White Feathers

by Susan Lanigan

  ‘And your wife?’ I asked him.

  Cronin only shook his head. His composure was starting to come apart, like threads on a loom unravelling, the warp and weft of his face at terrible odds.

  ‘Come now,’ the orderly said gently, ‘it’s time.’

  Cronin nodded at him and extended his hand to mine. ‘Thank you, Father.’ I clasped his hand and moved to embrace him but he recoiled and backed away. I followed him out to where the firing party was waiting, by a walled orchard untouched by the vagaries of war. We – that is, Fenton, the guards, a medical officer and I – made our way there, in the wake of the firing party and their prisoner. I thanked God those lads were ahead of me, that I would not have to see their faces.

  We assembled as detailed. Cronin was led to a spot in front of the wall, which was high enough for a firing squad to do its duty unseen. The medical officer, a dapper little chap with a curt-looking moustache, stood by, a pistol in hand. It was his job to declare Cronin dead and to finish him off if he were not.

  As you know, Albert, there is a point of separation between the living and the dead. When you are following a dying person to his end, to a certain extent you walk with him, you feel with him, you could be him. I was with him in spirit when they tied his hands and blindfolded him as he requested. It was a terrible sight, that trembling mouth on an eyeless face, but I forced myself to keep my spirit with him. I was with him even as the firing squad raised their rifles into position. But the moment the NCO dropped his sword, before the first bullet was fired, I abandoned Joseph Cronin and became a spectator. When the bullets rang out and what had been Joseph Cronin became a blood-ridden, sagging bag, I was already detached from him. I did not want to – could not – share that awful privacy of a public death. By the time the MO had dispatched one neat little bullet into his brain – a redundant exercise – I no longer trembled, for he was no longer human. That I had held his hands and consoled him no longer mattered. He no longer existed, and I did, fully, rudely, vitally. And I wanted my breakfast.

  This is my confession, Albert. That I shepherded that man to an improper death. ‘Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren …’ And what did I do for him? Private Cronin was a poor soldier, and a weak man. But what we did to him that morning was inhuman, Albert, and I am diminished by my part in it. His face does not leave my mind, even when I am asleep. My sacraments seem very hollow now. I beg God will grant me the forgiveness I withhold from myself. Please answer soon.

  Your (saddened, and much humbled) brother in Christ,

  Samuel Knapp

  19

  12 November 1915

  ‘Well, Syb,’ the bonneted, leather-clad figure called out as she let the engine idle, ‘what do you think?’

  Sybil, Lady Faugharne, had been looking the wrong way down Gower Street when a quick, impatient toot sounded behind her. There, framed by the gateway of the Slade School of Fine Art, sat her friend Roma Feilding on the saddle of, if Sybil was not mistaken (and her experience with the Spitfire Motorcycle Club told her she was not), the latest Scott model, 550 cc, with a suspiciously empty sidecar. ‘I think you expect me to get into that thing,’ Sybil responded, ‘and I’d really rather take a cab.’

  Roma, not a woman flamboyant in her emotions, allowed herself a small smile. ‘I think you could live a little.’

  Sybil shot a look to high heaven but ran over to the sidecar and attempted to open the tiny door and climb in without making too much of an exhibition of herself.

  ‘You’re making heavy weather of that,’ Roma observed. ‘Here, let me help.’ She held Sybil’s elbow to steady her as she edged in one leg, then the other, aided by a delicate nudge from Roma on her calf.

  It was a warm day for November, the mercury reaching fifty-five, and Sybil could feel the sweat prickle on her skin where Roma had pressed her leg. Tucking her brown, broadcloth coat into the confined, vibrating space took some doing, and there was no room for her legs to stretch. Her knees poked up over the front rim, all attempts to cover them with her coat ending in failure. ‘Is this decent?’ she enquired, with some alarm.

  Roma laughed. ‘You do surprise me, Sybil.’ Then, ‘I have a bonnet for you.’

  ‘I’m not wearing one of those things, Romy, old chum. I already feel like a baby in a perambulator.’

  Roma shrugged and released the brake. Crossing the road, they headed down Grafton Way and soon emerged halfway down Tottenham Court Road. Sybil could not help but notice a few people staring as Roma manoeuvred them into the middle of traffic for a right turn; it was uncommon enough to see one woman on a motorcycle, let alone two. But the breeze was up, it was a pleasant day, and it was nice to zip past everyone else while still being close enough to the ground to see them all milling about, crossing the street, going about their business. She was overjoyed when Roma, instead of continuing through the junction, took a left turn onto Marylebone Road. We’re going through the park! she thought happily, just as the first drops of rain began to strike her cheek. Roma quickly turned her head to check that Sybil was all right to keep going; then, seeing that this was the case, she continued on through the park, skirting the lake.

  At twenty-five, she was a little older than Sybil, unmarried in spite of her good looks, of impeccable connections and more economical with words than anyone Sybil had ever met. Not from shyness – no, not Roma – but from a natural, well-bred disinclination towards speaking unless either spoken to or unless she had knowledge of the subject at hand. To Sybil, whose husband rabbited on about anything that came into his head, larding it with commonplace and uninformed opinions, Roma’s restraint was a gift, and her words, when they arrived, were even more treasured – particularly if they were ones of praise.

  Sybil had met Roma in September, when they were both serving with the Women’s Reserve Ambulance. They were detailed to the same vehicle during a zeppelin raid. Sybil, the driver on that occasion, would never forget the silence in the ambulance cab; the eerie swing of the searchlights up into the night sky and over the Thames; that ineluctable thing in the sky, launching mayhem and murder from its serene vantage point, still and pendulous as the harvest moon, its bombs sucking all the sound out of the air as window blinds flapped and went limp.

  By the time they reached Farringdon Road, where the worst of the damage had occurred, the survivors had already been evacuated; they were left to haul the corpses in on stretchers and deposit them at the morgue in St Bart’s down the road. Neither said a word for a long time, until Sybil exclaimed, ‘I hope that beastly Hun gets what’s coming to him … What are you doing? Are you taking notes?’

  Roma was jotting down shorthand characters in a notebook on her knee, when the movement of the ambulance and the light allowed. She turned around and said simply, ‘Always.’ She was filing copy, it turned out, for The Hendon Advertiser, where she had a job writing captions for the gossip columns’ photos. When Sybil enquired what the wilful burning and killing of civilians might have to do with society gossip, Roma stayed as cool as a cucumber, replying that one only needed a foot in the door: a woman would always be given a role of little consequence, and it was up to her to turn it into something more meaningful.

  Roma was Dot Feilding’s cousin, a fact that impressed itself upon Sybil since Dot – more properly, Lady Dorothie – was one of only four women chosen to join Dr Hector Munro’s Ambulance Corps, which was out at the front in Belgium. Sybil had applied and had been rejected; the Women’s Reserve Ambulance had been some small compensation.

  After a jaunt of twenty-five minutes or so, the motorcycle and sidecar pulled up outside Sybil’s London flat in Great Cumberland Place. It was difficult to believe, looking at the magnificent sweep of the terraced crescent, a rainbow breaking out behind, that London was into its second year of war. Sybil exited the sidecar with as little dignity as she had entered it; Roma waved and drove off. She had taken Sybil around as a favour only: now she had to go to work, and Sybil had a
Red Cross benefit dinner to attend. Clive would not be going with her; he was up in Scotland again.

  She rarely saw him during the week anyway, since his employment at the Ministry of Munitions as a ‘key worker’ required long hours – or so he claimed. His father’s old pal Sir Laming Worthington-Evans had got him that cushy little number. The white-feather nutters wouldn’t bother him, not with his ‘King and Country’ badge.

  She was quite happy to go to the benefit dinner alone. She had thought to invite Roma, but something had stopped her. In the three months of their acquaintance, Sybil had never invited Roma anywhere. She felt like it would be an imposition to presume that someone so intelligent, so poised, would be interested in her company. At the thought of the two of them walking into the banquet hall together, Roma’s dark head at her shoulder … Sybil felt a riot of emotions she could not quite process.

  ‘Pish and tush,’ she told herself as she crossed the long, brilliantly lit entrance hall with its panels, mirrors and Turkish carpets. At each recessed point stood an ornamental desk or a fake Queen Anne curio cabinet containing crystal goblets and silver trophies. The decoration was not to Sybil’s taste, but since she and Clive only leased a flat upstairs and the building’s owners were not disposed to clear out their own furniture, she just had to put up with it. ‘Pish and tush’, maybe, but as she passed each mirror and checked her reflection, she could not help but imagine Roma, with that dark hair of hers, thick and evenly parted, standing beside her.

  In her bedroom, Jennifer, her new maid, took off Sybil’s crumpled coat and unfastened the back of her day dress. ‘I’ve laid out your dress here, milady,’ she said. On the bedspread lay a salmon-pink silk taffeta that had caught Sybil’s eye the previous week when browsing at Lucile Ltd. She liked that the colour clashed with her own hair, a combination that offended and worked at the same time. And the fabric was a far cry from the functional serge she had to wear when she was called out to drive around London when the air raids came. ‘Perfect,’ Sybil breathed, as if the dress were a newborn child presented for its mother’s first inspection.

  In the confines of her room, the heavy, floral curtains drawn against the advancing twilight, the scent of lavender from the open bathroom door making its gentle way onto her underclothes and skin, atrocity, toil and blood seemed far away.

  ‘And your bath, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  Jennifer unlaced Sybil’s corset, and her high, small breasts dipped slightly with the relief of freedom. The whalebone left weals on her pale skin. There was some dirt on her stocking, probably from climbing into that damned sidecar. Now she was as naked as the day she was born and unabashed with it. She picked up a satin robe and made for the bath. The water was just a bit hotter than comfortable – the way Sybil liked it – and the fumes from the lavender and Epsom salts served as those special, extra felicities that made taking a bath so enjoyable. She was barely immersed when she heard a commotion outside the door. Her maid reappeared, looking flustered. ‘What is it, Jenny? Is someone looking for me?’

  ‘Er no, milady, nothing to worry about. Wilson told ’er you were not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Her? Who is it?’ Had Roma decided to skip work that afternoon after all?

  ‘She says she knows you, milady, said she would wait.’ Jenny sounded dubious. ‘She didn’t look as the type of person who’d know you, if you ask me. A Miss Eva Downey.’

  ‘Eva? Here?’ Sybil rose from the bath in one fluent movement, violently displacing the water. She dried herself with a towel and picked up her robe. She had not heard from Eva since last Christmas. A flurry of letters – then nothing. At the time Sybil had been offended rather than alarmed; that was until May, when Miss Hedges sent around her Annual Past Pupils’ Bulletin. Sybil had looked for news of her friend, and in the marriages column read of the betrothal of Miss Eva Downey of Stepney, London, and Mr Joseph Cronin of Birdhill, County Tipperary, Ireland. She had nearly dropped the magazine in shock. What on earth? Eva hated that man! She had told Sybil so, and more than once. Where in God’s name was Shandlin? What had he to say about all this? He was surely not a man to back down so easily; she would never forget the look on his face when she challenged him as to whether he was a man or a mouse. Miss Hedges’ handmade, demure little volume offered no information on Shandlin’s whereabouts; indeed, it said nothing about him at all. Enquiries to Mr and Mrs Downey were sent back with ‘Return to Sender’ written on them in round, childish handwriting, and Sybil had eventually given up on ever hearing from Eva again.

  So it was odd indeed to see her, wearing black from head to toe and sitting in the hall, on a velveteen tuffet the colour of a cut blood orange, her hands tucked between her knees, her head barely lifting when a hastily dressed Sybil dashed down those vast, echoing steps, nearly noiseless in her slippers. When she did meet Sybil’s eye, the look on her face was terrible to behold. Her hair was lank on either side, her eyes dull, as if someone had smeared a viscous, opaque substance across them. Beside her slumped a stained blue holdall with tortoiseshell handles. My God, Sybil thought, what has happened to that girl?

  Then Eva spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Syb. I really am. I had nowhere else to turn.’ Startled by her own voice as it echoed around the hall, she whispered, ‘I need your help.’

  Sybil kept her tone light. ‘Come upstairs and tell me all about it. I’ll ring for tea. You look utterly napoo, as the Tommies say.’

  ‘I’ve not slept in two days.’

  Sybil ushered her upstairs and into the drawing room and called on the scullery maid to refresh the grate and on Wilson, the butler, to bring up tea and madeleines. She noticed that Eva stiffened to attention when she rang the bell, seeming primed to obey the orders herself. She looked out of place, Sybil thought, her confidence, her finishing, all of it gone.

  When Wilson brought up the refreshments, Eva sipped gingerly at the tea but Sybil had only to turn her head a brief moment for three of the little cakes to disappear with indecent haste. When did she last eat? ‘It’s good to see you again,’ Sybil ventured, trying to sound bright but only succeeding in sounding false.

  ‘How is Bo?’ Eva asked nervously. She has not forgotten her manners, then. That’s something.

  ‘We lost him at Neuve-Chapelle, I’m afraid.’ How often had she recited that sentence? It felt unreal sometimes, as if Bo were away at school and would soon be home.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Syb,’ Eva said gently. ‘He was very good to me.’

  ‘Well,’ Sybil’s voice wavered. ‘It all seems like such a long time ago, doesn’t it? The dress, the dance … it was all another world, really. Like the most wonderful club – and now we’ve been kicked out for ever. Membership revoked.’

  The two sat in silence for a moment. A log in the fire fell over and sparks let loose. Sybil waited: Roma had taught her the value of patience. Finally, Eva said, ‘I dare say you heard that I married.’

  ‘Yes. I saw it in Miss Hedges’ bulletin. And not to Shandy! What happened, Evie? I wrote and wrote and – nothing. You just disappeared.’ At the mention of Christopher’s name, Eva closed her eyes for one moment, which soon lengthened into several. Sybil realised that she was not ready to talk about him yet.

  Then Eva came out with it: ‘Sybil, I need money. I’m sorry to have to ask. I approached my family yesterday, but they turned me away.’

  ‘Of course, sweetheart. That’s—’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Eva interrupted her. ‘I mean a lot of money.’

  ‘A lot? What for?’

  When Eva answered, it was as if her voice had retreated deep inside her chest. ‘I’ve fallen for a baby, and I can’t keep it. I need an abortion.’

  ‘Your husband …?’

  ‘Lost at Loos. He came to see me on his last leave. You needn’t say sorry, because I’m not.’

  ‘But if you felt that way, when he was home … why did you agree …?’

  ‘Agreement didn’t come into it.’ Eva’s voice was hars
h as knives on gravel.

  ‘Right.’ Sybil rose to her feet. ‘I need something stronger than tea for this.’ She rang the bell again, and, in due time, two small glasses of sherry were set on the tray before them. The amber liquid shone as it caught the light of the fire. Sybil took a good sip; Eva left hers untouched, though she did take another cake.

  ‘Heavens,’ Sybil said, ‘it’s a lot to take in. It really is. When was he home on leave?’ When Eva told her, she counted on her fingers. ‘Oh, good Lord. You don’t make it easy on yourself, do you? Evie, listen, I do want to help, but you’re right, it’s a lot of money to take out at short notice. I’d have to square it with Clive somehow. And it’s such a beastly business, I can’t … I say, have you been on to the War Office? Are you not entitled to a pension?’

  Eva made the face of someone who had had cod-liver oil forced down her throat. ‘Not for being married to a man who’s been shot for desertion, no.’

  ‘What?’ Sybil exclaimed. ‘You mean they shot him? Good God, forget the glass, I’m going to need the bottle for this. Wilson!’ She rang the bell until it nearly broke. ‘More where that came from, in a jiffy! Now, what happened? When did you find out?’

  ‘He refused to fall in for the attack, and they banged him up in Saint-Omer. I got the standard postcard from the War Office when he was court-martialled and shot. They don’t do telegrams for cowards; we’ve to wait for the regular post. Then they sent me some effects. Nothing of any monetary value.’ She drew her knees close. ‘At least he’s dead. I never pushed him into enlisting, but I wasn’t sorry when he did go, and I’m glad he never came back.’

  ‘Eva, that’s a wicked thing to say. Take it back.’

  ‘I shan’t,’ Eva said, ‘and what’s more, even if I had a pension and all, I’d still be looking to kill the thing.’ She punched her abdomen with rage. ‘I hate it. I don’t want anything belonging to him inside me.’

  ‘Eva, for God’s sake, stop it! Stop it!’ Sybil crossed the room and pulled Eva’s fists away. ‘I won’t let you do this to yourself. Now, drink this – that’s an order.’ Eva hesitantly lifted the glass to her lips and did as she was told. Her eyes were wet with tears, and she was shaking.