if they were enjoying a secret joke. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and was altogether quite the most beautiful man Eva had ever seen; beside him, Mr Shandlin looked battered and worn. An attractive girl with waved black hair sat in the back. She looked Eva up and down with the most cursory of assessments before ignoring her and opening the door for Mr Shandlin. Eva could clearly see her gypsy-style bottle-green smock petticoat and red espadrilles. She wore no stockings.

  Eva was surprised that Mr Shandlin was not sitting in front but was squeezing in beside the girl. Of course, there was no reason why he shouldn’t sit in the back …

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Downey. Enjoy your half term. Hallo there, Cressida.’ Mr Shandlin shut the door and kissed the girl on the cheek. She squealed with delight. Mr Hunter craned his neck and querulously asked, ‘Have I interrupted something?’

  ‘A pupil, on an errand, that’s all.’ He was brusque.

  The car was moving now, and he did not look back. It seemed like an odd, abrupt farewell. Why, he had been on the verge of saying he was sorry she couldn’t come, and once his friends were there, he’d practically ignored her. Eva felt small and unimportant and at the same time annoyed with herself for her unreasonable feelings. There was nothing for it but to forget about it and return and wait for Imelda. Cycling against the wind, she felt the first drops of rain hit her cheeks and hair.

  9

  31 March 1914

  Bo,

  We finished the dress! Well, I finished the dress and Eva did my homework. Hats off to you for having the gumption to send on that lovely mink for sleeves, but would you believe, she wasn’t having it. Wanted them plain. Well, I argued with her back and forth. Can’t have them plain, I said, that’s not the design. But she put her foot down. I will be able to use it for the collar of a coat I’ve had my eye on, but more anon – I am sure your commanding officer who is reading this will not want to hear all about girls’ coats. Unless they are on actual girls, of course.

  We tried it on her, and – oh, Bo, it’s beautiful. Eva is not the type who looks ravishing, I’m afraid – only I get that privilege – but she did look rather remarkable. I could not talk her into wearing make-up. Her rotten upbringing has her convinced that only tarts and actresses wear lipstick. I’ll win her round eventually.

  And I must say, hurrah for Evie: she did every single one of those exercises for me, in history and French and Eng. Lit., for three weeks, when she could have been having fun (tho’ I am not convinced she knows how to have fun.) I must say she has my habits down pat, not to mention my patterns of speech. All the things I never knew I misspelled she did for me. It was quite uncanny, really. Miss Stebbs the history mistress didn’t spot a thing, which is unsurprising since she is utterly stupid, nor did Miss Hautbois, but unfortunately old Shandy is not stupid at all, and he eventually clicked something was up. And that was the end of our little scheme because once he found out, he humiliated Eva in class. No, really, he did. He made her stand up, shouted at her in front of everyone and said he was disappointed in her and that she had acted like a common cheat. When she tried to say something, he told her to stop talking for once in her life, that the sound of her voice got on his nerves, and that she had to fill every silence with worthless talk. Really awful stuff, Bo! I’ve never seen him so furious.

  I tried to tell him that it was my fault and all about the dress and the bargain we made, but he just shot such a filthy look at me that my mouth dried up. Oh, Bo, when he is angry he is terrifying! It’s too bad, it’s jolly bad form of him to pick on her and not me when I’m the one at fault. Of course I know what’s the matter with the cranky, thin-skinned so-and-so … but poor Eva? Hasn’t a clue.

  I’ll give her this though, she kept her composure. She said not a word in reply, though he ranted at her like a crazed animal. She didn’t even shake. Just stood there like a statue until he finished. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it was being there in that classroom. I would rather have been in the middle of the desert in Timbuctoo with no water, that’s how bad it was. Poor Eva just bent her head down and didn’t look at anyone. Afterwards she walked straight out without a word, went up to the dorm and got a book out of her bedside locker.

  Then – oh Bo, you’ll love this – she opened the window, pulled her arm far behind her, the book outstretched in her hand. And then – whoosh! – threw it with all her might, and it went spinning, spinning through the air down into the shrubbery. It landed in a white winter jasmine bush before slithering down to the soil out of view. Bo, she won’t talk about it, but I think he gave her the book. I’ve seen her reading it before.

  Anyway, I hope you meant it when you said Clive Faugharne was coming to the dance. I don’t believe for one moment that rumour that he is ‘So’ – and stop spreading it around! I
imagine his shyness with girls gave rise to that idea, but it’s not true. He was giving me very special attention during the last Hunt Ball!

  Lovelove,

  Pinkie xx

  1 April 1914

  Dearest Eva

  I just got your letter. I am sorry to hear you had an upset and hope you are feeling a little better. Thank you for enquiring after my health; I know I was a bit dicky the day we were on Eastbourne Pier, but I enjoyed it all the same. I only wish there had been more daylight to enjoy the camera obscura! But I am much recovered now.

  We have all been in a tizzy lately with Mother’s new interest in Mrs Humphry Ward. Have you heard of her, Evie? She is a famous authoress who lives in Oxford and who wrote lots of novels and married a history professor. She was in our district recently giving speeches for the Women’s National Anti-Suffrage League. Now I know how you feel about them, but Mother and Grace are of a different mind and have become very keenly involved in all of this, and they insist I go along too.

  I find Mrs Ward to be very martial in her speeches. She believes war will soon be afoot and that women will have to stand shoulder to shoulder with the men rather than foster division. There is a strange cast to her eyes when she talks about war, as if a blood lust has fallen over her. But I feel a bit sorry for her too, as she is effectively out of a job since the League she created has, funnily enough, been taken over by a man! That Lord Curzon is not a nice fellow, he has something wrong with his back and is forever frowning at everybody. Anyway, for all that he appears to support Mrs Ward, I think he doesn’t want women to vote because he doesn’t like them. I wish Grace and Mother wouldn’t go to Mrs Ward’s meetings because I think she is caught under his influence and that can be no good.

  Good grief, this letter has gone on a bit. Just a brief note about your problems with your teacher: I would ask for God’s forgiveness for your part in the whole to-do, and yours alone. You are not responsible for him. I am sure that no matter how weak mortals can be (and a man who is not in control of his emotions is surely weak), God can give you strength to forgive him – and yourself too. Also, you are not really helping Sybil by doing her work even though it appears that you are. You are preventing her from learning it herself, which is a skill she will need no matter what vocation she chooses. And, oh, now I am running out of paper (and energy!) but I hope you can accept this scrawl from

  Your loving sister,

  Imelda xx

  Two days before the dance, a state of high excitement ruled Eva’s dormitory: permission had been given at last for the girls to try on their dresses and practise their coiffures. Eva was doing Sybil’s hair. She had gently swept it up and was trying to bind it with a series of bandeaux, while Sybil was looking in a spotty mirror, assessing the results. She did not yet appear satisfied.

  ‘Here, Eva, use this, will you?’ Sybil handed her a narrow band studded with imitation emeralds. Sybil’s hair was, as she herself put it, ‘thick and rich – like me’, and needed plenty of bandeaux and pins to subdue it. Eva worked with more viciousness, Sybil felt, than was strictly necessary, jabbing and pushing at the pins as if she had forgotten that there was a scalp somewhere underneath that might suffer pain from her ministrations. It was late afternoon, and the sun was beginning a long descent. The light from the west-facing window cast a bright spot on the mirror, distracting Eva.

  ‘Ow!’ Sybil exclaimed.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, seriously, chum, that’s the fifth time you’ve done that in about five minutes. How about trying to concentrate on what you’re doing?’

  ‘I am concentrating.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I don’t think your head is here at all.’

  Eva made no comment but continued to slip in smaller clips to secure the hair in just the right fashion, covering all but the lobe of the ear. It was a style that was already beginning to look dated; no wonder Sybil was bored with it – though hair like hers afforded only one alternative, that of the Pre-Raphaelite tresses, which would not be sanctioned by the likes of Miss Dunn.

  ‘Eva, you’re not saying much. Still brooding, eh?’

  ‘I’m not. Now can we talk about something else?’

  ‘Oh, do you have to be so snippy?’ Sybil cried out in exasperation. ‘Can I remind you that I’m on your side here? He was totally in the wrong.’

  ‘I know. Hold still or I’ll never have this done.’

  ‘Eva,’ Sybil said, raising her hands to indicate that her friend should stop, ‘I know you are inept with anything involving titivating and dressmaking, but even you can’t be manhandling me that painfully out of ignorance. You’re still upset, and I don’t blame you.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Will you stop being so monosyllabic! I’m trying to help.’

  ‘I know, Syb,’ and Eva ruffled the hair she had so recently tried to pin down. ‘I suppose I do still wonder what I did to provoke him so. It’s stupid, I know, but it did hurt me.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you write him a very formal letter: Dear Sir, please stop being madly in love with me and start acting like a proper teacher, Yours et cetera.’

  Eva laughed. ‘All right, Sybil, but seriously.’

  Sybil turned around in her chair, strands of hair dislocated by the movement falling down to her neck. ‘Eva, I am being serious. He’s in love with you. Absolutely besotted. I’ve never seen such a straight-up case of it in my life.’

  Eva felt her heart beat irregularly in her chest and her breath grow shallow. ‘Sybil, that’s nonsense.’

  Sybil clasped Eva’s wrists, her hair unravelling further as the pins fell down. ‘Evie, have you not seen the way he looks at you? Or, rather, the way he pretends not to look at you?’ She imitated his eyes darting about the room. ‘How about the way he singles you out, all the time, for attention? It’s so obvious. Yes, I know you’re intelligent – and that’s part of it. He’s used to stupid people, and you came out of a clear blue sky and shocked the living daylights out of him.’

  ‘Even if what you say is true – and it isn’t,’ Eva protested, blushing, ‘it is only proximity that could cause it. He’ll forget me quickly enough when the year is over.’

  ‘The hell he will.’

  ‘Sybil!’ Eva was shocked.

  ‘I’m telling you, he’s beyond forgetting you. He is in too deep for that. The only question is can he keep his senses and his job. Trust me. Auntie Sybil is never wrong about men, and that man is in deep trouble.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong now,’ Eva retorted with spirit. ‘Surely it is possible for a man to be interested in his female pupils’ education without darker motives being brought into play?’

  ‘If a man started writing me notes and sending me books of poems and then shouted at me like a jilted mistress for half an hour on end, I’d hardly call it “being interested in my education”,’ Sybil replied. ‘Now, would you fetch me those pins, there’s a love, and let’s do this again? Properly, this time?’

  Eva sighed and picked up the pins. She would need to hurry up and finish now, as their room was getting busy and more people wanted the mirror. The corridors hummed with girls rushing in and out, holding dresses up and slipping them on, sometimes with unfortunate results. The bodice on Rhona Lewis’s dress was far too tight, and the fabric made a terrible ripping sound, tearing down to the buttock. Eva breathed a sigh of relief that she had herself picked a pattern flattering to her naturally rather square shape.

  Sybil winked at Eva, but she didn’t wink back. She was still shocked at what Sybil had told her. Sybil, engrossed in her hair, had already forgotten about it. In her mind, she was simply imparting to Eva information that had been painfully obvious to everyone else for quite some time.

  When the time came for Eva to put on her dress, Sybil would not stand for being anything less than mistress of ceremonies. She lifted the dress over Eva’s slip, and Eva felt the fabric pour down her back, then fall in a rush about her feet, as the material resolved itself into coherenc
e. A brief silence fell upon the room.

  ‘Eva Downey,’ another girl said at last, ‘I never thought you could look so …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Eva said.

  ‘So you should,’ Sybil said. ‘You look divine, and I mean it. Here. Spin around.’

  As Eva turned, somewhat diffidently, the sunlight caught the silver, and a kaleidoscope of shadow and light fell on the ground. She moved another few steps to the door.

  ‘Come back,’ Sybil said, ‘you forgot your shoes!’

  From under the masses of crêpe paper on her bed she whipped out a simple black box with ‘Peter Robinson’ embossed on the lid.

  Eva opened the box and gasped.

  ‘Now, they’re only on loan,’ Sybil said, ‘so please don’t damage them.’

  Eva took the left shoe out of the box and caressed the seam at the heel with her fingers. The heel itself was small enough to be suitable for dancing, while the shoe was silk and leather, patterned with grey-silver flowers, the raised petals soft as she quickly ran her fingertips over them. The straps were silk Möbius strips. Holding this wondrous, delicate thing made Eva feel heavy-handed and sweaty. She placed the shoe back in the box, much to Sybil’s consternation.

  ‘What the blazes are you doing?’

  ‘They’re so nice,’ Eva said hesitantly, ‘I don’t want to hold on to them too long.’

  Sybil stamped her own foot in exasperation. ‘Eva, you clot. Put them on.’

  So Eva raised the hem of her dress and slipped first the left shoe, then the right, over her stockinged feet. Then she straightened up, lifting the hem slightly to show off the shoes. But there was no need: it fell at just the right spot. Sybil clapped her hands in delight. ‘Good show, Destouches! Nice ensemble, if I may say so myself,’ she added, without much attempt at modesty.

  Eva smiled at her friend’s joy. ‘It is beautiful. Thank you, Sybil. For the shoes, for everything.’