Fragile Wings

by Rebecca S. Buck

  “Yes,” Evelyn replied. “Although those girls are much older than I was when I left school.”

  “You mean you didn’t stay on?” Lilian seemed to think this unusual.

  “I left when I was fourteen. My parents needed my help and they could only really afford for Eddie to be at the High School.”

  “So you missed out on all the fun of being a senior then? Believe it or not, they made me prefect. Can’t imagine it, can you?”

  “No, I suppose not. I never really got to find out what that was like. Most girls from West Coombe didn’t. Most of the boys left at fourteen too. If there was no need for us to carry on learning, we didn’t.”

  “And, let me guess, it was common wisdom that girls only needed to be able to sew and cook and be good and obedient wives,” Lilian scoffed.

  “Yes. I did want to carry on learning, but I didn’t really think to question it myself.” Evelyn now wondered why she had just accepted this approach.

  “And this is why women have still got such a long way to go, darling. You see. One day, it’ll be realised that we’re much more than just adornments, or wives, or slaves.”

  “I never really felt like a slave,” Evelyn said, feeling compelled to defend her well-meaning parents, “or an adornment.” In fact, the latter seemed a little hypocritical coming from the highly adorned Lilian.

  “It’s because so many women don’t realise it that it still happens. Women who think it’s all they can do to be the best wives and mothers they can be. And that’s fine, but there’s so much more. We’re so much more. And some of us might not be wives or mothers.”

  “Of course.” Evelyn nodded her agreement but was not quite sure what to say. Then her attention was distracted by the view through the bare branches of the winter trees ahead of them. “Is that it? Is that Buckingham Palace?”

  Lilian smiled. “Yes, that’s it.”

  At the edge of the park were tall, ornate metal gates between stone pillars. Through the bars of these gates could be seen the pale facade of one of the most famous buildings in London. Evelyn quickened her pace, full of excitement at finally setting eyes on a place she’d never thought she’d have a chance to see.

  As they emerged from the park, they were on a broad road, the Mall, which swept up towards and went around a tall statue, situated a short distance from the black palace gates. The statue was surrounded by a pool of water and carved stones lions. Evelyn gazed in awe at what she knew to be the memorial to Queen Victoria. Although it had opened in 1911, Evelyn had read in the newspapers of its final completion only two or three years ago. She looked up to the gilded statue of Winged Victory at the very top, standing on a globe. It shone bright and proud, even in the winter light. Below that, the statues represented courage and constancy—she remembered that, although she could not quite remember the symbolism of every figure. The eagles certainly represented Empire, that she knew well enough, and she was fairly sure one of the marble carvings was the embodiment of justice.

  Evelyn gazed at the gilded and pale marble figure, at the stony face of the Queen herself, and realised she was not feeling proud, or patriotic. When she looked at the modest war memorial in West Coombe churchyard, she felt a sort of horrified pride. The war had been so terrible, and Edward had been so damaged, and yet there was a certain nobility in the names of the young men who had died fighting for freedom. But this richly decorated statue did not take names and individuals into account. It raised a hymn of glory to the Empire, it suggested victory over the globe, and all in the name of justice and truth. Carved eternally in marble, it was the Britain of the last century, ruler of the waves, conqueror of the savage nations. And that Britain had carelessly sent her young men into battle on the myth of glory, as if they could conquer all over again. But the victory had been hollow in the end, merely a relief that it was over and no more would die. That patriotism, that misguided dream of greatness, was over. The statue, so recently finished, seemed like a memorial to more than Victoria. It was to a world that had been blown to pieces in the mud of France and Belgium. And yet, she thought, it was beautiful still in a ghastly and hyperbolic way.

  Lilian was looking past the memorial statue to the palace itself, majestic behind its high, ornate gates. “I actually remember when they refaced this whole side. It looked quite different before. It was just before the war.”

  Evelyn tore her attention away from the memorial and looked properly at the palace. “It looks as though it’s been here forever.”

  “Doesn’t it? I suppose that’s the idea. And look, seems like His Majesty is at home today.” Lilian pointed to the flag flying from the pole in the centre of the roof. “That’s the Royal Standard. They fly it when the King and Queen are in residence.”

  Evelyn watched the colourful flag flutter in the breeze, then looked down at the many windows in the pale, Portland-stone facade. The palace looked just as it had in the postcard she had gazed at years ago, only so much bigger than she’d imagined. And now she could almost see into the windows. She pictured the grand interior, wondered what King George and Queen Mary would be doing at this time of day. Did they look out of the window at the tourists clustering around their gates? How did that feel? To be the most important and famous people in this city full of people. Evelyn knew she would hate to be so conspicuous, for all the wealth and luxury that came with it. “It really is beautiful,” she said to Lilian, who was clearly waiting for a reaction. “Very grand.” In reality, the palace was almost too grand for Evelyn’s taste. Although she was impressed, even captivated, part of her felt repulsed, excluded by the grandeur. It was a revelation to her, to realise that she was not awestruck by such a place. Lilian did not seem to be in awe either.

  “Of course, I’ve seen plenty of the place, but I can see why visitors want to see it. It’s so famous. You know, during the war, they moved all the important fixtures and fittings out, in case it was damaged. But nothing ever happened. Made the King lock his wine cellar too, to set a good example. Not that it made a difference!” Lilian laughed. “I know a few girls who came out in there, of course.”

  “Came out?” Evelyn asked.

  “Yes, as debutantes. It’s when a girl comes of age and is presented at court for the first time. You get to meet the King and curtsey and then there’s a dance, with everyone in their best court dress. I used to be frightfully envious over it, of course. Now I think it’s all rather silly, parading the marriageable aristocratic girls like that. Awfully stuffy too. Although I hear the King has had jazz at the palace, so times are changing.”

  Evelyn wondered now what it would be like to be one of those aristocratic girls. She was inclined, like Lilian, to think it was a rather silly notion. Still, she was aware of just how many different worlds there were, how many different ways life could be lived. The chance nature of where and when a person was born made such a difference to what they would experience. Only Evelyn had chosen to challenge that, by coming to London. She’d broken a pattern, done something thoroughly modern and independent. Of that she could be proud, even if she would never be a debutante.

  They crossed the road to stand right up against the black painted gates. Evelyn peered through to see the red-coated guards in their black bearskin hats. Motionless, they looked like the toy soldiers Edward had played with as a child. It was odd that a soldier could still be a ceremonial, red-coated toy, when the reality was khaki and mud and death. There almost seemed a wilful ignorance of reality where soldiering was concerned, she thought. This was how storybook soldiers were still presented. The war was a dreadful nightmare, an abhorrence that would never be repeated. The witnesses to it were dead or damaged and the myth of red-coated glory could be restored. Very clearly, Evelyn saw what Dorothy had been trying to explain to her. This was a new world, a world their generation would make their own. They were not Victorians anymore, and they would break away from their love of Empire and glory and live as never before. This was the dream she had shared with Edward and now it seemed mo
re than just a hope, but a duty.

  “You look rather thoughtful, darling,” Lilian said.

  “I suppose I am. I can’t say why, exactly. It’s only, this place seems to be such a symbol of the past.”

  “Oh, it’s the perfect symbol of the past.” Lilian smiled. “Of course, when I see these gates I always think of the brave suffragettes chaining themselves to these very railings. But even that’s a thing of the past now. It seems so ridiculously quaint, since the war, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s something along those lines that I was thinking.” Evelyn looked along the gates to the crowd of other sightseers who were peering through the railings. Was the fascination just that the palace was so famous? Or was it also the glimpse into the past, a yearning for days gone by, that drew them?

  “Never ceases to amaze me how many people come to stand here,” Lilian said, seeing where Evelyn was looking.

  “I’m still surprised to see so many people anywhere,” Evelyn said. “I think there’s as many people here as there are in the whole of West Coombe. And certainly more interesting people.”

  “If you like to watch people, darling, you’ll adore tea at the Park Lane. The rich, the famous, and the fashionable are the usual clientele. I adore the place.”

  “Are you the rich or the fashionable?” Evelyn asked.

  “Aha, are you razzing me, darling?” Lilian grinned.

  “Not really,” Evelyn replied, hoping she’d understood correctly.

  “Well, I might be fashionable, but I’m certainly not rich!”

  Evelyn tried to hide her astonishment. “I suppose it’s relative, really,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t mean to appear ungrateful for what I have. I know I’m not badly off at all. But compared to some of the folks who you’ll see at tea? I have nothing.”

  “I can’t imagine what it’s like to have that sort of wealth,” Evelyn admitted.

  “I know plenty of them, of course. Turns out no one really feels wealthy, from what I hear. Perhaps we should all be more appreciative.”

  Lilian did not sound serious, while Evelyn found her flippant attitude to money rather distasteful. “We didn’t feel wealthy at home either, of course. Especially not when we had to save for things like winter shoes.”

  Lilian was silent for a moment, clearly not missing the point of Evelyn’s remark. “Of course, I give money to several charitable societies,” she said in the end. “I do realise that there are people much worse off than me.”

  Evelyn nodded, not wishing to create any bad feeling with Lilian, who was, after all, her only real friend in London and her hostess. Lilian could not really be blamed for her background and upbringing, certainly no more than Evelyn could be blamed for her own. The gulf of difference was just rather apparent to Evelyn, as they stood at the palace gates. And yet she felt a thrill at the idea of tea in the Park Lane Hotel, surrounded by opulence and glamour, so she could not hold Lilian’s lifestyle against her. There was a real allure to decadence and indulgence. She had first felt it at the Yellow Orchid and now she felt it again. Hypocritical though it made her, it was irresistible.

  As though keen to change the subject, Lilian glanced at her enamelled wristwatch. “Well, what do you say we make our way back to the Park Lane now? If you like, we’ll walk up Constitution Hill and you can see the Wellington Arch and Hyde Park Corner. It’s only a little bit out of the way.”

  “That would be smashing, thank you.” Evelyn was delighted at the idea of seeing more of the famous sights of London. She found it quite strange to imagine she was within walking distance of such places, even as she stood outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.

  Lilian led the way as they walked to the right hand side of the Palace facade and along a wide avenue, lined with bare-branched trees. Several motor cars were travelling up the road. Evelyn had seen enough of them now not to find them remarkable, but to see so much traffic was still surprising. A double-decked motorbus advertising Schweppes Orange Squash on a large banner rumbled past.

  “There’s so much traffic these days,” Lilian said, as the bus passed. “It didn’t used to be like this. And I don’t suppose you’re used to it.”

  “Not at all,” Evelyn replied. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve never seen motor cars, or even charabancs—we got plenty of tourists in West Coombe with them. But nothing like as many as there are here.”

  “We’ll have to take you on the Tube as well, of course. Filthy, stinking place that it is. But one simply must experience it, or you’ve not seen London.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that,” Evelyn said, experiencing a new flush of anticipation. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “It’s only a train in a tunnel.”

  “Still, it’s not like we have a Tube in West Coombe.”

  “No, of course. Well, that’s the Wellington Arch up ahead.”

  The memorial arch to the victor of Waterloo was as grand as Evelyn expected. A short distance across the grass, the colonnaded entrance to Hyde Park was just as elegant. Such architecture was at home in London, almost dwarfed by the buildings around it. In West Coombe it would have looked quite ridiculous, overly ostentatious. Evelyn wondered why she even made the comparison. West Coombe might as well be in a whole other world to London. London made her heart beat faster, it provoked her thoughts, it confounded and enthralled her. West Coombe had never done any of those things. With every new experience here, she knew her decision to be correct. She only wished she could tell Edward all about it. Perhaps the vivid details and colour would bring her brother back to her.

  *

  The walk to the Park Lane was a short one, along a broad road. Hyde Park was to their right, to their left the graceful buildings of Mayfair. After only a few minutes, Lilian caught Evelyn’s arm and they stopped in the street outside a tall, white-fronted building with grey granite columns either side of the revolving door entrance.

  “Here we are, darling. Isn’t it simply ritzy?”

  “It’s certainly very grand.” Evelyn was not sure if she was excited or intimidated by the sheer scale of the building. It seemed a rather grandiose place to simply seek afternoon tea.

  “Isn’t it just?” Lilian smiled happily. Evelyn suspected that it was impossible for a place to be too ostentatious for Lilian’s tastes. “And so very modern too.”

  “Of course.” That was important to Lilian. Evelyn had not yet established in her own mind if that was a good thing.

  “Come on then, let’s stop dilly-dallying. You never know who we might find we’re seated next to!” Lilian led the way through the revolving door.

  The interior, to Evelyn’s dismay, was just as grand as she had feared it would be. Of course, it was beautiful, there was no way to deny that. As they were led into the lounge area, there were high glass ceilings, as ornate as anything Evelyn had seen in a church. The black-and-white marble checkerboard floor was reflected in the same pattern spreading across the ceiling. The pale yellow walls were decorated with paintings of trees and birds. Fashionable patrons, most of them women, were seated at tables, sipping tea from china cups, large stands of sandwiches and cakes on the tables in front of them. There was a hum of chatter, the occasional peal of laughter. Waiters in cream jackets and black trousers circulated between the tables, carrying silver trays bearing more tea and delicate sandwiches. Somehow, the everyday business of food and drink seemed at odds with the surroundings. This place should be a museum or gallery, perhaps a room in the palace. To simply sit and take tea here felt uncomfortable.

  As they were seated, Evelyn realised that this was the most out of place she’d felt since she’d been in London. Although the surroundings, the clientele, of the Park Lane Hotel teased her curiosity, her thirst for learning more of London, she had to admit she felt out of her depth. And she knew she had no desire to be comfortable here. She did not have to love everything that Lilian did. She did not have to be enthralled by all of London. And such a grandiose, formal place as this was not
to her taste, beautiful though it was.

  Lilian was looking around surreptitiously, clearly wondering if anyone of fame or fortune was present. Evelyn did not quite understand the fascination and was relieved when the waiter came to take their order. Again, she was struck by the notion of being on the wrong side of the transaction. Just as she could have found herself in the place of Grace, Lilian’s servant, the waiter could, in different times, have been Edward or Peter. She could have been a domestic in the hotel, cleaning up after people like Lilian. The idea made her uncomfortable. She allowed Lilian to place their order, glad that she had not been asked for an opinion, hoping their tea would be brought to them quickly.

  As she sat upright and uncomfortable, watching Lilian return to glancing around her furtively, in the hope of recognising a face, Evelyn thought back to the previous night. The Yellow Orchid was the height of modernity too, it seemed, and yet she was more comfortable there. In Vernon’s little cafe, with the taste of gin in her mouth and jazz in her ears, she had felt at home. She had felt as though she was really living.

  And of course, she’d also met some fascinating people there. Dorothy and Vernon, who seemed two sides of the same sardonic, modern, cynical coin, decadent through intention and loving every minute. Clara and Courtney, both beautiful and like no one Evelyn could have even have imagined to exist. Two women in love with each other. The idea intrigued her and she could not help her thoughts lingering on it. What would it be like to be in love with a woman? To kiss a woman? She tried to put herself in Courtney’s place, to imagine Clara courting her, embracing her, kissing her. But of course, Clara was very much Courtney’s, that was obvious to the world. But there was Jos Singleton too. Jos who had been so kind, so friendly. Jos with those blue eyes and warm fingers. What would it be like to be kissed by her pink lips? To look into those eyes and see love, shared secrets?

  “Are you all right, Evie?” Lilian’s voice startled Evelyn out of her pleasant reverie.