White Feathers

by Susan Lanigan

  Rhona clicked her tongue. ‘It certainly is. You had better make sure you wear it properly, Downey. I can tell from the way you stand that you’re not used to clothes like these.’

  Sybil made a face, but Eva couldn’t have cared less about Rhona. She put the shoes carefully back in the box and closed the lid. Then she removed her stockings.

  ‘I want to go outside,’ she said.

  Rhona snorted with laughter. ‘Are you playing Faerie Queene again?’

  ‘I want to feel the ground under my feet.’

  Rhona squealed with derision, and Sybil looked like she was about to protest, but Eva mouthed, ‘I’ll be back,’ and padded downstairs, the door creaking behind her as she pulled it to. The painted wood felt smooth and warm under her soles as she treaded down the stairs. Then at the bottom a few feet of carpet led her to the back door and outside.

  When she lifted her skirts and gingerly trod over gravel to the uncut grass, the moisture of the dew on the blades was a welcome balm. She kept on the grass as much as possible, passing the shrubbery then crossing downhill to the small copse of elms. In the gaps between the trees, moss grew, bouncy and soft, like in the grounds of Blackrock Castle on the promontory in Cork, where her mother had brought her and Imelda to play when they were very young.

  ‘Mama,’ Eva whispered. The trees made no reply except to sigh and rustle in the slight breeze. She still could not recall Angela’s face, but that was all right. Then she looked up and saw the sun shining through the cross-hatching of leaves. For the first time in weeks, she felt calm. She was struck by the realisation that it was all in the hands of God and that all would be well. No matter what happened, or where she went in the world, she was held in a pair of divine hands guiding her way. There was no rational way of knowing this, she just knew. She put her hand on one of the elms and felt the pattern of the bark beneath her palm. It seemed connected to the deep earth below, and she let her head rest against it. It comforted her and set her to rights, for a while.

  Then she felt the folds of her dress brushing the grass and recollected herself. If she ruined the hem running barefoot outside, after all Sybil’s hard work …! Rhona’s right, she said to herself as she made her way back to the dormitories, if I’m going to wear this thing, I’d better do it properly.

  10

  Although there had been talk of hiring a steam bus for the journey to Winchester, Miss Hedges decided it would be too impractical; instead they were all booked into first-class carriages on each of the two trains that would bring them from Eastbourne to Winchester. They would travel as far as Portsmouth, then take the Great Western train up to Winchester and arrive at seven o’clock that evening. Sybil and Eva had the good luck to secure a compartment entirely to themselves on the first train, though Miss Hedges patrolled the corridor and looked in on them from time to time.

  As the train made its way past Brighton, Sybil took out a silver case and wound up a bright red lipstick. Eva watched as her friend stretched her upper lip and inscribed a vermilion arc across its curve, then as she did the same with the lower one. She did not remind Sybil that lipstick was forbidden – Sybil knew that all too well. She did keep a weather eye out for Miss Hedges.

  ‘Handkerchief,’ Sybil commanded, and, when Eva handed it to her, she kissed it carefully, blotting and folding her lips until the cover was even. For a moment, Eva wondered if she had been right to keep her lips bare and her hair down. Sybil was forever telling her it looked too girlish. Eva was ‘out’ now, and she should show it. But Eva didn’t feel ‘out’, she just felt out of place.

  Sybil capped the lipstick and put it back in her purse, then remarked, ‘Do you know, Evie, when we were leaving the school, I could have sworn I saw Mr Shandlin among the trees. What was he doing there, I wonder?’

  Eva wanted to groan aloud. She’d had enough of Mr Shandlin. During yesterday’s class she’d nearly put a crick in her neck avoiding his eye, and he was so obviously returning the favour it had been embarrassing.

  ‘I’m sure you are mistaken,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Sybil said, rummaging for her compulsory cigarette and Ronson lighter. ‘Did I tell you that I met his mother? I was walking down the avenue, minding my own business, and around he comes like a hulking black crow, with his arm craned around this old woman, steering her forward.’ (‘Do you mind if I open the window for a moment?’ said Eva.) ‘And then the two of them paused to look at me at the same time, and it was like two vultures turning their heads. Exact same profile, both of them, and four eyes on me, two brown and two blue.’ (‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Eva sighed, ‘it’s too chilly.’) ‘She smiled at me, so she has better manners than her son.’

  Eva wished to God Sybil would stop talking. How obvious did she have to make it that she didn’t want to hear about Mr Shandlin or his blasted mother? But her friend carried on: ‘A little bird told me that she and Miss Hedges don’t get on at all. You do know that every Friday Miss Hedges holds a salon in the parlour of the main house? And always invites Shandlin along? The mother probably reckons she has her claws into him. Though I doubt it myself. A woman of Miss Hedges’ class wouldn’t end up with a fellow like him. But I’m sure you know all this.’

  Eva shook her head. ‘How would I know what Mr Shandlin does? I’m hardly in his confidence.’ She could not keep the hurt out of her voice, and Sybil heard it. Even in the semi-dark of the carriage, Eva could see her eyes widen with alarm as she put down her lighter.

  ‘Oh. I see now. When I told you he was in love with you, I put an idea into your head, didn’t I?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Eva turned away.

  ‘Ye gods and little fishes! Eva, I didn’t imagine for one moment it would be reciprocal. If I have put an idea in your head, for God’s sake, will you abandon it? Please? No good can come of it, believe you me.’

  ‘I haven’t got any ideas in my head,’ Eva said sulkily.

  ‘Well, good,’ Sybil said. ‘Keep it that way.’

  Not a word was spoken between the two of them for the rest of the journey. Sybil shrugged inwardly. She had helped Eva as much as she could by making the dress. She would not be able to physically drag the fellows over or make Eva forget Mr Sensitive Sunflower. Eva would have to do that herself.

  After all the fuss and bother, the dance did not get off to an auspicious start. The first entry on Eva’s card was a tow-haired fellow whose head was as round as the planet earth. While the string band played ‘A Vision of Salomé,’ he pulled her around the too-bright hall, crashing into her, urging her, ‘Come on, gel’, while she desperately attempted to stay away from his feet. After that, her toes smarting, came a tall boy with a pleasant, lopsided face wearing a kilt called (she thought) Clive Faugharne; he spent the whole time talking about Sybil. Then, after him, a slighter chap named David Wentworth Hopkins, who turned out to be the most promising dance of the night, talking not about horses or dreadnoughts but poetry, and with a reasonably well-educated interest.

  Then a long period of nothing. Sybil joined her, two glasses of wine in her hands. ‘Here, have one.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’ Eva was nervous.

  ‘Allowed? With the crowd here tonight? I’d say it was bloody compulsory. Drink up.’

  She presented the glass to Eva, who took a draught and shuddered.

  ‘Drink! Don’t look like it’s a punishment,’ Sybil instructed sternly, and they both downed another mouthful at the same time.

  ‘“I punished myself with every alcoholic substance known to man except absinthe”,’ Eva murmured absent-mindedly.

  ‘Eva, what are you blathering on about now? For God’s sake, look sharp. Have you met anyone yet?’ Eva showed Sybil her dance card. ‘All right, well, that’s progress. Though you can forget about Clive Faugharne. That’s my territory. Anyway, I want to warn you off somebody.’

  ‘Oh? Who?’

  Sybil gestured to the far corner of the room, where three young men were in absorbed conv
ersation. ‘That one. He was a prefect at Marlborough back in ’11, so he says. I thought he would be worth talking to, but when I finally met him, he didn’t bother introducing himself before buttonholing me with a rant about how he was the great overlooked poet of his generation and how he should have been in the Georgian Poetry book that came out two years ago. And I said, “Well, that’s terrible, why weren’t you in the Georgian Poetry book that came out two years ago?” and he said it was because he wouldn’t agree to do things with Mr Marsh, the editor of the book, unlike certain other people. Only he didn’t say “doing things”, Eva, he said something worse. I’m not saying what’ – in response to Eva’s questioning glance – ‘all I shall say is he used the most disgusting language I’ve ever heard. A docker would not dream of speaking like that.’ Her eyes glittered with contempt. ‘He may be pretty enough, but for heaven’s sake avoid him like the plague.’

  But when she made out the man Sybil was referring to, Eva exclaimed and drew in her breath. ‘That’s Mr Hunter!’

  ‘Mr Who?’

  Eva took another mouthful of wine. ‘Gabriel Hunter. He’s a friend of Mr Shandlin’s. Apparently he is very good at poetry.’

  ‘Good God,’ Sybil hit her forehead with the edge of her hand in frustration. ‘That man is not even here, and he still manages to ruin our evening. Eva, I’m really losing patience.’

  ‘You’re the one who mentioned him on the train. I never said a word about him.’

  ‘Only to exorcise the fellow from your head! I thought it might clear the air, but it seems I’ve dragged him here like a bad smell. The devil with him and his rotten friends!’ She set her empty wine glass on a nearby table with some vehemence. ‘Funny friendship, though, don’t you think? I’d say Shandy’s a good ten to fifteen years older than him. Anyway,’ she frowned, ‘how do you know him?’

  Eva felt herself blush as she dropped her voice. ‘Mr Shandlin wanted to give me a book, so I was at his rooms in town when Mr Hunter arrived—’

  ‘Stop.’ Sybil said, putting up her hand in disapproval. ‘I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t want to know. Good Lord, Eva.’

  Eva started to protest, but Sybil shook her head. ‘All I can say is, Mr Shandlin has no sense of propriety. Inviting a pupil to his rooms – he could have gravely compromised you, Eva! And more fool you for going.’

  Eva began a reply, but Sybil whirled around and fixed upon her such a glare that she immediately shut up and drank more wine. A few glasses later, as the band struck up ‘A Thousand Kisses’, she turned to look at the dancers, and her eyes met those of Gabriel Hunter himself, who had crossed the room to where she stood. Close up, he was even more handsome, but his mouth was twisted and Eva could see he was drunk. ‘You’re not as clever as you think you are,’ he spat. ‘I just want you to know I’m watching you. I know girls like you, you’re all on the make. All the intelligence of a superior housemaid without the accomplishments.’ Then he turned his back and walked off.

  Eva gaped. ‘I’m not as clever as I think I am?’ she repeated to herself. ‘What does that even mean?’

  A while later – the wine dulled Eva’s sense of time – Clive Faugharne loomed up, arm in arm with Sybil. Two facts emerged about him: he appeared to own half the Scottish Highlands, and he made bad jokes. Sybil laughed at them, quite loudly, possibly because of the first fact. Meanwhile Eva looked around for David Wentworth Hopkins in the manner of a drowning woman seeking a lifebelt, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Then it was the end, and Miss Hedges started rounding everyone up. They bade their goodbyes – well, Sybil did – and went out past the braziers into a clear, starry night.

  Apart from the encounter with Gabriel Hunter, what Eva remembered most was the throbbing, in iambic pentameter, of her head from the wine – da doom, da doom, da doom, da doom, da doom – and how it persisted as she rested her head on her hand while the train slowly creaked and swayed its way back to Eastbourne. She wondered what Mr Shandlin had said to Mr Hunter about her that had so provoked that man’s antagonism. Then again, it could not have been worse than the things he had said to her face.

  11

  7 April 1914

  Dear Eva,

  I write to you with painful urgency. Your presence is required immediately at home, so you will leave the school next week. Imelda is seriously ill, so much so that Mother is unable to cope. Furthermore, Miss Hedges has informed me that you helped another pupil to cheat. I telephoned Miss Hedges last week and we discussed the matter in some detail. Her tact and attention left me pleasantly surprised and I am assured of her co-operation.

  Eva, were you to read your bible, as Mother does, you might learn from the Gospel: ‘He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much: and he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.’ Read and mark, Eva – and pray hard for your own redemption. I can no longer advise you, since you have long since proved yourself too proud and headstrong to pay proper attention. I would say one thing: a finishing school is of no use if the material to be finished is shot through with irredeemable defects from the start.

  You are to take the 1.13 on Friday, and you will be met at London Bridge station.

  Father

  *

  Sybil was furious when Eva told her the news. She lit up a cigarette right in the middle of the common room and put her feet up on the table.

  ‘I don’t think you should do that,’ Eva said.

  ‘Do you think I care?’ Sybil cried, blowing out a huge, grey cloud. ‘Why is he doing this, anyway? What can you do for your sister? I don’t mean to be rude, but she needs a proper nurse, surely?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with Imelda.’ Eva folded her arms. ‘You have to understand about my family, Sybil. When my mother was still alive, Catherine – my stepmother – was our servant. Well, more my mother’s servant than ours but generally responsible for the house.’

  Sybil’s mouth dropped open and her burning cigarette fell to the floor. ‘Your father married his maid?’

  ‘Never mind that for the moment. I don’t actually care about Catherine being the maid. I care that she’s a vile excuse for a human being. After Mama died, Catherine started spending nights at the house, to keep an eye on us, or so we were told. It’s hard to recall: I was only five.’

  ‘Oh, Eva. I never knew.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is, Sybil, my family always does things for a reason, and the reason is always to do with Catherine, and with what she wants. And she doesn’t like me. When I got the opportunity to come to school here, and my stepsister Grace didn’t, I was on borrowed time. It’s a miracle I lasted this long.’

  ‘But Evie, this isn’t right.’ Sybil grasped her shoulders. ‘Something should be done.’

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone, Sybil. I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Come, sit down, sweetheart,’ Sybil said. ‘You look well reet shook, as my maid Mabel used to say when I had bad dreams.’ She frowned. ‘Could you try talking to Miss Hedges? Surely she’d understand?’

  ‘No. My father has already spoken to her, and they are in total accord. Besides, I think she’s gone off me,’ Eva said. ‘She used to invite me into her study and recommend Olive Schreiner to me in front of a nice roaring fire, but that stopped months ago. She hardly even greets me in the corridor these days.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Sybil said, adding, sotto voce, ‘I doubt that has anything to do with Olive Schreiner, whoever she is when she’s at home. I could tell you who it has to do with, but you wouldn’t thank me for it.’

  Eva put her fingers to her temples. A headache was tightening the bands of tension in her skull and leaving her mouth dry. She got up. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll walk around. Be alone for a while.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sybil said. ‘I’ll be here. Doing my own homework for a change.’

  Eva crossed the courtyard to the classrooms, dusty and abandoned for the evening, the light leaving a scrawl of dirty yellow across
the blackboards and desks. She stopped outside hers, slipped in and sat at her usual desk. She felt as if something round and heavy had settled in her chest, right in her heart. Every beat felt like an effort.

  She opened the lid of the desk. There the schoolbooks lay. Not hers: they had all only been on loan. The one book she had received as a genuine gift she had thrown out the window in a fit of rage. Except … there it was, just under the lid, right in front of her. Beneath School-Girl Days: A Memory Book and a small pamphlet of log tables, a damp spot still on the cover where it had met the flowerbed: Rupert Brooke, Poems. She picked the little volume up, and a loose sheet of notepaper fell out. The jerky, upright handwriting was as familiar to Eva as the static shock she always got when she touched the bedroom door handle at home. ‘I thought you would like this back. – CS’.

  She closed the lid again, put her head in her folded arms, and sat there without moving for a long time.

  Eva had little enough time to inform her classmates of her departure. They all expressed surprise, and even Rhona Lewis seemed genuinely sorry. ‘You were always an odd thing, Downey,’ she observed during a deportment class, ‘but you were beginning to make your way a bit.’ She tactfully did not mention her fellow students’ disapprobation at the very persistent rumours about Eva Downey and a certain teacher; Eva, with equal tact, did not mention that the book Rhona Lewis was trying to balance on her head was a recent edition of Anna Karenina.

  Miss Hautbois was particularly disappointed. Her cheeks, which even in repose moved down her face like sands in a delta covered by rivulets of wrinkles, dropped further, and her burgundy-painted lips vanished under the folds of flesh. ‘C’est dommage,’ she said softly. ‘You were getting on a little well with the German, too.’

  Eva shrugged. She could not help it; the Gallic mannerism was contagious. ‘I dare say I will never speak a word of the language again. I will probably forget it all.’