Fragile Wings

by Rebecca S. Buck

  Evelyn’s attention had been drawn by a tall, exceptionally thin figure moving slowly towards them. He was on crutches, his gait awkward. A dark suit was all she could make out of his clothing. His head was bowed, his attention apparently focused on the ground. She almost looked away. Then recognition dawned.

  “Mother, Dad, it’s him! There!” She’d run towards him even as she finished the exclamation. “Eddie, we’re here! You’re back home now.” As she reached him, she instinctively took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. What she saw, to her shame, made her cry out in awful surprise.

  Edward’s face was scarred. His left cheek bore evidence of lacerations that had healed badly and his forehead and the area around his right eye looked shiny and contorted, as though he’d been burned. The scarring bothered Evelyn less than the dull, hard expression on the face, the clouded eyes that had once been so bright. It was as though Edward saw and recognised the world around him but was somehow removed from it.

  Evelyn had willed herself not to look away. She lowered her hands to his shoulders, noticing how much weight he’d lost since she’d last held him. “Oh, Eddie, what happened?”

  The question would never be answered.

  It had taken Evelyn some minutes to realise that Edward’s awkward stance, dependence on the crutches, was a result of his left leg missing from below the knee. The horror of war was suddenly embodied by her Eddie, and Evelyn did not know whether tears or anger was the correct emotional response.

  In the seven years since that day, Evelyn had read what she could about shell shock. But no matter what she read, Evelyn did not find anything to help Edward. The doctors and psychologists were at a loss, arguing amongst themselves. In the end, Evelyn tired of reading their educated commentaries. They were irrelevant to her experience of living day-to-day with Eddie.

  He made progress, of sorts. The moments of eye contact grew longer, with more meaning. He would reach out and touch members of the family, usually in thanks or apparent affection. As though he was remembering the bare essentials of communication, his manners were the first part of his speech to return; he began, quite abruptly one day, to say please and thank you at the appropriate moments. The names of his family also crept in. In the last two years he’d occasionally passed comment on the weather, or the quality of the roast meat put in front of him.

  Still, he remained mostly silent. And he did not leave the house. So now, Edward was left to his own devices. He spent his days in the parlour, mostly gazing out of the window. They kept him supplied with tea and left a pen and paper next to him. One day Evelyn found that he’d written his name over and over again on the paper. Another day was a sketch of a face, crudely drawn. She received no response when she asked him who it was. Only those brief touches of the hand, the moments of eye contact, told her that he was still here.

  And now, at his urging, she was leaving him behind. In the drive he had shown to make her leave, to escape claustrophobic West Coombe, she had seen more of his former self than she had since he went to war. Rationalising this morning’s actions was easy in that context.

  She had written letters to explain and had entrusted them to Edward before they had retired for the night. Although she knew there would be worry and pain, she felt sure that the notion that Edward had plotted this with her, that somehow Edward approved, would distract her parents from her own actions. Pragmatic as they were, her parents would undoubtedly be shocked, but not in a way that would greatly affect their day-to-day existence.

  She felt more guilt about Michael. A few hours ago, desperate to move forward in her life, seeking something she did not understand, she had accepted his proposal of marriage and let him kiss her. He’d been so happy when she’d left him, just the evening before. Their time at the dance, and the fireworks, seemed a world away now, not just a few hours. That seemed ludicrous now.

  Michael would be disappointed. Worse than that, he would be hurt. He’d pursued Evelyn for years, patient, waiting. She knew he loved her. Michael was popular though, he had friends enough to occupy him, women enough who would readily be courted. She was, surely, doing the right thing by him. Condemning him to a marriage in which she would never be a satisfied partner could not be the fair action for either of them. She hoped her letter would make that plain, and that he would forgive her.

  She could not explain her motivations in encouraging him and then rejecting him. He would not understand that West Coombe was so small, so suffocating, that she needed to leave. Nor would he understand that, at twenty-five, she still did not feel ready to marry. That her affection for him did not translate into enough of a regard to be ready to promise to spend the rest of her life with him, to obey him, to do everything a man and woman did together. Michael was a good man but she could not marry, as her sister Annie had done, a good man who would give her respectably, content life. She needed more. Michael would never understand. She hoped, very much, that he would recover quickly and move on.

  Saying goodbye to Edward was the hardest. She’d crept into his room before she went down the stairs for the last time. She found him sitting up in bed. He smiled when he saw her and, for an awful moment, she thought he’d forgotten their conversation of the evening before and was just pleased to see her. If Edward did not want her to leave, she could not. She saw his eyes move to the small suitcase she carried with her, calm and happy still. He remembered.

  She had returned home from the Bonfire Party she’d attended with Michael, to find Edward still awake, sitting in the shadows of the parlour. He’d been sitting in his usual chair, but on the edge, as if agitated. The fireworks of Guy Fawkes Night had left him weeping, shivering slightly. She stroked his face and he was quieter, seemed soothed by her presence. He’d looked like a child again, and she wanted nothing more than to embrace him and tell him everything would be all right. However, she could not ignore the sheets of crumpled and torn paper around him, covered in his uneven handwriting. They were on his lap, on the floor, on the arms of the chair, on the side table. There were ink blots all over his fingers, even a smudge of ink just above his top lip.

  “What’s all this, Eddie?” she’d asked gently. Edward looked at her, watching. She bent to pick a scrap up from near Edward’s foot. All that was written was her name. “That’s my name, Eddie. Is this for me?” Edward did not respond, simply stared at the fragment of paper in her hand. She bent and picked up another. “Is it a letter, Eddie, to me?”

  Edward nodded furiously. “A letter. To Evie.”

  Evelyn stared. This was the closest to a conversation she’d had with her brother since before he went to war. He barely ever responded directly to questions. “What were you writing to me about? What does this mean, Eddie?” she asked him, turning the paper, with its indecipherable scribblings, to show him. His eyes dropped to look at what he had written, but he said nothing. His right hand began to tremble and Evelyn grasped it between her own, abandoning the scraps of paper for a moment to soothe him. She saw the tears rising in his eyes. Her mind flew back to the last time she’d truly seen him cry, the night before he’d left for the war. The night he’d made her promise.

  The realisation dawned suddenly. “My promise.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, promise. Evie, promise.” Edward nodded furiously again.

  She’d rarely seen him so agitated, she knew she should try to calm him. But she needed to know what he was thinking. She’d barely given the promise a second thought herself. So much had happened since that night. She was so far from keeping that promise. What she had said tonight, to Michael, was the final step. She’d never keep the promise if she married him.

  “Is that it, Eddie? That you think I’ve not kept my promise?” Edward stopped nodding and stared at her, but the stare was accusatory. “I still think West Coombe’s too small, just like we always did. But I don’t know how to leave. Do you know what I did tonight? I said yes when Michael asked me to marry him. I said yes. I’m going to be Mrs. Michael Godfrey and there’s nothi
ng I can do to stop it. I can’t keep that damn promise, Eddie, even though I want to and you have no business being angry with me about it unless you have some sort of magic and can get me away from here!”

  And he had then produced a kind of magic, Evelyn mused. Crumpled from his pocket, a letter in an unfamiliar hand, on yellowed paper. The final letter written by a fallen comrade, a captain of Edward’s regiment, entrusted to Edward to be delivered to his sister in Mayfair, should he not survive. Edward, for reasons he could not explain, had kept the letter for eight years. She’d read the letter with tears in her eyes. Frank Grainger and his sister Lilian were unknown to her, but to read this brief, intimate insight into their life affected her deeply.

  Edward had taken a deep breath. “Go!” He paused for a moment, waiting for her response. “Promised!”

  “But you can’t go to London, Eddie!” Evelyn was surprised he’d even considered it. “I know you promised this Frank that you’d try, but you can’t.” Edward was suddenly shaking his head again. “It’s all right, Eddie. Maybe we can put the letter in the post, or enquire if Lilian still lives there.” She reached out a hand and tried to soothe him.

  “No!” His voice was loud and Evelyn thought about her parents sleeping in the room above. “You go.”

  Evelyn stared at him, realisation finally beginning to dawn. “Me?” Now Edward was nodding, more gently. He knew she understood. “You want me to go to London and take this letter to Lilian Grainger on your behalf.” Evelyn felt her hands shaking. “And you think it would fulfil what I promised, don’t you, Eddie? It will get me out of West Coombe. Away from Michael.” She reached the finally conclusion quietly, almost to herself.

  Edward had stopped nodding and was simply regarding Evelyn quietly, calmer now.

  “I couldn’t do it, Eddie! Mother and Father wouldn’t allow it and I’ve said what I said to Michael. And I don’t have any money. You can’t just go to London, especially not a woman on her own. What do you expect me to do, just turn up at Lilian Grainger’s door and ask to stay?”

  In silent response, Edward had reached into the pocket of his pyjamas. Into her hands he scooped a raggedy heap of folder pieces of paper. “Saving,” he said, then returned to his silence.

  It took Evelyn a moment to realise that they were bank notes. Most of them only pound notes, but she saw at least one worth twenty pounds. Her heart started to thud heavily in her chest, as the possibilities offered by the money opened to her.

  Evelyn stared at him. For a moment he had almost been Edward from before the war. It had been so brief, but it was enough to confirm he was still there, somewhere.

  “There must be over a hundred pounds here, Eddie.” More than enough for the train and a respectable hotel, even in London. The voice in her head told her she could do it. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore it. “But that still doesn’t mean I can go! It’s unheard of!” Not entirely unheard of, perhaps. The Rawson family from Back Street had moved to Kent a few months ago. A girl she’d been at school with, Cathy Clarke, had visited an aunt and uncle in London every summer. London was not a foreign country. It was one simple train ride away. And now, when she was so desperate to escape, he held this in front of her. Her chance to fulfil promises for both herself and Edward, her chance to see something of the outside world.

  Yet she knew there would be no going back. If she went, her engagement to Michael was in tatters. There would be no one else. Her parents would not understand her need to see the world outside of West Coombe. Besides, Edward had clearly hidden both the letter and money for years, not wanting their parents to know. Whatever his reasoning, it would be a betrayal to tell them. In the end, her loyalty was to Edward.

  She thought of that hot July day, a year or two before the war. Side by side on a clifftop bench, watching the seagulls, the little brown butterflies in the meadow, they’d wondered aloud how such creatures realise they can fly. And suddenly it had seemed to represent everything in their limited, grounded lives. One day, they’d sworn to each other, they would fly.

  Now Evelyn could try, for them both. There would be no further chances. Feeling drunk suddenly, as the adrenaline pulsed through her body, she knew she had to make the attempt. And if she failed, what had she really lost?

  “I’ll do it, Eddie.” It was a whisper at first. “I’ll do it.”

  Edward had smiled then, one of the broadest smiles she’d seen him manage since his return. She smiled back, a surge of youthful excitement filling her. She reached her hands out to Edward, clasping his face in her hands. “The only thing I’ll miss from here is you, Eddie. I love you. And I’ll write, and tell you everything. Can you believe it? I’m going to try to fly, Eddie!” She bent and kissed his forehead, then threw her arms around him and embraced him wholeheartedly.

  And this morning she’d had to part from him. “I came to say goodbye, Eddie. It’s only for now of course. Who knows, I might be back in a few days, when the money runs out. I mean, I’m hoping there’ll be something useful I can do. But if not, I’ll be back really soon. I don’t know what I’ll do then, of course…” Edward was still smiling. Whatever happened, this was worth it to see that smile. “Anyway, it might be for a little while, with any luck. You make sure you give those letters to Mother and Michael, won’t you?” Edward’s eyes flickered with understanding, though he said nothing. “And I’ll write to you too, Eddie. I’ll be thinking about you the whole time. I love you.”

  Evelyn had embraced her brother and felt him put his arms around her shoulders. A barely perceptible whisper: “I love you, Evie.” She squeezed him harder, then straightened up again before the tears could fall.

  This was her time to fly.

  Chapter Two

  Lost in her thoughts, Evelyn was alert enough to be relieved to find an empty road ahead of her. There was little cause for anyone from West Coombe to head for the station, which the village shared with the nearby inland town of Markham, in time for the early train. The first train into the station was a different matter, for it brought mail, fresh fruits and vegetables, stock for her father’s shop, and all manner of items ordered by residents of the town. But the first train out of the station had overnighted here and would set off half an hour before that arrival.

  There were several men in smart suits on the platform of the small station. A family waited patiently with three children in uniform, clearly returning to school. A couple stood close to each other at one end of the platform. Evelyn did not recognise any of them, to her relief. She’d caught very few trains and the man in the ticket booth had never seen her before either. His eyes registered mild surprise when she asked for a single ticket to London.

  “On your own, miss?”

  Evelyn found she rather resented the implication that she could not manage a train journey on her own. “Yes. I’m going to visit relatives, they’ll meet me at Paddington.”

  “Right you are. Staying awhile are you then?” He was only bored and trying to liven up an early morning, but Evelyn really wished he would stop questioning her.

  “Yes, probably until Christmas at least,” she said, marvelling at how easily the lie came to her.

  “Ah, well, don’t fancy it myself. Air full of smoke, that’s what London is. Went there once, tail end of the century it was. Smoke and fog and nasty smells.”

  “Oh, well, my family are in a suburb. It’s not so bad,” Evelyn assured him.

  “If you say so. Have a good trip, miss.” He handed Evelyn her ticket.

  “Thank you. And you have a good day.” She smiled and turned gratefully away from the window. On the platform, she glanced at the big station clock. There were just twenty minutes before the train. Her family would be awake by now, her father preparing the shop for the day, her mother making a start on breakfast. They would not have noticed her absence yet, for she was usually still asleep or reading in her room, especially on days she wasn’t expected to help in the shop. She felt another pang of guilt. Without herself or her recently
married sister Annie to help, her father would have to work longer hours in the shop. Perhaps Peter could step in. As the youngest, he’d never been expected to before, so it was really only fair.

  The waiting was unpleasant since it held with it the possibility of being noticed, or of turning back before she was missed. A heavy nervousness settled in the pit of her stomach. The brightening daylight made it worse. What had seemed reasonable in the rather fraught hours of the night, with Edward next to her, suddenly felt dangerous, impossible even. She stood with feet glued to the platform, not daring to move lest she turn and run back home. She saw herself reflected in the glass of the waiting-room window. Curly chestnut hair framed a rather pale face, a slightly too-slender body. The reflection was not clear enough to show the apprehension in her hazel eyes. She made herself move and watched her reflection take the step to the side with her. It connected her to the reality of the moment, somehow. She was really here at the station, and really going to London.

  Eventually, with a hiss of steam and a plume of black smoke, the train was ready to depart. Evelyn found herself in an empty compartment, glad of the quiet. She was really very tired, her nerves overwrought, and did not relish the idea of sharing the closed space with a stranger who might expect manners or conversation.

  As the train pulled out of the station, Evelyn closed her eyes, unwilling to watch the familiar place disappearing. Even through closed eyes though, it was impossible not to think of the landscape she left behind. Her mind took her to her favourite clifftop vantage point, a place she had often gone to read or just to be alone, away from the judgement of her family, the gossip of the town. She did love to be high on the cliffs, the salt in her hair. Below her she could see down into the valley. West Coombe, the most southerly town in Devon, lay on an estuary, the whole town squeezed into the V-shaped valley, teetering on the edge of the blue water. Considering the open countryside above, it was unfortunate the town had crammed itself onto the slopes and the water’s edge. The buildings were too close, the streets too narrow. Evelyn was immune to the charm that the tourists from the cities saw in the summer months. For her, it was claustrophobic. She remembered that claustrophobia now, trying not to dwell on her departure from the sea and cliffs and beaches she loved.