White Feathers

by Susan Lanigan

  Imelda Downey was by no means a hopeless case; he had established that there was involvement in the left lung only. She obeyed all his instructions and took her medication regularly. It was just … there was something about the rest of her family that troubled Fellowes. Especially Miss Downey’s younger sister Grace, her neck bending forward, black ringlets falling close enough to her full lips that she could take one in her teeth and bite it … Fellowes calmed himself. These moods always came upon him when he was tired. She was a tease, that Miss Grace Downey, forever going on about that army captain she was seeing while letting her fingers steal to the edge of her lace neckline as if beckoning him to untie the demure line of tiny buttons just below it.

  And the mother. Always in the background, hands folded at her waist, watching the pretty daughter like a hawk. Something about her didn’t fit. The profession he had chosen and which he loved so little had taught Fellowes the art of listening well, both to what was said and what was not, and there was something missing in the story of this family, though he was damned if he knew what it was.

  Hendricks stopped the car and came around to open the door. The night air hit him with the full force of a wet slap. He began coughing as Hendricks silently handed him his bag. ‘Sometimes I think you would be better at my job than I, Hendricks,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Quite so, sir.’ Hendricks’ agreement came rather too readily for Fellowes’ taste.

  Inside the house, the lights were on and everyone was awake. This was common enough, he remembered. Miss Grace had once disparagingly remarked, ‘When she’s up, we’re all up.’ Fellowes had not chided her: it was obvious she was fagged out, and he knew only too well how much noise and disturbance consumptives made during a bad spell. She could be pardoned for not having infinite reserves of compassion.

  When he was led into Miss Imelda’s room, Grace smiled at him with an incline of her head, just so; seated at the bed beside her was a girl he did not recognise, heavier and fairer, in an unflattering grey cloth bathrobe, holding Imelda’s hand and looking daggers at everyone else. To Fellowes she made no acknowledgement or introduction. Imelda herself was grey-faced, her head lolling back on the pillow; flecks of dried blood still dotting her lips. She set those grey-blue, still eyes of hers on him and, too tired to speak, mouthed an apology.

  ‘I need to examine you now, Miss Downey,’ Fellowes said. This was the cue for everyone else to leave the room, but this new girl was not for moving. She guarded a tumbler of water on the bedside table and a cloth lying alongside it; when Fellowes moved towards his patient, her interposing hand and gaze blocked him. Then it became clear to him that they were sisters; indeed, this girl looked a lot more like Imelda than did Grace. They both had the same eyes.

  ‘Eva, it’s all right,’ Imelda managed from the pillow.

  ‘Are you sure, darling?’

  ‘Yes. Dr Fellowes has done this many times before.’

  Eva stood up. ‘If you need anything, I’ll be just outside. I shan’t be further than the door.’

  Imelda nodded weakly, and her sister left. The examination was straightforward enough. She was not coy: she presented her bare chest as if it were the front page of that day’s Times. She did not protest at Fellowes’ ministrations. Consumptives were sometimes like that, benignly indifferent. Or they would go too far the other way, pawing at him, hectic and flushed, even reaching up to kiss him, the sweet-sour tinge of blood on their breath making him recoil. Imelda Downey was not one of those.

  When he was finished, he told her he would speak to both her parents. The father was a surly fellow with an Irish accent, though Fellowes was not too concerned about that as long as he wrote his cheque at the end of each visit. Dashed if he was going to get up and do a house call for nothing, especially when he had been just about to go to bed.

  ‘Is everything as usual, doctor?’ Imelda asked politely. It was the first thing she had said to him since he had started his examination.

  ‘Yes, Miss Downey,’ he said, ‘everything is as usual.’

  As he listed off the usual remedies she should take if she had a ‘bronchial relapse’, he had an uncomfortable feeling that Eva was listening to every word from behind the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ Imelda said; then, ‘If that changes, can you let me know?’

  He stopped, touched by her directness. ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for you to be anxious at present.’

  As he suspected, when he opened the door, Eva – Miss Eva, he corrected himself – was standing barely a foot away. She had not bothered to dress in the meantime, nor were her manners any more prepossessing. She gave him the briefest of nods as he passed her in the corridor and continued downstairs to the parlour at the front where Catherine and Grace were waiting.

  ‘Sit down, do, doctor,’ Catherine soothed, pointing at an armchair. ‘Mr Downey will be here in just a minute.’

  ‘And – er – the other Miss Downey?’

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Catherine made a face, her small mouth creased into her chin. Grace said, ‘Oh, Princess Eva. Don’t mind her, Dr Fellowes. She’s in a chafing mood at the moment. She might turn up, and, then again, she might not.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Fellowes said, feeling the unpleasant sensation of being drawn into other people’s concerns when he’d rather be drawn into the arms of a nice girl, a warm bed and a bottle of whisky.

  ‘She is supposed to be at a grand school, but Imelda got sick, so they called her back.’

  ‘Grace. Hold your tongue,’ Catherine said, in a voice so sour it would have curdled a delivery van of milk. Grace was pursing her lips in preparation for a reply – rather pleasingly, Fellowes couldn’t help observing – when Mr Downey entered the room. Now he had arrived, Fellowes could begin. He explained to them that Imelda needed to travel to Switzerland for an operation. The air was cold and dry up in the Alps, and the chances of recovery were much higher. She would undergo a procedure of plombage, that was to say, the induced collapsing and sealing of the cavities in her left lung by means of insertion of mineral oil and several acrylic balls. (Catherine hiccupped in horror.) These would be held fast in her chest and would serve to close the infected area, avoiding the spread to other areas.

  ‘And this would be in the left lung only?’ Roy asked.

  ‘One could do similar with the right lung, for prevention’s sake, but I think it might be dangerous to insert so much weight into the chest. I know the surgeon there, Dr Behrens, has a modified version of the standard operation which is less invasive in every way.’

  Catherine looked at Fellowes, her eyes tiny and dead as raisins. ‘And would that be expensive?’

  ‘Mother,’ Grace said reprovingly, then to the doctor, ‘We want what’s best for Imelda. My mother is simply anxious that we do not have the funds to bring her to Switzerland at this time. Of course, I could surrender part of my dowry for the purpose—’ She lowered her head and half looked up at Fellowes with a coy smile.

  ‘Ye won’t do that! Ye’ll not be givin’ up yer dowry for anyone,’ her mother blurted out. For a moment Fellowes was taken aback, but the tightness of Grace’s breasts against that high-collared outfit she was wearing distracted him so much he was unable to marshal any sort of reply to Mrs Downey’s intemperate remark. Little Irish minx! He felt certain she was keeping him in reserve in case things didn’t work out with the captain. He decided to be blunt.

  ‘Miss Imelda has consumption. For a young woman in her condition, there are not many options. I would advise you to act quickly.’ He suppressed a belch.

  Roy silently handed him an envelope. Fellowes immediately opened it and surveyed the cheque. He wouldn’t put it past these people to see him undercharged. Still, Grace was rather lovely – that pert little smile … To his consternation he found himself becoming aroused. Hastily he stuffed the cheque in his pocket, then gathered up his bag, bid the Downeys goodnight and went to shake awake Hendricks, who was snoring loudly and loyally in the front
seat of the car.

  One window upstairs was still lit, the curtains open. Fellowes looked up and saw a figure in the window, standing still as a mannequin. It was Eva. She had not left Imelda’s room since he had gone downstairs. For some reason, as he shut the passenger door and allowed Hendricks to drive him back to Highbury, he found himself repressing a shudder.

  Dr Fellowes had recommended sun and light, so Imelda spent the next few days sitting on the daybed by the dining-room window at the back of the house. Eva was never far from her side. At that moment, she was sitting at the dining table, Woodhouse’s English–Greek Dictionary flat on the table, page marked with a Cox’s orange pippin. She was declining Ancient Greek nouns: Eleutheriá, eleutherián, eleutheriás …

  The dining room was the most pleasant of the house, receiving all the afternoon and evening sunlight. Its only problem for a convalescent was that the sunlight inspired all the motes of dust on the bookshelves, ornaments and drinks cabinet to come out and dance, and Eva had to summon Nelly to open the windows to stop Imelda coughing. On a clear day like this, the air from outside was dry enough to bring some succour to Imelda’s besieged lungs. Her breathing was quiet enough that day that Eva forgot she was there, until she spoke.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  Eva turned around, startled at the interruption. ‘What does what mean?’

  ‘That word you keep whispering.’

  ‘Eleutheriá – it means “freedom”.’ Eva picked up the apple and took a bite. ‘Escape.’ There was a silence. Imelda had never said as much, but Eva knew she was displeased at being declared the reason why Eva had to return home. Eva had allowed too much yearning to creep into her words, Greek and English alike.

  She took another bite. The flesh was soft and limp, crumbling in her mouth, its flavour so prim and lifeless it was almost pearish. It had been too long in the fruit bowl. The fruit bowl had been too long in the sun. Nothing moved around here and nothing changed.

  ‘It’s Greek, isn’t it? Are you enjoying it?’ Imelda asked.

  ‘I’m finding it hard going, actually,’ Eva swallowed down her apple. ‘I’m not used to the characters and diacritics. And I have until next March …’ Eva stopped abruptly.

  ‘Next March for what? Oh, Evie, are you off on another adventure without telling anyone?’ Imelda looked at her sister, her brows furrowed with worry. ‘You know what happened the last time.’

  Nobody in the family ever discussed what Catherine had done to Eva three years ago, after the night of the Census, but it hung in the air between them.

  ‘The last time,’ Eva said, her voice as cold as the sudden breeze that came in the open window, sending goose pimples rippling across Imelda’s bare forearm, ‘I didn’t fight back.’

  ‘Oh, Evie,’ Imelda said with a sigh, ‘I’m frightened they’ll put you out on the street, truly I am. You need not offend Mother so much.’

  ‘It offends me when you call her that,’ Eva said tightly.

  Imelda put her book down on the daybed, spine up. ‘Eva, you have to accept the way things are. Why, I’d rather be up and about and healthy, not sick all the time. Pretending I’m happy with how it is.’

  Eva did not answer. Imelda persisted. ‘Whatever this plan is – it’s what the Greek is all about, isn’t it? And those university extension lectures you’ve signed up for?’

  ‘When I was at school,’ Eva answered slowly, ‘I was encouraged to try for a scholarship to Somerville College in Oxford.’

  ‘Oxford? Really? Whose idea was that?’

  ‘My teacher’s.’ Eva tried to sound neutral. ‘Mr Shandlin. I mentioned him.’

  ‘Yes, I recall.’ Imelda was all attention now. ‘You more than mentioned him, Eva. You spoke about him a lot.’

  ‘Well, what of it? We—’

  ‘I’ve never heard you take on so about any other male person—’

  ‘The sex difference does not come into it,’ Eva started indignantly, but Imelda was not deterred.

  ‘You were all about him. Then, suddenly, nothing. You talk about Sybil and her dances, and German lessons, and the Lord knows what, but since you came home, not a word about Mr Shandlin. Did you never reconcile with him after that argument?’

  ‘We reconciled,’ Eva said, after a brief pause, ‘but we haven’t been in communication. I wrote to him once and got no response.’

  ‘I see. Yet you follow his commands faithfully enough.’

  There was such pity in Imelda’s tone that Eva could not look her in the eye and instead feigned a burning interest in short a-stem feminine nouns. This was interrupted when Grace barged in shortly afterwards, declaring that the place was freezing and would somebody please close the window immediately, and they would have to all turf themselves out soon because Alec – ‘that’s “Captain Featherstone” to you’ – was coming after lunch. ‘Oh, and Eva,’ she added, ‘Father wants you. Something to do with a David Wentworth Hopkins.’

  13

  Three days later, Mr Hopkins was sitting exactly where Imelda had been. Eva regarded him from the other end of the seat: in the light of day, he looked younger and paler than at the dance. His fairish hair, parted at the dead centre, was only betrayed in its stiffness by a cowlick, which, unlike Gabriel Hunter’s, was slicked down with hair oil.

  He had telephoned her father after receiving her details from Miss Hedges. Eva was gratified that he had gone to that much trouble but annoyed that he had asked Papa first rather than approaching her. When she ventured as much, he replied, ‘I thought it would be proper.’ He delivered these words with his back rigid; Eva had never seen anyone sit up so straight. Every time he did move, she got a blast of the Everlast cologne he had presumably splashed on his smooth cheeks that morning.

  He was nineteen, a relative of the Parmenter family, well known in Kent and Sussex. Eva got the distinct impression that his relationship with them was distant enough and that he needed the connection to boost his own fortunes. He had been a pupil at Marlborough but hadn’t managed to get sent up to Oxford so was now learning the ropes of the family business, coal mining in Wiltshire. All this information he delivered in a manner that implied he was serving an amuse-bouche before continuing to the meal proper. When he made a point of particular importance, his body would move forward and sideways, his knee brushing against hers. Then he drew a thick manila envelope onto his lap and started talking about writing poetry. Eva pretended not to notice the envelope or the segue, instead mentioning that she had just finished reading Tolstoy’s novella, The Death of Ivan Ilyich. However, like Rhona Lewis, Mr Hopkins – ‘David, please! I insist’ – was largely unfamiliar with Tolstoy, finding his books ‘too blasted long, really’.

  ‘Ivan Ilyich isn’t that long—’ Eva began, but he wasn’t listening and soon cut across her. The envelope wobbled on his lap as he talked about sonnets – ‘You do know, Miss Downey, that a sonnet is fourteen lines with an ABAB rhyming scheme?’ Eva assured him that she did. Then he finally got to his point: since she had mentioned it (she had not) he had a few in his folder; would she care to have a look? (‘Why, that would be lovely.’) He cleared his throat and started reading one out to her.

  It was the longest half hour of Eva’s life. No ‘you’ intruded where a ‘thou’ would do, no ‘field’ where a ‘knoll’ could do the job, and the only place for the longed-for heroine to linger was, of course, in a ‘bower’, with rambling roses climbing up the trellis. Eva was climbing the walls. And she had a headache.

  Grace came in, having forgotten something, and Eva fervently hoped she would be as rude as usual, but, for once, on seeing Eva and David, she meekly excused herself and left again. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Grace had never been nice, it was the one reliable thing about her, so why did she have to start now? Meanwhile, David was tapping her on the elbow. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ she asked him.

  ‘I said’ – with some heat – ‘would it please you to take a walk with me through some nearby pleasant greenery?’ At Eva’s
blank look, he snapped, ‘I mean outside!’

  They walked in the warm June evening: one parentally sanctioned circuit around the greenery-free square. David waved off clouds of midges and invited Eva to tell him about herself. When she informed him that her mother had died young, he patted her arm and said, ‘Should be it appropriate after such a length of time to express my condolences, please consider them offered.’ This rather awkward sympathy softened Eva a little, and she explained that she had left school prematurely to care for her sister. So she was dutiful in addition to being well read. ‘Quite remarkable!’ Then David continued, ‘You are probably wondering why I wanted to see you again. It was your interest in poetry. And your responses to my poems, so informed! You must have been excellently tutored.’

  ‘I was,’ Eva said, not trusting herself to say any more.

  Then for a brief moment he went off the subject of poetry, confessing his desire – should God in His mercy allow it – to become an army officer and win a Military Cross for bravery.

  ‘You are hoping for – I mean, expecting – a war?’

  He took her hand in such a tight grip it nearly hurt. ‘If there’s a war, and I fight, it is for you and all English womenfolk, to preserve your safety.’

  ‘I’m Irish by birth.’

  ‘I’d overlook that,’ he said hurriedly, ‘considering everything else. Would you deny yourself my support?’

  How quickly ‘English womenfolk’ had devolved to Eva herself, and the Empire’s army to one rather gauche boy. ‘You mean,’ Eva said, ‘you would protect me?’ Mr Shandlin’s words echoed in her mind: Use your head, not your heart. Stay clear-sighted.

  ‘Yes, of course I would.’ David relaxed his grip and took her hand more gently. His palm felt soft and damp against her fingers as they walked back down to Eva’s house. At a judicious distance, he dropped his hand, but said in a low voice, ‘May I call on you again, Eva?’