Sybil had to stuff her knuckles in her mouth not to laugh out loud; she ended up snorting the laugh through her nose and sounding like a pig, which made Roma laugh too.
‘I don’t know what they’re doing, letting giggling society girls out on a dangerous mission like this,’ said Stephens primly.
As if in agreement, the sky in the distance lit up with a shell. Stephens braked violently, and half the cages lurched to the right. Behind the partition, the pigeons squawked with distress.
There’ll be enough white feathers in there, Sybil thought to herself, to shame a whole army of Shandlins. She had read in Eva’s letter the day before that Christopher Shandlin was still alive. She had not managed to answer it yet, because Eva’s little note of reticent joy had arrived at the same time as a far less welcome communication from Clive. Viscount Faugharne had written to tell Sybil that he wanted a divorce. Her licentious behaviour, abuse of his finances and refusal to perform the services ‘befitting a viscount’s wife’, whatever that meant, had decided him.
‘Since you have effectively deserted me for a bit of wartime spills and thrills,’ he wrote, ‘I cannot serve you papers. It would be too dangerous for my lawyers to chase after you. But I have instructed my man Markham to have our London property cleared of all your things.’
It was a poorly written screed, blots of ink everywhere. Clive liked writing even less than she did, that was for sure. But divorce was very hard for a woman to shake off. And ‘licentious behaviour’? She hadn’t put anything between her legs apart from the saddle of Roma’s bloody motorbike. Perhaps that was what Clive was talking about.
‘No great loss,’ she murmured aloud, just as the vehicle came to yet another shuddering halt.
‘What now?’ Roma asked Stephens, not hiding her irritation.
‘“What now” is that I have to point Percy at the porcelain,’ he said, closing the van door and disappearing around the side.
‘Vulgar fellow,’ Sybil muttered.
‘Sybil,’ Roma said, her eyes suddenly beseeching, ‘do you think—?’
They were interrupted by a WHEEEEE! then a dull thud and a sudden uprising of light on the road ahead. Carts, vans and horses scattered, people dashed about like ants.
Instinctively, Sybil grabbed Roma and flattened them both against the van seat, Roma grunting as her tailbone hit the gearbox.
After a few seconds, Sybil cautiously lifted her head.
‘Another one!’ cried Roma beneath her as a high note tore through the sky, descending in pitch.
So pretty, those shells, even when they were rending living things apart. And how warm Roma’s body beneath her: each thigh so solid, the sensation of breast meeting breast … and then another shell, right next to them. An explosion sucking all the air and sound, abrupt as a full stop.
‘Where the hell is Stephens?’ Sybil wondered. ‘I hope that last one didn’t get him.’
‘Do you really care?’ Roma was still beneath her, still warm, her breath tickling Sybil’s neck. Her eyes were a pure colour like that river in Switzerland before it meets the glacial stream near Lake Geneva. Sybil sighed and pulled herself up until she was kneeling on the seat. ‘I’d better go see he’s all right. Old Fritz seems to have taken a break for the moment.’
She did not see immediately, and then she did.
He … Major Arnold Stephens … was lying flat on his back several yards away from the van, his chest blown open by the shell, ragged ends of ribcage sticking up. A black space where his internal organs had been blown out, half the intestines remaining, half in a bloody mess around him. The entirety of his innards, from neck to groin, open to public view. His face just about left intact, though part of his left jawbone had gone.
Sybil had never before seen the kind of injuries from which there could definitely be no recovery. She struggled not to be sick. Her teeth were chattering in her head. ‘I’m not a society girl,’ she addressed the mangled corpse, somewhat hysterically. ‘I’m going to be divorced. So now you know.’
She called for Roma to fetch a blanket, or a covering of some sort. She did not try to shield the state of the man. Roma flinched only very briefly, a spasm of muscle at the corner of her mouth. Together, they dragged Stephens’ body off the road and laid it in the ditch and covered his face.
‘We’ll tell them at base,’ Roma said, ‘once we finish our mission.’
It began to rain, gentle drops pattering on the ground, then firmer. With the runnels of water spilling into the ditch, Sybil felt her own will to move drain away. ‘I don’t know if I can do it, Romy,’ she said, trembling.
‘Of course you can.’ Roma held out her hand, ‘Come.’
Sybil took it but didn’t move. She was crying hard. Roma stepped towards her, still holding her hand.
‘I just found out today: Clive’s divorcing me. And now this poor, boring man, dead like that when we were only speaking to him a minute ago. And this place is so muddy. And everyone’s so rude. I shouldn’t have come here. I hate the French. I hate the bloody French. Oh, Roma, what am I going to do?’
In an instant, Roma had her arms around Sybil’s neck, and before she could think twice about it, Sybil kissed her. She tasted of salt and blood and the bit of Fry’s chocolate Nevinson had given her that morning in Dunkirk. It was not a long kiss, but there was a flash of tongue, enough to seal intent. The rain fell on Sybil’s jacket and shoulders, and she pulled Roma in close for a long moment.
‘I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.’ Roma’s voice was, for once, ever so slightly shaky. ‘You’re going to get back in that van. And you’re going to drive us to Nieuwpoort. Those were Major Stephens’ orders. Now that he is dead, we must fulfil them.’
‘I just …’ Sybil could hardly speak properly for sudden happiness and fear. ‘I … what about the shells—’
‘For God’s sake,’ Roma said, kissing her again, ‘just drive, Sybil.’
28
Eva stood on the deck of the ferry that carried passengers across the Solent, the channel between Southampton and the Isle of Wight. It was raining quite heavily, and everyone else had gone below. She knew from the temperamental look of the sky that it was only a shower, so she did not mind the rain on her face and hair, battering her clothes. She wore no coat and carried no umbrella, not having thought to purchase either after disembarking from the difficult journey across the English Channel (they had been narrowly missed by a German torpedo) or on arrival in Southampton.
She had spent the night at a guesthouse in town but had left first thing that morning. She had not slept much. She was too excited.
The rain began to clear as the ferry neared Cowes, and the sun came out. It felt warm on Eva’s cheek, even on the ship, with the wind blowing. She pushed strands of wet, straight hair out of her face and licked the skin around her mouth. It tasted of rain, sweet and clean.
Cowes was pretty in the sun, dotted with little white sails where children and youths were taking part in a sailing regatta. It was strange to think of war ever touching such a place. And yet it had; when Eva disembarked, she saw that the streets and docks were full of men in uniform, men who looked lost and grim. A row of horse-drawn cabs waited near the ferry terminal. She got into the first one, drawing her wet shawl around her, hoisting her bag on her shoulder and clinging on to her small case until the handle slipped in her sweaty hand and the driver persuaded her to surrender it to the back, assuring her that it would be sent on ahead to the inn where she was lodging.
The driver knew where Osborne House was. East Cowes, just across the Medina river. The ‘floating bridge’ left every fifteen minutes. ‘I’ll just give him six shillings, ma’am, and all will be well.’ Handing over the fare, Eva tried not to think of Charon ferrying people to the Underworld, as the horse trooped straight up the wide ramp onto the ferry deck. The entire structure moved along two chains held fast to each bank. As the boat rolled along its predestined route, Eva thought of the chains that held her own heart fast and t
hat were pulling her across as surely as the actual ones.
They disembarked, still sitting in the carriage, and drove off. The road took them through East Cowes then out by the cliff. Eventually a pale yellow edifice with two towers, fussily crenellated parapets and many windows loomed up.
‘Osborne House.’ But Eva recognised it immediately.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ the driver blurted as he helped her out and set her down on the ground, as if she were a light thing.
She looked up at him. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
He shook his head. ‘A lady like you, in a place like that. On your own.’
‘I’m visiting someone.’ Eva’s tone was sharp. So what if he was offended; he was not the first man to have spoken to her patronisingly on this journey. They treated her so differently when she was out of uniform!
‘Well, if you’re sure you’re safe.’
‘I am sure.’
‘I’ll say goodbye then. Good luck.’ He seemed reluctant to leave, even after she somewhat sternly pressed a coin into his palm, but he drove off eventually.
The walk up the driveway was a long one. Eva was entranced by the series of split-level ornamental gardens, fountains with black stone statues and walkways on which men in blue pyjama tunics walked – or, closer to the truth, shambled and paced with ungainly steps. Eva tried not to stare at them, disturbed by their stiffness. They jerked like wooden dolls pulled about by some gleeful puppet master, oblivious to the beauty of the gardens that stretched back all the way almost to the Solent.
Closer to the house, Eva was distracted from its grim Italianate beauty by a commotion in the garden. A group of men in uniform were standing around a patient who had just risen from a bench, and one of the men was shouting at him and waving his fist. The shouting man was about forty-five years of age, good-looking, with a bristling moustache and a shock of brown hair under his blue hat, which was emblazoned with the red sash that indicated high rank, possibly brigadier.
As for the man he was taunting, he was, by contrast, quite wretched, his complexion sallow and wrinkled, and he had an odd posture, one of his legs quivering, his shoulders jumping, his entire body contracted into a comma of fear. He held his fists up to his cheeks and cowered. As a man he was quite finished. Eva was appalled to see the military men bully him – and what happened next shocked her to the core.
The brigadier reached out and pinched the patient’s cheek, pulling the flesh with his thumb and forefinger. He laughed, or rather emitted a series of parcelled barks; his men all chuckled with him. The nervous man squealed and tried to put his arms over his face. But his tormentor only laughed more, shoving his arms away from his face, slapping him on both cheeks, pinching him again. His victim cried out in anguish and slithered to the ground, curling up in a ball and rocking back and forth, making an awful, high-pitched sound. The brigadier kicked him, just the once; then one of his companions followed suit, with a thin giggle.
‘Stop!’ Eva cried out, her voice strong and deep, strange to her. ‘Leave him alone.’
The men turned around. She could see the surprise on their faces, that a young woman would challenge them. The leader looked up at her briefly and – there was no other way to describe it – dismissed her. A glance, a flick of the wrist, perhaps a little toss of his head. She was not worth speaking to. But it was more fundamental than that. His was a glance that could make people no longer exist. Eva knew in her heart that he would not hesitate to hit her. He was a woman-hater; she could see that instantly. But she had had enough of men in authority putting her down. Roy had put her through a lifetime of it.
Before she could say anything, a flock of nurses materialised and protectively surrounded the shell-shocked patient, comforting him. This was evidently an affront to the brigadier’s pride. He proceeded to harangue them at length, using language Eva had never heard from a high-ranking army man. They saluted and apologised, hands nervously bouncing off their foreheads while still trying to care for the poor fellow he had insulted.
Eva shuddered and increased her pace to a brisk stride. It was the wrong time to get into such a business. She was there for one reason only.
A woman in a nurse’s uniform with a few pips on the pocket was coming towards her, also briskly. Eva waved to get her attention, and the nurse approached with a wide, fixed smile, making a point of ignoring the ranting official, his fawning retinue and even his victim.
‘Hello, sister. I’m Eva Downey. I’m here to meet Lance Corporal Christopher Shandlin.’
The nurse’s face brightened. ‘Oh, yes, I know that gentleman. He mentioned you. Do follow me in, Miss Downey, I’ll let him know you’re here.’
She followed the nurse inside to a vast parlour. The high ceilings were supported by slim Greek-style pillars of striated marble, and the curtains and sofa were made of the same sumptuous gold-coloured fabric. In the middle of the room stood a round coffee table with gold detailing around the side. A fire burned in the grate, which was made of a marble darker than that on the pillars, and a chandelier with far too many glass pieces for comfort hung from the ceiling.
‘They’re not all like this, the rooms,’ the nurse smiled. ‘We’ve kept this one for visitors. Unfortunately, some of the men get bad episodes, and having fragile items lying around … well, you know. You make yourself comfortable. You might have to wait for tea or coffee, I’m afraid – we’re a bit low on hot water with that lot coming in.’
‘Oh, that’s fine,’ Eva said. ‘Thank you. By the way’ – as the nurse was turning to leave – ‘who were those men outside?’
The nurse looked nonplussed. ‘Which ones?’
‘The ones who were pinching that patient’s cheeks. One of them wore a cap with a blazon.’
‘Oh, there’s a crew over from RAMC headquarters today, doing assessments. Brigadier McCrum is out in the garden measuring our fellows up. There’s a medical board convening on Monday next. McCrum takes a special interest in such things. He’ll be the one you mean.’ A spasm of revulsion had crossed her face when she mentioned his name.
Measuring up, yes, that is one way of putting it, Eva thought.
‘He has a fine appetite, or so they say, a great advocate of physical and mental health. Not got much time for “weakness of character”, as he calls it. They’ll be wanting soup and a bit of lamb for lunch, so I’d better make sure they’re ready down in the kitchen. But first,’ the nurse said, ‘I’ll find your friend.’ She smiled and went out, leaving Eva alone.
Although she had done her utmost to dress nicely for this visit, Eva still felt awkward sitting down on the sofa, beside a fire that did not even begin to warm the enormous room. She thought of the man rocking on the ground. She knew shell shock, had seen the ‘thousand-yard stare’ from returning troops far too many times. But the fear in that man’s eyes, his abjection in the face of McCrum’s contumely – she had not seen that before, not even in Étaples.
And was Christopher like them? She had read his letters. They had seemed sane enough. But who knew? Was this what she had done to him? She shivered with guilt, a shiver that went through her body from her head to her legs and broke out a sweat on her skin. For a moment, she struggled with the urge to flee. But before she could, the door opened again, slightly more hesitantly, and all thoughts of flight disappeared.
She saw immediately that it was him. Older, paler, leaning to one side a little, but definitely him. She rose to her feet. Neither of them said anything. He had aged, no doubt about it, a lot in two years. The military barber had got hold of his fine dark hair and had given him a shorter cut, which made the grey more prominent at the sides. One of his temples was covered by nothing more than stubble, the line of shaving rough and irregular. Eva wondered how the barber could have been so careless. His cheeks were more hollow than before, making his eyes look large.
Those eyes, that now rested on her to the exclusion of all else. Those eyes showed awareness, not like the other men’s eyes, not that fr
ightening blankness. That was something, at least. Also, he was wearing something resembling an ordinary suit, a crumpled shirt with a loose collar and a red neckerchief. Not like those ghosts in their hospital blues. Perhaps he was all right.
Heaven knows what she looked like to him. A sight, probably, her hair a mess from drying in the open air, and her skin chapped from the wind.
‘Eva,’ he said. ‘Hello.’ He seemed not to know what to do with himself, whether to move forward or to stay where he was. He bunched his hands into fists and suddenly twitched in one eye, swallowing immediately afterwards. His face was working. For a moment she feared he was as fragile as that chandelier and that her presence was an India-rubber ball, about to bounce loose and smash everything.
Then he recovered. With a huge internal effort, or so it seemed to Eva, he collected himself, walked into the room and held out his hands, grasping both of hers briefly before letting them go. She could almost fool herself into thinking the first impression a dream, he seemed so urbane. She wanted to cry, seeing him like this and, well, just seeing him, full stop. ‘It’s good to see you, Christopher,’ she whispered.
‘It’s good to see you too,’ he murmured in reply. Then he cried out with what seemed a false joviality, ‘Sit down, won’t you? Tell me about your war. Tea’s on the way, though you might have to wait a while. I gather you were already forewarned of that.’
‘I don’t mind.’
They sat down on the long sofa, facing each other, about two feet apart. As out of place as Eva had felt sitting there by herself, he looked even more ill at ease, his fingers tracing the pattern on the upholstery. Then he rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. As he lit up, she recoiled at the sight of his hands. The cuticles on all his fingers had their skin pulled … no, ripped off, and sores clustered all around his fingernails, which were bitten down way past the quick. Furthermore, on the knuckles of each hand he bore deep, crescent-shaped cuts that had healed but left a trace of a red line across them. He must have inflicted those cuts on himself, with his fingernails, or, good God, maybe even a penknife. Some of them looked too deep and angry to be the work of fingernails. Her heart turned over, but she tried her best to look bright, indifferent.
White Feathers Page 26
