‘That’s what I said the first time, sir,’ Eva said haltingly, ‘only you didn’t hear me.’
Hunter frowned and, to Eva’s alarm, seemed to be trying to recognise her voice. ‘Are you the dinner lady? It’s not dinnertime yet, surely? And she knows I’m a captain.’
It never ceased to amaze Eva how some men who distinguished themselves in war seemed in any other capacity unfit to be allowed out of doors. ‘I brought you a glass of water, captain.’ She had better lay his title on thick.
He wrinkled his nose but accepted the glass. ‘You sound different from the last girl.’ He took a draught of water before putting the glass down with a decided thump. ‘This is brackish stuff. What happened to the ice I asked for?’
‘Hey up, sister,’ sang out one of the Australians, ‘you’d better be careful. He knows how he likes his water. With oice.’ The group of them put down their cards and sniggered.
‘Are you serious, sir?’ Eva said. ‘This is a field hospital. We ensure survival, not cold beverages.’ The Australians roared with laughter and applauded. So much for discretion. You’re here to gather information. Forget about everything else.
Hunter lay back once more. ‘Well, I survived, didn’t I? They sorted me out further up. All I have to do is wait for these bloody bandages to come off. God knows, I’ve served far beyond the call of duty. I’d have been nominated for an MC if the other officers weren’t all too dead to do the honours. So no, I don’t think a glass of iced water is asking too fucking much, do you?’
Eva swallowed down an angry reply and simply said, ‘No, sir.’ She picked up the glass and was about to move away when she noticed a small hardback. She picked it up and put it back down again. ‘Bridges?’ she remarked, ‘a little old-fashioned, isn’t he, with his Miltonic syllabics and slavish adherence to classic prosody?’ Or so Christopher had told her once. She had never read Bridges.
Hunter abandoned his supine pose and sat up straight again, reaching for Eva’s forearm and grabbing it, just at the sore place, making her flinch. ‘You’re just a silly little nurse,’ he hissed. ‘What do you know about poetry?’
‘Not much,’ Eva concurred, hoping to calm him. But although he let go of her arm, he remained agitated. ‘That sounds like something a friend of mine would say.’
‘Someone who is important to you?’ Keep it in the present tense.
‘That’s none of your damn business. Now get me a proper glass of water!’
Eva walked away to refill Hunter’s glass without protest. It did not sit well with her to pilfer ice from the icebox that might be needed for people with genuine wounds, and she was so agitated she could hardly concentrate on her task, but she would have walked barefoot over razor blades if it led her to the truth.
A few moments later she returned to Hunter’s bed. ‘Your water, sir.’
He took the glass without comment and drank the water all in one go, throwing his head back and showing the clean line of that jaw Eva had first seen outside Christopher’s house in Heathfield. At the same time, his Adam’s apple moved under the sunburnt skin in a way that reminded her of Joseph Cronin catching fish in his boat and letting them flip about, gasping horribly, before they finally expired in a half-inch of bilge water. Such beauty and ugliness in the same body, at the same moment – it hardly seemed possible.
‘Pardon my brusqueness,’ he said, crunching down the ice. ‘I become emotional when I think of him.’
Eva staggered backwards, feeling as if she had been kicked in the chest by a horse. That could only mean one thing, surely? Say it, for God’s sake, just say it. But he added nothing more to his mysterious pronouncement. She didn’t know how she managed the words: ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Captain.’
‘I am, too. He was the best of all of us. And the brightest, but he just didn’t care what people thought or who the right circles were. It was infuriating.’
‘You loved him.’ She barely got the words out, her teeth were chattering so much. Just get to the point where I know for sure.
Hunter only sighed in response. ‘He used to write poems, but he wouldn’t show them to anybody. Damn it, I wanted to see them.’
That would be just like him, thought Eva, feeling the sweet jab of remembered love.
‘And he was so patient with my efforts. I would be mooning over some girl and would write a poem, and he would force me to revise it, when all I cared about was Katie or Lizzie or Sieglinde. Damn, he was thorough. Principled, too. He was nearly a conscientious objector. I told him I thought he was mad.’ Hunter smiled.
‘I’ve been told it takes great courage,’ Eva said carefully, looking at the ground so the other men could not see her face.
‘Oh, yes, he would have had that all right. Then he got himself into a very nasty business with a girl at the school where he taught. An inferior, scheming creature. I write poetry about women like her, their squeamish, creaming ways—’
‘Oi! I rather like a woman’s ways myself!’ one of the Australians interjected.
‘Been a while, has it, Rog?’
The men all laughed. None of them asked Eva to excuse his manners.
‘I’ll have you know, my Antipodean friends,’ Hunter shouted across the room, ‘that bitch gave my friend a white feather.’
The Australian, who was making heavy weather of a piece of baguette, looked up, nonplussed. ‘A what?’
‘A white feather of cowardice,’ Hunter boomed, ‘habitually given by gangs of women to men out of uniform. By those who will never have to see combat themselves. Bad enough to give one to a stranger. The ultimate betrayal is to give one to someone you claim to love.’
A hiss went through the room. ‘That was mighty hard on your friend.’
‘And what happened to him then?’ Eva cut in abruptly, her mouth dry as a salt mine, her tongue nearly sticking to the roof. She had no idea how she managed to keep her voice steady.
‘Oh, he behaved like a total fool. Instead of doing it properly and signing up as an officer, he went off and enrolled in the bloody Territorials! Wouldn’t take a commission. I know he wanted to sign up as a stretcher-bearer to avoid combat … but really.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘I never understood him. And he had such odd tastes. That horrible little queer, Brooke, I tell you—’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Alive? Of course not. He died last year,’ Hunter said impatiently.
Eva swayed forward, her hand landing on the mattress just inches away from him, a few strands of her hair nearly touching his face. Mechanically she straightened up. So now she had her answer.
‘Typical of him to die on a nice Greek island, never lifting a finger in battle,’ Hunter went on, his words roaring and dying amid a ringing haze in Eva’s ears.
‘How …?’ It was barely a whisper, but Hunter heard her.
‘Blood poisoning. Stupid fellow got himself bitten by a fly. And now we have to hear that bloody poem up and down the place: “That there’s some corner of a foreign field / That is for ever England.” Sentimental nonsense.’
‘Hold on a moment – you’re referring to Mr Brooke?’ Eva said. ‘When you talk about blood poisoning?’
‘Well, of course. Who else? Oh, my friend I was telling you about? No, no, he’s alive all right. Poor fellow, he’s holed up in a hospital on the Isle of Wight. Nobody’s said it outright, but’ – Hunter dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper – ‘from what I hear it’s a bad case of nerves.’
Eva could not have cared less about nerves. In fact, she could not care less about Gabriel Hunter. In two seconds she was at the hut doorway and then out in the open air, running, without knowing where.
‘Wait! Nurse! Where are you? Nurse? I haven’t finished with you yet!’
Christopher was alive. Eva’s head began to throb; she could feel the pain of the blood trying to get through tight veins, that iambic hunting horn clamouring once more: alive, alive, alive, alive, alive.
25
Alive – and in England. Sa
fe from danger. Eva held that knowledge like a candle in front of her, carried it with the utmost care as she went about her daily rounds. It was as if she had lived for the past two years in a thick-walled stone hut with a fireproof door and no windows. And now the door was opening, and the wind was flapping at the furniture covers, and daylight had flooded in, all at once. It was such a fierce, intense and private feeling she wanted to hug it to herself, but it was so all-consuming she longed to share it with someone too.
Sybil had left, but perhaps it was just as well she could not confide in her. Look at how she had behaved when Eva had tried to seek out Lucia. It was all very well her pontificating about forgetting the past: her brother was dead and her husband estranged. There was no unfinished business – nothing that could be finished at any rate. Whereas with Christopher … Sybil might try to discourage Eva from making contact again. After all, Sybil knew.
But how could Eva not, now that she knew where he was? When she thought of what had happened to him – invalided for his nerves – her heart felt like it would fill her chest. She had to speak to him, and about him.
Since Eva had heard Lucia Percival singing, down by the beach, the Jamaican girl had lingered on her mind. But just because she had been there at the worst time of Eva’s life didn’t mean she was the best person to talk to about this. Eva could not push confidences on somebody who was practically a stranger. And yet, when she had been in trouble before, she had gone to Lucia, even if only by default.
So she sought her out.
A few VADs from the Mile End camp directed her to another surgical ward. There was no surgery going on. More casualties from Fromelles and Pozières were due soon, but the trains had been held up – the railway had been bombed again and repairs were ongoing. The theatre was empty, apart from Lucia and a small, red-headed surgeon of about thirty, with whom she was bickering. He shouted at her in a grating Glasgow accent, ‘There’s naught wrong with my bishop, Miss Lucy!’
‘Cha, you lie! Can you not see where your bishop should be there is now a hole? Right along the diagonal?’ She traced a line through the air. ‘If you think you win this game, you draw card on yourself, man.’
‘I draw what? What sort of blether are you comin’ out with now?’
‘I said,’ Lucia returned with some heat, ‘you are fooling yourself, sir, if you expect victory.’
‘Well, have it then and to hell with you!’
‘I will! And it’s you that’ll go to hell, along with your king!’
Before Eva could wonder if Lucia were advocating high treason, the Jamaican girl walked over to the trolley behind the operating table, where, to Eva’s astonishment, stood a chessboard. She picked up the black bishop and put it to one side, replacing it with a white knight. ‘There – now!’
‘Are you playing chess in an operating theatre?’ Eva had spoken aloud. The Scotsman turned around and looked at her with undisguised hostility, his ginger eyebrows heading skywards. But Lucia brightened immediately, like a sun making a dazzling appearance after rain. She crossed over to Eva and enclosed her in a hug. ‘Hallo, star! How are you? It’s such a long time since I saw you last. You’ve lost wei—’ and then, recollecting herself, ‘You look well.’
‘I’m all right,’ Eva said shyly. ‘I’m sorry, you’re obviously busy. I’ll come back.’
‘Busy beating his bishop is all.’ Lucia looked at the Scotsman with affectionate contempt. ‘This is Mr Mackenzie. And this’ – to Mackenzie – ‘is Eva … Sorry, I don’t know your last name.’
‘Downey.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘A few months,’ Eva answered, adding, ‘I didn’t know you were here until I heard you singing “In Summertime on Bredon” the other day, over near the beach. I didn’t see you, but I knew it was you.’
‘Ah yes, that song. I love it so!’ Lucia’s eyes shone. ‘The men here always want me to sing it for them, and it is the version by Graham Peel in G major, so it’s easy for me to take it up an octave. Sometimes I drop it down to E. Either way, it always make them cry.’ As if to demonstrate, Lucia touched the corner of her eye with her finger. ‘It make Mr Garfield, my music teacher, cry too, but I suspect he is in love with me.’
‘Yes, it was the same with my friend.’
‘How would she know Mr Garfield?’ Lucia said with amazement.
‘No, I mean about the song. It made her sad.’
Mr Mackenzie fidgeted in the background in the manner of a man who cannot understand women making conversation not concerning him.
‘She’s gone to Dunkirk now … my friend, that is.’ Eva added.
‘Dunkirk?’ Lucia said. ‘My brother is there. Reginald Percival.’
‘Your brother’s in the Army?’
‘Of course. Why, did you think he was there on holiday?’ Lucia was amused. ‘He’s with the British West Indies Regiment, guarding aircraft. But before, he was in the thick of the fighting.’ She emphasised this last with some anxiety, as if Eva might underestimate Reginald’s role.
‘Is he an officer?’ Eva asked politely. She realised straightaway she’d said the wrong thing, as Lucia’s face closed up and her eyes went cold.
‘Are you being funny? Of course he isn’t.’
‘I don’t understand …?’ Eva stuttered, at which point Mackenzie cut in harshly.
‘He’s not allowed, is he, Lucy? On account of being black.’
When Lucia replied, her voice had a fine edge of hurt. ‘Mr Mackenzie is referring to the military regulation that forbids persons of non-European descent from becoming commissioned officers. Reggie is a mulatto, like myself, and he is a corporal. Of course, if he looked crossways at a white lieutenant, he’d get court-martialled. It happened to his friend. They shot him.’
‘I am truly sorry, Lucia,’ Eva said with feeling, especially for the last part.
Lucia sniffed a little. ‘If it is any consolation, I would not have Reggie command my cat, let alone a company of soldiers. He is nyaamps, as we say, useless. But it’s the principle I’m talking about, yu nuh see?’
‘Of course I do. It’s unfair.’ There were things Eva could not even begin to understand, and there was no use pretending that she ever would.
Lucia’s face softened. ‘You weren’t to know.’
‘Well,’ Eva said, trying to get things back on track, ‘my friend who is now in Dunkirk was with me when we heard you singing the song. We both thought it was lovely.’
Lucia accepted the praise as nothing more than her due. ‘I sing all the time. Mr Garfield said if I ever wanted to be classically trained, I’d have to practise, practise, practise. It is all about the breath, that is the core of it. Anyway, it is no hardship. I love it.’
‘You can say that again,’ Mackenzie chimed in. ‘All day long, arpeggios and scales and chromatics – good God, it’s like having a canary around.’
‘Disregard him,’ Lucia said loftily. ‘He is a ginger midget, not to mention tone deaf.’
‘Ginger midget, eh, Miss Percival? And as for you—’
Lucia held up a hand. ‘This lady has business with me, I believe. I shall be back shortly.’ She took a straw hat from the hook near the door and went outside, leading Eva around the hut’s corner to a long, windowless wall where a group of VADs leaned and smoked. ‘So,’ she said cheerfully, ‘what can I do for you this time?’
‘I … need advice. I want to write to someone.’ Emboldened, Eva added, ‘You asked about him before – remember? The man whose name I called out when I was put under. Christopher.’
Lucia’s eyes opened very wide. ‘I do remember! Yes. So now finally you are going to tell me the story? Well,’ she poked Eva, ‘go on.’ The sun shone through the brim of her hat and made little squares on her cheeks and chin.
Eva related a much-edited version of the whole tale. When she mentioned that Christopher had been her teacher, Lucia clapped her hands together and cried, ‘Forbidden romance! Oh! I like!’ Eva said that she and Christop
her had quarrelled and hoped that Lucia would not probe further. But Lucia frowned. ‘It must have been a mighty big fight, if you go off and marry someone else, and then—’
‘Lucia,’ Eva said, almost afraid to meet her eyes, ‘I did something terrible. So bad that I really can’t say what it is, so please don’t ask me. I beg you.’ She remembered the horror of Sybil’s widening eyes, the way she had clapped her manicured hand to her mouth when Eva had confessed. ‘Just let me put it this way. Sometimes the vilest things can be done by a respectable woman obeying society’s customs.’ The breeze freshened up and Eva’s forearm goose-pimpled.
Lucia took off her hat and tilted her head to one side, regarding Eva with tender exasperation. ‘In no way are you mollifying my curiosity, girl. In no way at all. And why ask me anyhow? You can write, nuh? What do you need me for?’
‘Because I don’t know where to start,’ Eva said, red-faced.
Now Lucia looked bewildered. ‘Where I come from, we start at the beginning. I don’t know about England, maybe oonu, you all crazy over there.’
‘But I’m not beginning. I’m resuming.’
‘True,’ Lucia said thoughtfully, then, ‘Cha, I like your wordplay. I am game. I’ll help you write your letter.’
They were interrupted by a heavy tread on the scorched, barbed grass. Mackenzie appeared, his compact neck straining forward, face glistening with sweat. He had hardly been out in the sun five minutes and red patches of sunburn were already appearing near his hairline. Lucia began softly to chant, ‘Oh, Cordelia Brown, what make your head so red / Oh, Cordelia Brown, what make your head so red?’ Mackenzie shot her a look, but addressed Eva. ‘Your charge nurse is looking for you. She’s none too happy that you’ve deserted your entire ward.’
Eva could tell from his ranging, possessive look over Lucia that it was her absence that was the issue, not Eva’s. ‘I’ll be right there,’ she said.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ Mackenzie added, ‘check!’
‘You make such a fuss-fuss about your check,’ Lucia said loftily, ‘but soon the king will be safe, and you, sir, will be in Zugzwang for good.’
White Feathers Page 24