White Feathers

by Susan Lanigan

  ‘What’s—?’ began Eva.

  ‘No move without loss,’ Mackenzie and Lucia replied in unison.

  ‘It’s a Hun word,’ Mackenzie noted, ‘but a bloody good one.’

  ‘It is,’ Eva said, ‘though my situation is the exact opposite. I have nothing to lose at all.’

  Lucia smiled. ‘That’s the spirit. Now, you gwaan write that letter or what?’ Her voice grew more melodious as it became more insistent. ‘You can bring it straight to me, and I will give it marks out of ten for style, substance and execution.’ She rubbed her hands. ‘I am looking forward to this!’

  ‘You’ll be sorry. Ten to one she’ll sing the bloody thing, and do a theme and variations on it,’ sighed Mackenzie.

  First draft

  Dear Mr Shandlin,

  I know it has been some time since you heard from me, and the last time being in the most injurious circumstances, which continue to haunt me and for which I must apologise again and again—

  After reading that section aloud in front of Eva, Lucia proceeded no further but ripped the paper in two, then four, throwing the torn pieces into the bin, alongside bloody dressings and empty iodine bottles. ‘You can’t write that!’ she declared.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, for a start, whatever it was you had your big bangarang about, why remind him of it right up the top? If it’s big enough to keep you apart this long, it’s not something you can discuss in a letter when you haven’t spoken to him in a long time.’

  Eva was impressed by Lucia’s sagacity but was still not quite convinced. ‘I need to apologise. I need to explain.’

  ‘You need to do neither,’ Lucia said firmly. ‘And what’s with this labba-labba, this “Mr Shandlin” nonsense? You loved this Christopher man. And he loved you too, so you say. Why are you insulting him by making him sound like some sort of acquaintance? That is a four out of ten. Nah, I am being generous. Make it three.’

  Eva laughed weakly. ‘God, you sound just like him. He was forever at me to call him by his first name.’ She fiddled with her pen for a while, then said, ‘I know you’re right, but I need to start at the beginning. I can’t just presume intimacy—’ She blushed fiery red, mortified with shame. ‘All right,’ she conceded, ‘I’ll try again.’

  Second draft

  Dear Christopher,

  Well, greetings! I expect you were surprised to see my name on the envelope. I am in France at present and there’s lots of fun going on here with battles and whatnot! But I digress. I hope you are well and was wondering how you felt about meeting some time—

  Eva threw that one away herself before Lucia could get to it. But Lucia, as vigilant as any company commander, retrieved it from the wastebasket. ‘Just to make sure,’ she said. After a few moments, she nodded and threw it back in. ‘Right decision.’

  ‘Do I get a score?’

  ‘No, because I’m not cruel.’

  Eva put her head in her hands. ‘Why is this so hard?’

  ‘Because it’s important, star.’

  ‘I’d be better off not writing anything at all. This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, regret it for the rest of your life if you want to. It make no difference to me.’

  Fifth draft

  24 July 1916

  Dear Christopher,

  I hope you are well. I know it has been a while since we last spoke. I am now working as a Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse in France and have been here since May. As you can imagine it has been very busy here recently. I understand you were busy too.

  Your friend Mr Hunter was here. He is now a captain. He was injured in battle, gassed and shot, but he should make a full recovery.

  I learnt that you have been allowed some indefinite leave home. I have some leave in two weeks’ time. Should you wish me to visit you, I would be glad to. However, I understand if you would prefer to draw a line under your past.

  Yours affectionately,

  Eva Downey

  ‘Hmmm,’ Lucia said, and then again, ‘hmmm.’

  ‘What do you mean, “hmmm”?’

  ‘I mean, that looks all right. The fourth version had too much poetry in it. I couldn’t let that one go out.’

  ‘But the one before that wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘It was too long,’ Lucia said, ‘and full of things that weren’t relevant. Put a stamp on that one and make sure the Censor gives it ten out of ten.’

  ‘The Censor can’t be as bad as you.’

  Lucia shrugged, palms upwards. ‘You’ll thank me, mark my words.’

  26

  Two days later, Breedagh sailed into the Alwyn hut, holding a letter. ‘This arrived for you, Downey.’

  Eva grabbed it, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t open the envelope properly. She pulled off the top and, in her haste, ripped some of the page before taking it out and unfolding it. She scanned it for a moment or two before throwing it on the bed in disgust.

  ‘What’s the face on you about?’ Breedagh asked as a watermarked page floated to the floor.

  ‘Do you know what, Breedagh?’ Eva said. ‘Why don’t I read it out to you since you’re so damned nosey?’ She picked the letter up again and started rattling it off in a sing-song, angry voice. ‘“Dear Eva, I have just learnt of your whereabouts via Miss Stewart. We have had a baby girl. Her name is Dolly. We should be delighted if you called on us when you are next in London. We should not be estranged any longer; I know you had reason to grieve, but so did I. It is time to stop this foolishness. Yr affec. sister, Grace Fellowes. P.S. I have learnt some disturbing news that I think you should hear from me in person. Please write back with return of post.”’

  For a minute, Eva was silent. ‘“Foolishness”,’ she said eventually, in a monotone that could have cut glass. ‘That’s what she thinks it is. She destroys my life and calls it that.’

  Breedagh opened her mouth to start her usual enfilade of arguments defending the unity of the family, but Eva crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it at her. Breedagh bounced upright with indignation. ‘I’ll not tolerate such disrespect!’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Eva retorted. ‘No, really.’ She pulled her D. H. Lawrence novel out of her bag and chucked it on Breedagh’s bed. ‘Here’s that book you keep trying to read over my shoulder. Have it.’ Then she went out. She wasn’t going to hang around to hear Breedagh surreptitiously turning the pages to the dirty bits.

  When she arrived on duty, Doyle bounded over immediately. ‘Downey. Need you now. Attempted suicide.’ He provided a clipped, grim summary. A private in the Munster Fusiliers had learnt that his fiancée in Cork loved someone else and had shot himself in the head with his CO’s revolver.

  For three days, the man continued to live, but his eyes were not the eyes of a living man. The bullet had gone clean through the brain, causing such damage that he was incapable of moving his limbs. Still able to speak freely, if without sense, he repeatedly called out his fiancée’s name, in a low, mournful almost-song: Mary, Mary, Mary. Hearing the toneless voice, seeing those horrific blank eyes, distressed Eva more than any physical wound ever could. It was cruel to keep him alive, inhuman! And yet that was what they were trained to do.

  Finally, one night, somebody forgot to stanch his wound, which reopened, causing him to bleed to death. The matron summoned everyone for a lecture, but her heart was not in it. His face waxy and cool, he had a glazed peace about him, unlike the restless, half-conscious stare that had so haunted Eva as she tried but failed to avoid his sightless gaze.

  All that night her sleep was broken. Between snatches of slumber, she looked up at the ceiling in the half-light. All she had to do was step outside the door and she would see stars. Her hands joined in the beginning of a prayer – then fell back by her sides. She could not find the words to address God and was wondering, for the first time, if He really existed.

  The dead private was washed and taken to the cemetery. No need to mention the suicide. He had survived three days without food and
water in a shell hole with some of his company. Let him die with an honourable record.

  That day, Eva got a letter.

  This time, there could be no doubt. The writing on the envelope was the same definite, spiky hand that had scribbled on the margins of her exercise book. The postmark was Cowes, on the Isle of Wight. The shock of seeing his writing nearly undid her. She walked out without telling anyone where she was going and once more sought out Lucia.

  ‘Him, is it?’ Lucia took the letter from Eva’s hands with a sigh that poorly disguised her glee. ‘I s’pose you want me to read it.’

  Eva nodded.

  ‘All … rightie.’ Lucia filleted the envelope with a scalpel – Eva hoped she had disinfected it – and took out just one page.

  ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ Eva fretted, hovering.

  ‘That was all that was in the envelope,’ Lucia said simply. Then she started reading, and laughed softly. ‘Well, he is a faasty one, your fellow, that I can say for sure.’

  ‘What does it say?’ It was all Eva could do not to jump up and down with impatience.

  ‘It says, “Dear – question mark – I must say I am most surprised to hear from you.” No signature or nothing.’

  ‘What?’ Eva said. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes indeed. That’s it. Here, see for yourself.’ Lucia handed her back the page.

  Eva shook her head in puzzlement and irritation. ‘But what does that mean?’

  Lucia closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Are you a half-eedjiat or what? Only one way to find out, nuh? Stop asking yourself twenty questions and answer his letter.’

  30 July 1916

  Dear Christopher,

  I understand that my letter has surprised you. There is much I need to explain. But the decision to hear me is entirely yours, and I leave it in your hands. I am free to correspond or not correspond as you wish.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eva Downey

  31 July 1916

  Dear Miss Downey,

  Many thanks for your letter and subsequent clarification. It is good to hear from you and to know that you are profitably engaged by the Great War Machine.

  I have recently been released home on leave from Puchevillers casualty clearing station, where I was for the past few months. I don’t know if Hunter mentioned to you that I originally enlisted as stretcher-bearer for the 6th Brigade, 2nd London Division (that’s one of the Territorials), but, given the tendency of entire divisions to get eaten for breakfast around there, I floated round and about in almost mercenary fashion, getting an entirely undeserved promotion somewhere along the line.

  I am still only a lance corporal, however, which is rather infra dig. in the circles of your former schoolmates, I would imagine, who would never settle for anything less than a major. Puchevillers is not far from where you are, maybe seventy miles. It is strange to think you were that close to me then. In the midst of this nightmare, people from the old life have never seemed further away.

  I was also in service during the engagement at Loos. Although I was stationed quite far behind the lines, there were several occasions that had me up at the front. They are not pleasant to recall.

  In the end, they sent me home because I was getting a little bit twitchy. The constant droning soprano of eighteen-inch shells detonating around his head will do that to a fellow, unfortunately.

  I am allowed day leave so if you do wish to visit, it would be advisable to let me know well in advance, as spontaneity is out the window, I am afraid.

  Yours affec.,

  Christopher Shandlin

  P.S. A little bird told me that you had married. However, you are still using your maiden name. I am curious to know the reason for this?

  God, it was good to hear from him. Eva read the letter again and again. She now had blissful privacy at the hut, since Breedagh had angrily requested a transfer, leaving the Lawrence novel on Eva’s bed. (Eva noticed that the pages were well thumbed, particularly at certain parts of the narrative involving sex.) Her replacement was a stocky girl from Liverpool, too busy writing to her ‘best boy’ to care what Eva was up to. But even if Breedagh had been there, Eva was too happy to care. He had asked about her marriage. He was curious about that. Why would he care, unless …?

  ‘Oh, mi Gad, girl,’ Lucia said, losing patience. ‘Just ask for the leave and tell him you’re coming. Look: he wants to see you. He has said it plain as black ink! He’s got the shakes, nuh? If you leave it too long, he might take fright and say “no” again.’

  1 August 1916

  Dear Christopher,

  Thank you for your kind response to my letter and willingness to see me. I am sorry about the nervous shock. I hope you will soon recover. I have two weeks’ leave starting Saturday, 16 September, so should reach England on the same day if the crossings and weather are favourable.

  I am happy to clear up the mystery of my name. Last year, a marriage was arranged between myself and a Mr Cronin, a friend of my stepmother’s. However, he enlisted in the 2nd Irish Guards and died while the battle at Loos was in progress – the very battle you mention being involved with yourself. On his death I immediately returned to England from Ireland and enlisted in the Voluntary Aid Detachment. I saw no reason to keep my married name, which I only held very briefly.

  I heard that Kitchener died when his boat got torpedoed by a German submarine. You must have been grieved to hear the news.

  Your friend,

  Eva

  2 August 1916

  My dear Eva,

  I was grieved indeed to hear of the loss of Kitchener. So grieved that I dropped the stretcher I was carrying and undertook an elaborate funereal ritual known to less knowledgeable men as a ‘dance’. I think the man on the stretcher survived, but it is all a bit of a blur.

  ‘No reason to keep your married name’? Could you elaborate on that rather gnomic statement?

  I am enjoying some poems by a chap called Isaac Rosenberg. I think he is going to be important. Here, what do you think of this?

  O! ancient crimson curse!

  Corrode, consume.

  Give back this universe

  Its pristine bloom.

  Looks like he might take the baton from the late, lamented Mr Brooke. Poor old Rupert. I expect you’ve long mislaid that book in the trials of war, etc.

  Regards, C.

  3 August 1916

  No, I never mislaid it. I keep it right here beside me and always have.

  Eva

  4 August 1916

  Glad to hear it. Even if the poems are (on reflection) criminally naive and I made an error of judgement in recommending them to you.

  See you soon.

  P.S. You still haven’t answered my question.

  27

  ‘You wanted to see what it was like,’ Roma said. ‘Well, here it is.’

  ‘Heavens,’ Sybil said, shocked, ‘there’s not even a blade of grass.’

  She was right: no grass, nor any leaves on the trees, which were barely trees at all, merely stumps. No life, not even the song of a bird. Swathes of land churned, dead, bleak, like the surface of the moon seen through a telescope, full of craters and holes. Barbed wire on sticks, stretching on for miles and miles. The light hitting colourless land, and the tormented, broken ground absorbing it all.

  They were approaching the front line.

  ‘Shall I close the window?’ Roma said. She was sitting on the right-hand passenger seat.

  ‘Oh, do!’ said Sybil heartily. ‘It stinks.’

  Roma only shuddered in reply and wound up the window. The overlying odours were cordite, cresol, ammonia, sewage. But the underlying odour was death, on a mass scale. It hit their nostrils and nearly burned them out it was so rank. Even with the windows closed, Sybil couldn’t stop coughing.

  ‘Can you keep quiet, please?’ snapped Major Arnold Stephens from behind the wheel. ‘I’m trying to drive a van full of ruddy pigeons here.’ As if to corroborate his irritation, some of the birds s
et to squawking. Stephens had been charged with conveying an assignment of messenger pigeons from Lieutenant Colonel Osman in the Home Office to the front line at Nieuwpoort. Osman was a notorious pigeon-fancier, and his idée fixe about employing pigeons in the war effort had begun to pay off, with officers noting approvingly that the little buggers appeared impervious to mustard gas and were not hampered in carrying messages by the shelling of communication trenches.

  Although Sybil and Roma rarely went on driving missions, and most of these involved the transportation of the sick and wounded from various requisitioned chateaux around the area to safety at Dunkirk and beyond, they had been roped in to help with unloading the cages. Their vehicle was a supply truck, painted in camouflage, to which was attached a van the size of a wagon, and on top of that again the cages of pigeons. The whole thing looked like a top-heavy, triple-decker bus.

  Apart from the pleasant diversion of having Roma’s leg smack bang next to hers (Sybil was no longer under any illusion as to what drove her to follow this girl wherever she went), the journey was a little frightening, and very tedious. The van moved at an excruciatingly slow speed and had already stopped several times. The major insisted that neither Sybil nor Roma be involved in fixing any of the mechanical problems – that was men’s work. ‘Men’s work’ had got them the fifteen miles from Dunkirk to the Belgian border – in just over three hours.

  Further, Major Stephens’ conversation was as constant as it was dull. He shared details of his occupation as an artillery observer that nobody had requested. It was all to do with calculations and indirect fire and something called an azimuth, which sounded to Sybil like nothing more than an angel of Satan. As he droned on, Roma nudged her, and Sybil looked down at the seemingly disorganised cluster of notes on her lap. She had written: ‘His MO appears to be a Battery of Boredom: from it, he will fire six-inch howitzer shells of Pure Monotony, followed by a rapid machine-gun fire of Interminable Facts until the Germans will scream for mercy – anything, anything but to have to listen to this man for a moment longer!’