“My brother, Edward. He served with him, you see. And Eddie came back from the war with a letter. For you, from Frank.”
“A letter?” Lilian was staring at Evelyn now, as though she was trying to comprehend the words.
“Yes.”
“But the war ended eight years ago. Why would you only bring it now?” Lilian’s tone was suspicious suddenly. “And why you and not this brother of yours?”
Resentment rose in Evelyn’s heart at the implication that Edward had done something wrong in not sending the letter before now, the hint of mistrust in Lilian’s voice. She wanted to defend her brother, defend her own sense of loss. “Eddie came back, but he was shell-shocked—you must know what that can mean. He’s barely spoken since he came home. He struggles to let us know what he wants, what he thinks, or to do anything at all, really. It took him a huge effort to make me understand what he wanted, when he asked me to do this. I can’t say why he waited until now…I’m sorry.”
Lilian’s face softened again. She reached out a hand and touched Evelyn’s. “No, I’m sorry. That must have been hard for you.” There were tears in Lilian’s eyes. “The war was so ghastly, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Evelyn replied. For a moment they were lost in mutual remembrance. “Do you want to see the letter?”
“You better come in.” Lilian stepped back from the door, and Evelyn passed into the hallway.
Chapter Three
“Sometimes I think of emigrating,” Jos Singleton declared, taking a sip of her scotch and running a hand through her untidy short black hair. She looked across the table at her friend Courtney Craig. “America is a place of opportunity isn’t it?”
Courtney smiled indulgently, red-painted lips parting to reveal white teeth. “Depends on the opportunity you’re looking for, Jos, darling. I prefer London to New York when it comes down to it.” The accent of her home city, across the Atlantic, made this a surprising conclusion in many ways. Courtney’s beaded dress shimmered in the electric lights of the cafe bar. She would be at home in any big, bright city, Jos suspected.
“Ah, but that’s because I’m here,” interjected the third woman at the table. Courtney’s long-term partner in love and life, Clara Bridgford, reached out and wrapped a shirtsleeved arm around her lover’s shoulders, smiling broadly. Courtney rubbed a delicate hand over Clara’s brown-trousered thigh. Jos watched their easy affection with something like envy.
“There is that, of course. But Jos here is asking my advice about emigration, dear, and I don’t think she’s in love with you too.” Courtney smiled sweetly.
“I don’t see how she could resist. You couldn’t,” Clara said, with a wink at Courtney.
“It’s a chore, Clara, I’m sure, but I manage.” Jos smiled, shaking her head slightly. It would undoubtedly be hard to leave her friends, if she really were to leave the country. She did not really relish the idea of starting anew in an unfamiliar place. Her friends were, in many ways, the anchors which stopped her drifting aimlessly.
“What’s responsible for this sudden wanderlust, then?” Clara asked. “You didn’t mention this when we dined together last week.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought of it last week.” Jos sipped more scotch, almost wishing she’d not started the conversation. She’d been feeling lonely and a little low-spirited, and afternoon drinks with two of her most beloved friends had seemed like a good idea, but now she wished she’d stayed in her flat and enjoyed her scotch with no need for conversation or musing on her future.
“We’re not having that, and you know it.” This was Courtney. “You’re always the same, Jos, darling—you start to tell us how you feel and then back out of it. Well this is important. We don’t want to lose you.”
“I don’t suppose I’m really going anywhere. I’m in London for the whole of pantomime season at least. And it’s not really wanderlust, more a sense of having rather exhausted all there is for me here.”
“But you’d hate to leave us,” Courtney said, “and you’d miss Vernon too.”
Jos nodded her acknowledgement of this. “Yes, I would. Although my dear brother is making rather a good fist of being a small-business owner, I have to say. I never knew he had it in him.”
“But he was born to be the perfect host,” Clara said.
“I know, it’s more that I didn’t expect he could keep his own accounts or manage his staff. He surprises me daily. I don’t feel like I need to look after him any more, really.” Jos missed the feeling of being responsible for her brother. She was pleased to see his increasing success, but it was odd to see him building a life while hers just ticked along, day by day.
“Now, now, Vernon will always need a chaperone. To save him from himself, of course.” Clara rolled her eyes. “He’s making some questionable choices these days.”
“I don’t interfere in his affairs and he stays away from mine.” Jos shrugged. She did not necessarily approve of the string of women Vernon had seduced, but she could hardly claim a more decent track record. “And I’m happy he’s keeping himself entertained. You know it was hard for both of us for a while.” She thought of the dark days after their parents’ death, when the war had seemed likely never to end. Of the scars on her leg, which still ached on cold days. Vernon had coped remarkably well on the surface of things, but she remembered his sleepless nights and slide into self-destructive hedonism when given a chance. In many ways, it had been her feelings of responsibility for him that had arrested her own spiralling into drink and despair. She had been the one to talk him into starting a business of his own, of pursuing his love of socialising and music to start a jazz club. There was no point, she told him, in taking the sensible and safe option. Life had to be lived, its pleasures pursued. And now he was leaving her behind. Not that he was aware of how she felt. She didn’t like to share feelings that would be a burden on him. Not on anyone.
“Well, you don’t live just for Vernon, do you now? What do you really want, Jos? For yourself?” Clara was looking at her in earnest.
Jos tried to shy away from the question. “Could you even answer that question yourself, Clara? Either of you? If I asked you what you really, truly want?”
Clara looked thoughtful. “I suppose not entirely. But I have an idea. I want Courtney by my side, a circle of friends who know me deeply, enough money to live the life I’ve chosen, and to never be bored.”
“And I want to be with Clara, to visit my parents only sporadically, to never put on any weight, and to have reason to smile for at least half of every day.”
Jos looked evenly at Clara and Courtney. However many jokes they made, being with each other was the essence of what each wanted. She didn’t have that. But could she claim it was a woman she wanted? Not really. Perhaps. “It’s easy for you two. You have each other. I honestly don’t really know what I want. To be happy, I suppose. I just don’t know how to find it. I never intended to stay in London, you know.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, it’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed in the theatre. Opportunity to travel the country, or even the world. I didn’t want to feel tied down to one place.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“Perhaps because sometimes it feels as though the world comes to London so I don’t need to go anywhere.”
“Well that’s awfully lazy, darling.”
Jos felt a stirring of resentment at Courtney’s words. She wasn’t lazy, she was scared, and she knew it all too well. Scared to live life. Scared to leave London in case something terrible happened while she was off pursuing that elusive happiness. Sometimes it felt as though the fear was so consuming that it paralysed her. Scotch was one of the solutions, but she knew it was not a wise or helpful one, in the long run.
“I’m not lazy. I just haven’t really found my direction yet, I suppose. It was so clear, once upon a time, when I knew I wanted to be on the stage, to act, whatever my parents thought of that ambition. But, lately, it’s be
en rather blurred. I just thought moving elsewhere might, well, sharpen things a little.”
Clara reached across and rested a hand on her arm. “You know, Jos, you don’t need to actively search it out. I know that’s what everyone in London’s doing now, tearing about on a madcap treasure hunt for happiness and passion and something so bright it eclipses everything that went before it. But that’s not you, my dear. Be yourself and happiness might just find you.”
“I’ve been trying though, Clara, these seven years at least,” Jos protested. “A fresh start somewhere is starting to seem appealing.”
“Well, you’re stuck here while the pantomime’s on. I know you won’t leave a job half-done—you’re too reliable for that,” Courtney said. “So my words of wisdom are that you should stop worrying about it until then. In the new year, see how the land lies. If you think leaving London is the right thing to do, we’ll surely support you. But be open to other options. Don’t try too hard. See what comes along.”
“Nothing good ever comes along,” Jos said sullenly, aware that she was beginning to sound sulky.
“And don’t you dare start feeling sorry for yourself like that,” Clara said with a firm tone. “We simply won’t allow it. In fact, we’re heading to the Orchid tonight. Come with us. You can see Vernon, hear some fine jazz, and drown your sorrows in a far brighter place than this. Plus, all the prettiest girls flock there…”
Jos rolled her eyes but acquiesced silently. An evening with Clara and Courtney in her brother’s club was better than a night alone. She was, however, determined to ignore all the women, pretty or not, since that was a complication she really did not want or need right now.
Chapter Four
The hallway of Lilian Grainger’s house was as elegant as the exterior. The black and white tiled floor swept towards a mahogany staircase. Doors opened from the hallway in several directions, all the same deep, rich mahogany as the staircase. The walls were pale yellow below a decorative white-moulded coving. Evelyn looked at her new surroundings briefly, but kept her attention on Lilian. She did not want to show her naiveté by appearing astonished by the relative opulence of the house. This was Lilian’s world and she suspected that Lilian, who did not seem pretentious, saw nothing extraordinary about it at all.
“We’ll go into the sitting room. Would you like tea?” Lilian gestured towards one of the doors.
“Yes, I would, please.” Evelyn had not eaten or drunk anything all day and she suddenly realised how tired she felt as a result.
“Then you go and take a seat, and I’ll find Grace and ask her for some tea.”
It took Evelyn a moment to register that Lilian must be referring to a servant. As she followed Lilian’s directions and wandered slowly through the door into the sitting room, she pondered the notion that, had she been born in London she would more likely have been in Grace’s place than Lilian’s. The idea brought the tension back to the pit of her stomach.
The interior of the sitting room was more comfortable than Evelyn expected, after her first impression of the house. There was a fire in the grate, flickering gently, surrounded by a large white fireplace. The walls were papered in light leafy green patterns. The armchairs and sofa were large and comfortable, all upholstered dark green but a little worn on the seats and armrests. There was a patterned carpet on the floor, showing similar signs of wear. After a moment’s indecision, Evelyn chose a chair close to the hearth and sat to wait for Lilian. The nerves increased with every passing moment. To be here, in this woman’s house, with a letter of such significance, was extraordinary enough. That she was here, in London, because she had left home without a word, was still difficult to accept and understand. The outcome of her adventure would depend, to a great extent, on Lilian. It felt like a precarious position to be in.
Lilian returned bearing a tea tray herself, pushing the door open with her foot and closing it with a shove from her hips. “Here we go, then. I brought cake as well, it’s ginger, I hope that’s all right with you?”
“Lovely.” Evelyn felt her stomach’s approval at the idea of food, any food. “Can I help you with the tray?”
“No, no. I told Grace I’d bring it myself. I don’t treat her as a servant, you see. I need the help in the house, but she’s no skivvy. I think I can manage to carry a tea tray myself.”
Lilian placed the tray on the table in the centre of the room. A large teapot sat between two cups and saucers, all of them painted in the most surprising tones of orange, blue, and black. It was so different from the family tea service her mother so treasured, with its delicate pink roses. Apparently nothing was the same in London, not even a teapot. Two slices of a ginger loaf cake tempted from their side plates.
“Milk and sugar?” Lilian asked, reaching for one of the cups.
“Just milk, thank you.” Evelyn watched as Lilian poured the milk, adding three cubes of sugar to her own cup, before filling them with tea which was rather stronger than Evelyn would have made herself. She took the proffered cup and sipped the hot liquid gratefully.
“You look like you’ve never had a cup of tea before,” Lilian remarked, watching Evelyn savour the drink.
“Not since yesterday. I didn’t drink on the train at all.”
“I thought you must’ve come on the train from somewhere. What with the suitcase, and the accent and all. How far have you come?”
“I don’t know how far it is, exactly. I’m from West Coombe. You might have heard of it.”
“Oh, is that the darling place on the south coast, not far from Torquay? My uncle has a place near there, up on the cliffs. He’s always inviting us down to visit, but it seems like such an awfully long way.”
Evelyn smiled, not surprised that Lilian’s uncle would have a house near West Coombe. It would be one of the large villas with the views of the estuary, very different from the houses of the ordinary citizens of the town, but still a welcome source of income for the businesses in the area. More and more wealthy visitors were coming to enjoy the mild climate, turquoise seas, and rocky cliffs. Once they discovered the beauty, they bought land and built their extravagant villas, all balustrades and terraces and formal gardens. “Yes, that’ll be West Coombe,” was all she said. Now she was on the other side of the divide. Lilian was of the other world; she was related to those wealthy outsiders. And yet she was friendly and welcoming, apparently not forming any judgements about Evelyn. People were, she reflected, only people after all.
“Then you’ve come a very long way indeed! You must be exhausted, darling.” Lilian looked genuinely surprised. Evelyn guessed she did not leave London any more frequently than she left West Coombe.
“I am rather tired.”
“Well, I have to say thank you for coming all this way.” Lilian sipped her tea, a hesitant expression on her face. Clearly she wanted to ask for her brother’s letter, but Evelyn supposed she was not sure she was prepared for it. She took another sip of her own tea, feeling awkward to be part of such a private grief.
“Would you like to read the letter now?” she said finally.
Lilian put her cup down unsteadily. “Yes, yes, I would, please.” Evelyn opened the top of her case and retrieved the letter, handing it to Lilian. She took the envelope and stared at the handwriting on the envelope. Without looking up, she spoke to Evelyn. “Please do have some cake. I think you’ll excuse me while I read this.”
“Of course.” Evelyn reached for one of the slices of cake, purposely not watching Lilian, who sat back in her chair, still looking intently at the envelope. In some ways, Evelyn wished she could leave the room and give Lilian her privacy. Yet, at the same time, she suspected her presence, her own suffering, could help Lilian.
She focused her attention on the delicious, sticky ginger cake, each bite renewing her energy and strength. She heard the sound of paper moving as Lilian opened the letter and began to read. Her cake finished, Evelyn sipped her tea and watched the low flames in the fireplace. Her gaze rose to the mantelpiece where
there was a framed photograph of three children. One girl, recognisably Lilian, and a boy who looked about the same age. Another boy, younger, with fairer hair, sat between them. Evelyn knew she was looking at Lilian and her two brothers, that the one who looked so much like Lilian was Frank. How strange it was, the way the war had made so many men disappear, leaving photographs, letters, and memories as the only evidence they’d ever lived. So many of them did not even have decent graves at which their families could mourn. She was lucky to have Edward, however damaged. At least he was not entirely lost, vanished as if he had never lived.
The sound of a sob brought Evelyn out of her contemplation. She looked across to Lilian, who had the letter clasped between her hands and tears running down her cheeks. In that moment, it did not matter that Lilian was a stranger who inhabited another world so different from Evelyn’s. It only mattered that she needed comfort and friendship. “I’m so sorry, Lilian.” Evelyn rose to her feet and went to crouch at the side of Lilian’s chair. She laid a hand on the other woman’s arm and squeezed gently.
“It’s so strange to read his words.” Lilian’s tone was strained, the pain very clear. “I can hear his voice, you know, saying them. I can see him walking in here now. It doesn’t matter how many years go by, I still can’t quite believe it. This almost makes it more real…Now he’s said goodbye.” Lilian’s face crumpled in grief once more.
Evelyn took her hand and pressed it between her own. “I think it must’ve helped him, knowing he’d said goodbye,” she ventured. There really were not any satisfactory words of comfort.
“He said he was friends with your brother. Does your brother know how he died?”
Evelyn felt tears welling in her own eyes at the thought of Eddie, of what he and Frank had suffered through together. “He might know, Lilian, he might have seen it with his own eyes, but he can’t tell us. He just can’t.”
Fragile Wings Page 4
