Sybil was no longer in the mood to be patient. ‘Eva, none of this makes any sense to me. Why did you do it? Why did you marry that man? When you loved somebody else, somebody who would have done anything for you? That day when I met old Shandlin and told him to go after you, he would have chased you to the ends of the earth – I could see it in his face. You could have got by, you and he. You could have stood up to your rotten family.’
Eva shook her head and laughed bitterly. ‘Catherine swore all along she would break me. And she broke me.’ Sybil looked at her questioningly. ‘She kept telling me that I should marry Mr Cronin, it was the right thing – the sensible thing – to do. On and on, like weaving a spell. Of course she knew I’d obey. After what I did to Christopher, I knew I deserved no better.’
Sybil’s throat tightened. The room felt heavy, as if bad magic had settled there and the fire would smoke out if she didn’t open the windows. When she next spoke, it was with emphasis. ‘What did you do to him, Eva?’ For a long moment, Eva just sobbed into her sleeve. Then she lifted her face and told her.
‘Oh, my God!’ Sybil clapped a hand to her mouth.
‘Grace thought he was a coward. She wouldn’t release the money for Imelda’s treatment unless I tried to force him to enlist. She made me choose – and I had to choose Imelda, don’t you see? I had to! What would you have done if it were Bo? You would have done the same as I did,’ Eva said, ‘and you know it.’
There was a polite tap on the door. God bless Wilson; that would be him with the sherry bottle. ‘Bring it in, please.’ Sybil’s voice quivered. Eva dabbed at her eyes and cheek with a grubby handkerchief. The door creaked open, and Wilson entered with a bottle in his hand. ‘An amontillado, my lady, from Lord Faugharne’s cellar.’ He kindly kept his gaze off either woman; years of service had taught him the art of directing his address to nobody in particular.
‘It’s alcohol, that’s the main consideration. Thank you, Wilson.’
‘My lady.’ He bowed perfunctorily and withdrew.
‘Right,’ Sybil said. ‘Now, Eva—’
But Eva was not there. Sybil went into the corridor, softly calling her name. Passing the open door of her bedroom, she thought she heard something. She stepped closer – and then withdrew, quietly closing the door behind her. The door to the water-closet was open, and she had heard the sound of vomiting. She did not want the servants to know that about Eva.
She went back to the drawing room and put her face in her hands. This sex business was all so horrible; when she was a child her father had as good as left her mother and carried on with some vaudeville trollop in town and Sybil had never forgotten the shouting and crying. Bo had been her rock then. And now for Eva to go through this! She herself was lucky: Clive’s few impositions on her person had been mercifully brief and unfluent, and he’d since had the decency to lose interest. Such a bloody, beastly, foul affair!
When Eva returned, a few minutes later, looking pale and shaken, Sybil had refilled her sherry glass. ‘If you want,’ she said at last, ‘I can find a name. Someone who can help you.’ At that moment, she felt nearly as sad as when she had opened and read the telegram about Bo. ‘You look absolutely fagged, Evie dear. Just this morning I was cursing Clive for being away at his windblown pile of rocks up in the Firth of Forth, but it’s turned out to be a blessing in disguise. You can have his room. I’ll ask Mrs Phillips to see to it straightaway.’
After Sybil had left for the Red Cross banquet, looking entrancing in the salmon-pink taffeta, Eva was left alone in the capacious bedroom, her battered holdall slumped on the floor. After her long journey, she felt lightheaded and shaky. But Sybil had promised help. Sybil was going to fix it for her. To know that she could hand over control … it was a deep relief.
She took off her shoes. Her stockings had sagged down to her ankles and smelt of sweat. She curled them up in a ball and stuffed them into one of the boots, then let her damp soles touch the carpet. It reminded her of wandering barefoot across the grass at The Links, and her certainty that she was protected and kept safe. She wanted to laugh aloud: how deceptive could sensations be? In her mind’s eye, like a Pathé reel, the faces soundlessly rolled past: Imelda after her session with Dr Fellowes, holding her chest, the sides of her mouth flecked with blood; Christopher blanching and turning on his heel, the feather floating out of his collar and vanishing with him down the street; then, over her supine body, her arms held down, the pale, long-cheeked look of Joseph Cronin. And with him came other memories: the damp spreading its rotten roots around the walls, her skin recoiling at the fungal bloom on the sheets, the gritty air that got into her throat and settled there, the sudden flowering of pain when Joseph—
‘No,’ she said aloud, putting her fingers on her eyes, ‘not now.’
She had interrupted Sybil at her bath, but Sybil had been kind enough to request another one for her, so she padded into the bathroom and hauled herself over the lip of the tub to bathe at her leisure. The water was warm rather than hot and Eva closed her eyes.
That night, she slept very deeply.
20
Three days later, at one o’clock, Eva was at the gates of Mile End Military Hospital, a carefully folded piece of embossed stationery from Sybil’s bureau in her hand. It bore only a name, which Eva by now knew by heart: Lucia Percival. ‘I heard she used to work for a Haitian woman who has a place in Beak Street. My friend Babs Fulton got herself into a right scrape a few months ago and apparently swore by this place,’ Sybil had told her. ‘She’ll want a hefty fee of course. This should be enough.’ Sybil shuddered involuntarily as she folded up the notes and put them in an envelope. She had really bitched Clive, going to the bank and withdrawing that amount. It was her account, but if there was nothing left to cover expenses for the month and barely enough for servants’ wages, she would have to tell him … especially after that taffeta! She bit her lip. ‘God, I hate this business. Eva, whatever transpires, please understand that I cannot be involved. It’s between you and her.’
‘I understand,’ Eva said, ‘and I’m truly grateful, Sybil.’
‘There’s no need for gratitude,’ Sybil answered. ‘I thought of what you said about choosing Bo … and it’s true, I would have done.’
Mile End Military Hospital had once been a workhouse, and Eva could see the building’s grim past in its functional brick and in the lines of its windows, high tower and relentless terrace. Sybil’s envelope felt like live ordnance in Eva’s pocket; never in her life had she carried so much cash. She hovered around the gates for a good ten minutes but nobody emerged. She would have to go in and find this Lucia woman herself.
She pushed the main doors open and immediately found herself in the middle of activity. Everywhere she looked, women floated and darted by, dressed in long tunics with white cummerbunds at the waist, grey blouses with upturned collars and white headscarves tied at the back. These, she guessed, were the Voluntary Aid Detachment girls. They seemed to be busy for the sake of busyness, rather than any useful purpose. One of them paused mid-drift, looked at Eva with some suspicion and said, ‘Yaaas?’
‘I’m looking for a Miss Percival.’
The girl shook her head. The implements on her tray rattled. Eva saw that it was loaded with used hypodermic syringes, surgical scissors and specula, stained dressings and sheets of cotton wool. ‘Not ringing a bell.’
‘Lucia. Lucia Percival.’
‘Oh, I think I know who you mean. Hang on a tick.’ The girl pulled a freckled, sandy-haired comrade to a halt. ‘Hallo, Fay! This girl’s looking for a Lucia Percival. Is that who I think it is?’
‘Lucia Percival? She’s on cleaning detail today. You’ll find her in the building next door, probably in the corridor. Right, then second left.’ Fay pointed out the double doors behind her.
‘Thank you very much,’ Eva said. ‘What does she look like?’
The first girl began to laugh. ‘You haven’t met her before, have you? She’s the only coloured gal in t
he hospital. And you’ll hear her before you see her, mark my words. Could you be a dear,’ she continued, ‘and take these over to room 4D on your way? The instruments need sterilising, and the rest …’ She smiled the sweet, assuming smile of those who know they are asking something outrageous and expect it to be done regardless. Eva, too long absent from polite society to feel confident objecting to her insolence, took the tray from her without comment.
The long corridor was punctuated by a series of doors. Her hands full, Eva had to push through each one. The tray’s contents smelt of iodine and stale blood, and, since it had no useful lip, she feared some of it would get on her hands. As yet there was no sign of Lucia Percival. Then one wall of the corridor became a series of high windows, and light broke in everywhere, betraying the worn pea-green linoleum with its collection of splashes and stains. At that moment, Eva heard a voice, high on the register, pure, doleful and perfect: ‘Happy birthday to me / Happy birthday to me / Happy birthday ’cause no one cares / Happy birthday to me.’ The singer was still a good way away, but Eva noticed that the white uniform contrasted with her light brown skin. Yes, Eva had heard her first.
Lucia was making heavy weather of the cleaning, moving the mop around in disillusioned, ever-slowing circles, plunging it into the bucket and lifting it out, allowing it to drip indiscriminately, then pausing to lean her chin on the mop handle and look out the window in some sad reverie. After a moment, she started singing again, sublimely, each Latin syllable as clear as a bell – and as piercing as a stab in the heart: ‘Confutatis, maledictis / Flammis acribus addictis / Voca me cum benedictis.’
Eva’s tray left her hands and fell to the ground with a crash, the dirty tools and flannels and cotton wool and tweezers scattering on the lino. Lucia broke off from her melody and stared at Eva. ‘Mi Gad … what is it?’
Eva could not speak. It was too much, his song from this stranger’s mouth. Why had she ever thought she could come back to London? Her eyes blurring, she turned tail and fled, an angry Jamaican voice calling after her, ‘Wa gwaan? What is wrong with you?’
Outside the hospital gates, a wet wind blew up. A couple of nurses followed Eva out, complaining loudly about the ineptitude of the VADs. Army trucks clattered past, all on their way to the front or to training camps.
Eva shivered convulsively. She felt an urge to vomit again and swallowed. She stuck her hands further into the muff she had borrowed from Sybil and laced her fingers together. Fool! She’d had one chance, and she had blown it—
A hand on her shoulder spun her round: Lucia. Close up, Eva saw that she was a good head taller than her and pretty to boot, with a high forehead, wide nose and a generous mouth that looked as if it had once known how to laugh. ‘Why did you run away?’ Her voice was clipped.
Eva felt that stone in her chest. ‘Your song. Someone else used to sing that. Someone … important. I was not prepared for it.’
‘And that is the excuse you have for running off and leaving the floor all covered with dressings and syringes and things? Did you think I was going to clean up after your mess? Because, a mi fi tell yu—’ She appeared about to reach a fortissimo of rage when she suddenly heaved a sigh. ‘Ah, forget it. I’m just tired is all.’
Eva felt ashamed of herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I’ll go back in – I’ll clean it up.’
‘Too late,’ Lucia said. ‘I got one of those birdbrained Tollington-Smythes to take care of it. They might as well be useful for something. Besides, I need a break. I’ve been up since five o’clock this morning, and I’m bunched I tell you! And …’ she refocused her gaze at Eva, ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘So. You know.’ Eva felt a wave of relief break over her. Good on Sybil for clearing the way. To have had to explain her predicament would have been a heavy task, given that they’d already got off to such a bad start. Lucia nodded. ‘It was made known to me that a lady fallen into adverse circumstances would be willing to furnish a not unreasonable sum of money if I could help make her problem magically disappear.’
Eva suspected that Lucia was enjoying the cloak-and-dagger drama of it all. But she had to set her right on one thing. ‘If by “fallen into adverse circumstances” you mean I shamed myself, I can assure you that is not the case. I was in Ireland—’
Lucia raised her palm to stop Eva. ‘I don’t want to know. Don’t want to fas inna yu business, understand? You tell me nothing, I know nothing; makes it easier all round. I don’t care if you were in Ireland or Timbuctoo—’
‘Oh, happy birthday, by the way,’ Eva cut in.
‘What?’
‘You were singing about it. That it was your birthday, and that nobody cared. Happy birthday.’
‘Oh. Thank you,’ Lucia replied, taken aback. ‘That’s mighty kind of you.’ Then she looked at Eva with mock reproach. ‘But you didn’t bake me a cake? Why no cake?’
‘I was too busy falling into adverse circumstances.’
‘Not much of an excuse,’ Lucia said, ‘but cha, it will have to do. Now, to business. You will come back here at seven o’clock on Friday. I cannot get out any earlier, and you should not go unescorted. We will go together to the place, and you will meet Mama Leela. She is an experienced midwife, but she also knows the other traditional ways.’ She frowned. ‘Mama Leela has done this many, many times, more than you would dare believe, but there is always the risk that you will die, or end up in prison. Do you understand what I am telling you?’
‘If I am not rid of this thing,’ Eva said, her voice cold, ‘my life is over in any case, and I shall never be free again.’
Lucia looked at her in horror and made the sign of the cross. ‘You frighten me more than the ge-rouge, when you speak like that.’
‘The …?’
‘Haitian devils. We don’t hold with such heathenism in Jamaica, mind, where I’m from.’
Eva nodded, bewildered with the turn of the conversation.
‘So,’ Lucia continued, returning to the subject, ‘you need to pay me now.’
‘Fine.’ Eva passed over the bulky envelope. Lucia counted the notes and frowned. ‘This is too much.’
‘There’s money for a cab fare. To … the place.’
Lucia shook her head. ‘You give it to the driver on the night.’ She handed Eva back five pounds and pocketed the rest in her vast white apron. ‘See you then – oh, wait. I don’t know your name, star.’
‘Eva.’
‘Eva,’ Lucia repeated, looking her up and down. Then, as Eva was turning back towards the main road to find her bus stop, ‘Cha, you look like you had one long fall from Paradise.’
*
On the Friday evening, punctually at seven, Eva was once again at the Mile End Hospital entrance, this time sitting in a motor cab. The driver had switched off his headlights, even though it was nowhere near curfew, and she had to urge him to turn them back on so that Lucia would be able to find them in the darkness. It began to rain, the droplets hovering like fine mist in the twin lights. She did not have long to wait: of all the figures walking in file out the gates, one scuttled, then broke into a run. Eva opened the door beside her, and a heavily raincoated Lucia slipped in, gasping.
‘I thought I’d never get out! I was changing the dressing on one man’s leg and he screamed the place down. Then he called for the sister, who is the most miserable bakra you ever did see, and—’
‘If you can tell the driver where we’re going?’ interrupted Eva, hoping she didn’t sound too abrupt.
‘Of course, sorry. Take us back down Whitechapel Road please, and keep going from there towards the National Gallery.’
‘Trafalgar Square, ma’am?’ asked the driver.
‘The very one! Thank you.’
Eva, a connoisseur of accents, noticed that Lucia kept hers neutral when addressing him. When they reached the National Gallery, the driver slowed down. ‘Where do I go from here, miss?’ he called through the hatch.
‘Here is just right. Thank you,’ Luci
a replied.
‘But—’ objected Eva.
‘I think it might be wiser to walk the rest of the way,’ Lucia hissed.
Eva had no choice but to comply. She paid the driver as Lucia had instructed and followed her up past Piccadilly Circus and on into the rabbit warren of streets around Soho. Lucia now walked confidently, gesturing from time to time to urge Eva to hurry up. Then they were there. The halt was so sudden after all that rapid walking.
Eva recognised the neighbourhood; why, the building stood barely ten minutes from Sybil’s house. They could have met in the street outside the address. Lucia took her down a flight of narrow stone steps to a basement door and rapped on it sharply in a particular rhythm that implied an agreed signal. The door was answered by a bespectacled woman with a round face and thinning hair under a white peaked cap. That and a white apron gave her the look of a nurse, but she wore no insignia. She and Lucia greeted each other. Was this Mama Leela?
It appeared not, for they were led into a room barely larger than a pantry and told to wait. Five deal chairs were arranged on either side, so close that their occupants’ knees would surely have touched. A few paraffin lamps burned on a high shelf, but the light they gave was fitful. Eva could barely make out Lucia’s face. In the background she could hear a faint tinkle-tinkle of a bell. The sound stopped and started with no apparent rhythm.
‘Just us,’ Lucia remarked. ‘There’ve been times when I worked here I had to turn people away.’ She tapped Eva’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, star. Mama Leela is a powerful woman. When she went to Haiti she worked with a mambo priestess called Celestina Simon, the daughter of the President himself!’
Eva had never heard of Celestina Simon, nor mambo, but just as she was about to enquire, the door opened again. This new person was a woman of about fifty with a wide, light brown face and sharp eyes. She pointed to Eva. ‘This she?’ Her voice had a stronger West Indian lilt than Lucia’s. This must be Mama Leela.
White Feathers Page 19
