Fragile Wings

by Rebecca S. Buck

  “Yes, agreed. Drink up, Evelyn,” James urged.

  Evelyn drained the remainder of her cocktail, undecided if she was pleased to be leaving the cafe or not. It had been an evening of discovery, and she hoped, before she had to leave London, there would be much more of that.

  Chapter Seven

  Jos Singleton spent a sleepless night, remarkable since she’d not even been drinking. Perhaps that was the problem, she reflected, as she sat in her winged armchair, contemplating the darkness. Maybe she’d become a little too reliant on scotch as a means to induce slumber.

  Sleep had been difficult for her over the years. She supposed it was ever since her parents had been killed, peacefully asleep in their beds when the Zeppelin raid had demolished their house. Looking back on those last moments, cowering under the kitchen table, she still wondered if there was something she could have done. If only she’d not taken cover, if she’d gone upstairs and warned them. But she had assumed they were still out of the house, not already in their bed. The bomb hit their house directly, crashing through the roof. She’d been told it was a miracle she had survived herself.

  She remembered regaining consciousness in a pile of rubble, hands pulling bricks and roof tiles and the remnants of the table from her wounded body. She remembered Vernon’s face, the first thing she saw, peering at her full of anxiety and fear. She’d smiled to reassure him, before she had even begun to become aware of what had happened and the great loss they had both suffered. She’d always felt compelled to look after Vernon, even if they were the same age and even when their parents were still alive. He’d still been at his office when the bombs fell, or she might have lost everything that night. That Vernon was still alive seemed more important than the pain that racked her body.

  Jos had not thought to ask about their parents right away. She was pulled from the rubble and carried on a stretcher to the nearest hospital. Her right leg was broken in two places, she had three fractured ribs, a broken left wrist and collarbone, and bruises to her head and face, but as she was told, she’d got away lightly considering the total destruction of their house. Only when she was properly settled in the hospital bed did they allow Vernon to visit her. And only then did she realise that their parents were not there to visit, nor had anyone mentioned them. She did not have to vocalise the question—she read the answer in Vernon’s eyes. Their parents had died as she sheltered from the bombs.

  Vernon said it wasn’t her fault. That she would not have had time to go upstairs and wake her parents, even if she had known they were in their bed. If she had gone upstairs, she would be dead too and Vernon left all alone. The nurses told her it wasn’t her fault when she couldn’t sleep and told them of her anxiety by the light of the oil lamps they carried, halos of illumination in the darkened ward. Eventually, as she convalesced, she began to accept this.

  But sleep was still difficult. She would dream of saving their parents, only for them all to die together. She would dream of their last moments in graphic detail. She would see the shadow of the Zeppelin looming and feel as though she was being crushed. Sleep became dangerous to her. Not only did the nightmares torture her, she could not help but linger on how her parents had died while they slept. Even when she did sleep, the cries and groans of the other patients in her ward would intrude into her consciousness. It was always worst at night, when there were no visitors to distract them from the pain and horror of it all. The nurses could not sit by her side all night, and she could not expect it. She made herself suffer in silence and darkness, telling herself she had to be strong. The world was full of death; it was not her place to be self-indulgent in her grief.

  When Jos eventually returned home, she had been different. Vernon said the pain and loss had aged her, made her too serious. She did not fully agree with that assessment. It was rather that she saw life differently. She no longer wanted to fill it with the fantasy of acting, the illusion of pretending to be other characters. Although she’d stayed in the theatre, she’d chosen practical, realistic work. And she had decided that it was time to stop denying the desire for other women she’d been suppressing since her early teens. If death stalked so close, she would accept it and live her days just as she chose. No matter if she had to drink scotch to help her sleep. It turned out that most of her generation were doing just the same thing, with scotch, gin, or worse.

  So now, in her armchair, she thought of all those long, sleepless nights she’d spent and realised this was different. She was not troubled by her past or by the sense of fear that sometimes gripped her. She was excited, in a way that felt hopeful and good. There was no point denying the source of the feeling. It was that brief encounter with Evelyn Hopkins.

  Jos was no innocent. Her most recent dalliance with a beautiful woman was only weeks ago. Women looking to experiment, even if just for a night, with their sensual desires were everywhere these days. To sleep with a woman was decadent and daring, less risky than doing the same with a man, and Jos was interesting enough, it seemed, to get more than her fair share. The last entanglement, with a blond flapper named Daisy, had lasted a few weeks and she’d had fun. But neither of them had been serious in their commitment to each other. In fact, Jos found, she was rarely serious in her commitment. The women she encountered were probably even less concerned with the longevity of the arrangement than she was. Commitment to anything was rare these days. Apparently it was too old-fashioned to commit.

  Jos did not really object to this. It made life much easier if she could satisfy her carnal desires and have a few light-hearted conversations, without having to bring her emotions into the picture. Too many women, once they got properly involved with her, wanted to know why she was the way she was. Wanted to save her from herself. If she ever got so attached to a woman that she told the story of her parents’ death and her own narrow escape, she hated to see the pity in their eyes. She preferred her relationships brief, lacking in deep emotion, and more or less anonymous.

  With this in mind, it was queer that she felt so drawn to Evelyn Hopkins. The girl was clearly out of her depth in London, with no real idea of the dangers she faced. And in the clutches of Lilian Grainger too! Jos sighed. She did not like Lilian. It was partly because her own brother seemed quite enamoured of her, of course, and she did not think any woman was good enough for Vernon, whilst he seemed quite determined to try the entire female population. Not that promiscuity concerned her, but it was rather the effect these women exerted on Vernon. Lilian, in particular, seemed to be a bad influence, and he’d been more moody since he’d been involved with her, more cynical than ever. However, her dislike of Lilian was also because Lilian seemed to sneer at her, only being polite when forced. For all of her fashion and claims of modernity, she suspected Lilian was rather conservative and struggled with the idea of Jos’s love for her own sex. None of which would matter if it was not that Lilian would be exerting her irresistible influence over Evelyn. And somehow it already mattered to her that Evelyn did not disapprove.

  She closed her eyes and tried to pin down exactly what it was about Evelyn that intrigued her so much. The obvious answer was that wide-eyed innocence. But innocence was not a quality that Jos was usually drawn to, since it spelled the way to outright rejection or too many questions. Evelyn was undeniably beautiful, with that luxuriant chestnut hair and lively eyes. But it was more that: her handshake had been firm and, despite clearly being far from her natural environment, Evelyn still exuded a certain confidence in herself. To be so far from home and yet still composed in this world was quite a feat. Evelyn was a strong woman, though Jos suspected she didn’t consider herself as such. Strength was a powerful draw. As was independence of mind.

  She’d only spent a few moments with Evelyn, but she already knew she wanted to know her more, to understand what had driven her to come to London, to follow the next chapter of the extraordinary story of a girl from the middle of nowhere suddenly in the heart of this turbulent, decadent world. Even, dared she hope, to be part of that
story.

  *

  Evelyn dreamed of butterflies that night. Her brooch, so recently lost on the floor of the cafe, came to life and fluttered through a blue Devon sky. On a clifftop, above crashing waves, it settled on a yellow orchid. Another butterfly, this one not made of rubies and diamonds but a beautiful Common Blue, flittered into the scene and landed on a nearby cornflower, the same blue as its striking wings. Suddenly a shadow came over the scene and Evelyn felt fear and panic. Now she was the jewelled butterfly and something was bearing down on her. Her dream state did not show her if it was a boot or a net, but she was sure she would be crushed or trapped. And yet somehow her wings were too heavy, the jewels meant she could not fly. The Common Blue took off, flying free into the sky, where it disappeared, and she was still paralysed, could not move her wings. Still the shadow bore down and her panic only increased.

  She awoke with a dry mouth, sweating into the sheets. The sheets did not have the familiar threadbare patches of home; the mattress springs were firmer. She opened her eyes wider, knowing she was somewhere away from home but not realising where for a few long seconds. She made herself focus on shapes of the shadows in the room to give her some sense of her bearings. London. This was London, she was in the Graingers’ spare bedroom. They’d arrived home just before midnight and she had fallen asleep as soon as she’d climbed out of her clothes. Focusing on memories of the preceding evening helped, but she could not quite shake the terror of the dream, of that advancing shadow, that certain entrapment or death.

  Evelyn sat up in bed, drawing a deep breath. The slight sensation of seasickness made her question just how much gin had been in her cocktails. She rubbed her eyes and reached for the electric lamp on the bedside table. Soft yellow light flooded the room. Her watch was on the bedside table. She took it up to check the time and found it to be just after five. It would soon be daylight. The idea of trying to sleep further was not appealing. Waking up at dawn was nothing unusual for Evelyn.

  Her eye was drawn to the butterfly brooch, now lying on the dressing table across the room, along with the jewellery Lilian had lent her. Her dress was draped over the chair, evidence of just how tired she had been when she’d finally made it to her bedroom. She swung her legs out of bed and rose unsteadily to her feet. The dizziness was not quite as bad, now that she was fully awake. She picked up the butterfly and held it in her palm, contemplating the livid rubies and shimmering diamonds. Although she’d inherited it from her grandmother, on her mother’s side, she had no idea what the history of the brooch was before that. Her grandmother had never told her, even when Evelyn had admired the brooch as a child. Certainly, such jewellery seemed far too expensive for her grandmother, a fisherman’s daughter who married a fish merchant, to have been able to purchase for herself. Evelyn wondered what stories the brooch could tell.

  For Evelyn, of course, the brooch reminded her only of the vision she had created with Edward that sunny day on a clifftop, when they’d known that one day they could fly. And yet, last night, she’d almost lost the brooch. It had fallen to the floor so easily. If it had not been for Jos, it could have been gone forever. Perhaps that was why she was dreaming about butterflies.

  Thinking about Edward made her miss home. What business did she really have in this strange house, such a long way from her family. The letter had been delivered now. She’d had a glimpse of the life she’d suspected existed outside of her closed-off little world. She’d enjoyed it too. But perhaps it was time to go home. She could pack her bags now and be at Paddington in time for the first train.

  Evelyn returned the brooch to its place on the dressing table and ran her fingers over the pearls borrowed from Lilian. They were beautiful. And it was very kind of Lilian. So far, everyone in London had welcomed her with more than open arms. Why would she leave that, when she could enjoy it for longer?

  Still contemplating, Evelyn crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes. The street outside was deserted, still illuminated by the pale glow of the gas lamps. London seemed a city of ghosts. It was a place made of its past, of the stories of the people who inhabited it, of their own ghosts. In London, she did not feel peculiar, out of place. She was part of it. At rest as it was now, it had its own beauty. True, it was not soaring cliffs and sandy beaches, churning waves and dark woods. But it was a place full of human stories. There was so much more to discover, even so much more of herself to understand. It had to be here—she couldn’t leave now. There really wasn’t a question.

  Her resolution in mind, Evelyn pulled out her suitcase, still not entirely unpacked, and removed the sheets of writing paper and pen she’d put into one of the inside pockets. She cleared a space on the dressing table, sat in the chair in front of it, and began to write.

  Dearest Eddie,

  I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well. And I hope there hasn’t been too much of a fuss at home. I don’t suppose anyone will think to blame you for all of this, but if they do, I hope you know it isn’t your fault. I always wanted to get away. And now that I’m here in London, I know that we were right. I had to leave, to come here, to try to fly. Thank you—oh, thank you, Eddie, for helping me to find my way.

  I found Lilian Grainger still living at the same address. She’s an extraordinary girl, quite different from me. Last night—on my very first evening here—I saw her sing at a jazz club. Can you imagine it, Eddie, me sipping cocktails and listening to jazz!

  Lilian lives with her younger brother, James, and they were both very moved to receive the letter from Frank. They had some questions, of course, but thanked you for doing what you could to get the letter to them. It has given them some satisfaction to know something of how Frank died.

  It is very early in the morning now. I am not sure what the day holds—I suppose getting to know my surroundings and discussing the terms of my accommodation with the Graingers. I am hoping I can stay for a while. They have been very kind so far.

  I want you to know that I am thinking about you and missing you, in every moment. It’s as though you are here with me, Eddie.

  I will write again very soon. Do take care of yourself until then.

  I love you, Eddie.

  Your sister,

  Evie

  Evelyn smiled. Writing to Eddie was the easiest of all the letters. She knew he’d be happy for her, and pleased that he had been able to help her. To remind him how much she loved him was important, since she could not be there for him in person. The letter to her parents was much harder.

  Dear Mother and Father,

  You will by now have, of course, realised that I am not there. I hope Edward was able to pass my short letter to you, written in the hope that you would not worry. I am sorry for any anger or concern I have caused you. It was not my intention to hurt you at all, although I am perfectly aware that my actions will appear reckless and inconsiderate.

  I will not attempt to explain myself because I am not sure I entirely understand it myself. When Edward managed to gather himself to show me the letter he had been keeping, for a friend of his captain, who lived in London, it seemed the most natural thing to offer to deliver it. I am aware that I could have arranged for it to be posted, or sought another solution, but it is apparent to me that I wanted to see London and it seemed of utmost urgency to set out at once.

  There will be time for reproach when I return and I fully expect to bear the weight of your disappointment and anger. But I hope you will also understand that I have taken these actions in the pursuit of happiness.

  The purpose of this letter is to let you know that I am perfectly safe. I am only a short train ride away from you. I have been accommodated by a brother and sister, Lilian and James Grainger, in Mayfair, so I am quite comfortable. I urge you not to worry for me. I will stay in touch.

  With hopes of your eventual forgiveness,

  Your loving daughter,

  Evie

  The idea of causing her parents pain or making them the subject of town gossip tore at her in
sides. She would have done neither intentionally and yet that was exactly what she had done, through making a choice that was entirely her responsibility. However, there was no going back now, so she could only hope they would be reconciled to her when the time came to return home.

  She had two more letters to write. One to her sister and one to Michael. She began with a short note for Annie. She apologised, attempted the briefest of explanations, and entreated her sister to watch over Edward in her absence. Annie might not share the special relationship she had with Edward, but she did care.

  Sealing the letter in its envelope, Evelyn stood up and walked over to the window. They sky was growing light; day had nearly arrived. She yawned and stretched her arms, ready to embrace a full day in London and see what it brought her. The prospect made her letter to Michael seem almost inconsequential. She’d already left him a note, and after all, the pain had already been caused. There was really nothing to say, so she simply assured him of her well-being and apologised for causing him pain. She added a hope that he would soon find a woman to love him as he deserved, to make sure there was no danger he would wait for her. Wherever the next weeks led, it would not be back to Michael. She signed off with affection and then it was done. She felt no regret, other than that she had hurt a good man, and thus knew her decision to be correct. He would move on and so would she, into a much brighter future.

  Evelyn slid the final letter into its envelope and returned to the window. It was now quite light, with the haze of dawn. The buildings, though made of brick, still appeared grey and ghostly. There was movement in the street now. An old horse barrow made its way slowly along the street and a man in a smart suit walked briskly along the pavement. In the opposite direction, a couple in long coats walked past, arm in arm. There was sufficient light to make out the mottled damp on the flagstones of the pavement. London was coming alive. Despite the pain of writing her letters home, Evelyn felt a thrill at the thought of it.