by Kerri Turner
‘My name’s Bee,’ the woman said, turning back to Evelyn and shaking her unnatural hair over her shoulder.
‘Is that short for Beatrice?’
‘No. B-E-E, like a bumblebee, because I’m always buzzing around and looking into people’s business. Not a real name, obviously, but there’s too much baggage that comes with real names. Mother said she named me after a harlot, which was her idea of a joke for no one would ever pay to see me with my clothes off. As though she knew from birth I’d be ugly and unlovable. Shows how little she knew about what men like.’
Evelyn was lost for words. She reached for the first thing that came to mind. ‘It’s no wonder you changed your name then.’
Bee chuckled, a throaty sound that made her large chest bounce in time with it. Evelyn couldn’t help wondering if the effect was deliberate; it made you want to laugh along with her.
‘You know a lot about equipment like that light?’ Bee asked.
‘I should. I worked with lights throughout the war. Only bigger.’
‘Women’s Volunteer Service?’
‘ATS.’
Bee nodded.
Evelyn was about to ask what group she had been part of during the war—Bee’s accent was a distinctive Birmingham one—but Bee spoke again before she had the chance.
‘Feel like a drink?’
‘Thank you, but I really should be finding my way back.’
‘I didn’t hear “no”. Come on then.’ Bee strode away across the timber deck, and Evelyn had to trot to catch up.
Her gaze drawn to the hum of movement around her, she didn’t see Bee had stopped until she bumped into her. She took a step back, apologising. Bee ignored her, reaching over the railing and grasping hold of a waxed rope tied to it. With a grunt, she began to pull.
Pushing her handbag once more onto her elbow, Evelyn grabbed the rope to help. It was heavy, and when the end emerged from the brown-tinged water, she understood why. Tied to the rope was a fishing net, and in the net was a cluster of bottles, each one wrapped in a piece of cloth.
Bee got Evelyn to hold on to the rope while she leaned over and wiggled her hand through a gap in the net, muttering, ‘Let’s see, what do we have here?’
‘Why do you have so many footlights?’ Evelyn couldn’t resist asking. Her voice came out almost a grunt, revealing the effort holding the net up was costing her.
She had noticed the footlights as they’d walked down the stretch of deck. They were recessed, meaning someone must have built a new deck over the old to allow room for the lights to disappear when not in use.
Bee gave her a quick glance. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘I’ve read in the Strand Electric catalogues that footlights are often overused. You’d be better off spending money and available wattage on a couple of baby mirror spots to use front of house instead.’
Bee pulled down the wet fabric to squint at the label of one of the bottles. ‘Limoncello. Ever had it before? It’s Italian.’
‘No,’ Evelyn gasped, struggling to hold onto the rope.
‘You can let go now. Just feed it back into the water gently, you don’t want to break any. Drunkenness is wasted on fish.’
Evelyn did as she was told.
‘It was my idea to keep the bottles in the water when we’re anchored,’ Bee said, tucking the limoncello bottle under one arm. ‘Keeps them cold. Strand Electric catalogues, did you say?’
Evelyn’s cheeks grew hot. ‘They’re free,’ she said, as though that explained her odd choice of reading material.
Bee pressed her painted lips together, perusing her, then jerked her head. ‘This way.’
Evelyn followed her once more, this time to some stairs that led below deck. The stairs were lined with sheets of black rubber and Evelyn’s shoes stuck a little as she followed Bee down.
‘To stop wet performers from slipping and injuring themselves,’ Bee explained.
Evelyn admired the practicality and attention to detail.
They emerged from the stairwell into a long, narrow hallway with doors along each side. The air was cool yet stuffy, and Evelyn could make out several different accents behind the doors as Bee led her to the very end. Here they were faced with one more door, this time an ornate wooden thing that was clearly not original to the boat. Bee rapped on it and, without waiting for an answer, went in.
‘Humphrey, I’ve someone for you to meet,’ she announced, stepping to the side and holding one arm out like she was presenting a gift.
Evelyn saw that the room doubled as both a bedroom and an office. To one side was a bed attached to the wall, piled high with mismatched exotic-looking cushions. Next to it was a small sink with soaps and a tin of toothpaste lining the edge, and next to that a thin white door. In the centre of the room, dominating it, was a wooden desk bolted to the floor. It was cluttered with papers held down with assorted paperweights, pencils in tins, and shiny scraps of material. Seated behind the desk, his hand poised mid-writing, was the magician from the show.
‘I assume there’s a reason,’ he said, lowering his pen. One hand went to his eyepatch—royal blue satin today, Evelyn noticed—checking it was in place.
‘I always have a reason.’ Bee sat on the edge of his desk, crumpling papers beneath her. A ginger cat, who had been in the spot only a second ago, gave an indignant meow. ‘Oh hush,’ Bee snapped at it. ‘If you’re going to change who you favour every day, don’t expect special treatment from me.’
She reached across the desk and picked up a couple of Bakelite cups, blowing in them to check they were clean. ‘Limoncello?’
The man took a cup from her wordlessly. He had just shaken Evelyn’s hand; a firm and confident grip that was warm even through the cotton of her gloves.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, since Bee hadn’t bothered to introduce them.
‘Evie.’
Evelyn didn’t know why she said it. No one had ever called her Evie before. But the word slipped out of her mouth, its taste foreign on her lips, and it somehow seemed to suit the bustling, strange environment she’d found herself in.
‘She used to work with lights, you know,’ Bee said, sipping her drink. She had forgotten to give Evelyn a cup. ‘During the war. Just now she bossed Alvin and Flynn into doing things her way when they brought that light you purchased on board.’
The man’s eyebrows shot up. Evelyn tried to protest.
‘You misunderstand,’ he said, smiling. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to the side as he folded his hands across his stomach. ‘That’s not a bad thing. Not at all. I’m Humphrey Walsh. I own the Victory, and even I have occasional difficulties getting her inhabitants to do what I want.’
‘She also says we have far too many footlights, and should be using—what was it? Baby somethings?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t mean—I just thought some baby mirror spots might be more efficient.’ Little beads of sweat had popped up over Evelyn’s forehead, and she longed to wipe them away, but didn’t want to draw attention to them.
‘What makes you think that?’ Humphrey Walsh said.
‘I didn’t intend any offence. I don’t even know what I’m talking about really. I’ve just read that footlights are often overused, and that with half the number you could instead purchase a couple of baby mirror spots which would give you more variety …’ She trailed off as Humphrey’s frown deepened.
‘You don’t think we have enough variety? Have you seen the show?’
‘Last night, actually. And it was spectacular. Truly.’
Humphrey’s teeth showed in an amused smile. ‘But?’ he prodded.
‘Well … the lighting, while undeniably bright, is a little flat at times. A constant flood of light doesn’t have quite the same drama as something that changes intensity and focus. And your performers’ faces disappear when they come to the edge of the boat. Footlights aren’t designed for head-to-toe light when someone’s downstage. Or down-boat, I suppose.’
‘An
ything else?’
‘The timing of some of the spotlights in the water is off.’
‘Fascinating,’ Humphrey said. Evelyn was almost sure she heard Bee muffle a snort of laughter. ‘And you learned all this from working in the war?’
‘She learned it by reading about it. For fun,’ Bee supplied.
She and Humphrey looked at each other in a way that made Evelyn feel they were communicating silently.
‘Please, Evie, tell me a little about your war work then.’
It took Evelyn a second to realise Humphrey Walsh was asking about her ATS stint. It was disrespectful to the men who’d fought in the war to talk about women’s work during those years, so she decided to just give a few polite details, as was the proper thing to do.
Instead, she found herself telling him everything. She knew she was talking too much, but couldn’t seem to stop herself, only trailing off when she was done describing the difference between the static one-hundred-and-fifty-centimetre searchlight projector and the ninety-centimetre one used to illuminate bomb sites.
Humphrey Walsh, who hadn’t interrupted once, stared at her as if waiting to see if she really had finished talking. Then, with a sudden motion, he pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘You were right to bring her to me, Bee,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Evie, when would you like to start? We’re only scheduled to be in London for another two days. We were here to capitalise on the Festival crowds, but my performers don’t like being in one place so long. We can hold off for another day or two if you need the extra time, but no more than that I’m afraid.’
The words rushed over Evelyn as though they were a different language. When she saw that both Humphrey and Bee were looking at her expectantly, she made a weird little sound.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I … I don’t understand.’
She looked to Bee for help, but the other woman was smiling into her drink, not meeting her gaze.
Humphrey walked from behind his desk to stand in front of Evelyn. ‘We could use someone like you. I might only have one working eye, but I can always spot an unfulfilled passion when I see one. You, my dear, have something burning inside you which can’t be satisfied by everyday life. You’ve had a taste of what makes you tick, and you’re desperate for more. Only nowhere else is offering it.’
‘No,’ Evelyn protested. They were the words she’d been afraid of someone saying. ‘No, that would be awful. To miss the war, I mean—no one should—no one could. I only came to return this.’
She fished in her handbag for the sequinned appliqué and held it out to him. Humphrey took it but didn’t look at it. He was staring at her, lips pursed. The taste of guilt was bitter in Evelyn’s mouth.
When Humphrey Walsh walked to the door and yanked it open, standing aside with one arm held out, something inside Evelyn dropped. She forced herself to smile, but her feet were leaden as she walked towards him. The most exciting thing that would likely happen to her all her life had just passed by. Her secret was out, and with it came punishment in the form of missed opportunity. With a heart that had plummeted through the floor of the boat and was sinking into the river, she thought of all the days stretching before her, no different from any other that had come before.
As she passed Humphrey, he placed his hand on her elbow. ‘All of us here have secrets many would shudder to learn. That’s the one thing about humanity you can always rely on: we’ll forever judge the secrets and faults of others while desperately trying to make sure our own stay hidden. The Victory is different. Come, let me show you around. You’ll see.’
The opportunity hadn’t slipped through her fingers. Realising this, Evelyn felt the weight lift from her body at the same time a nervous fluttering began. She couldn’t really consider what this man was offering.
Could she?
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Have you lost your mind?’ Cynthia’s hands gripped the edge of the Formica kitchen table so tightly Evelyn thought it might break.
Next to her, their younger sister Maureen sat frozen, fingers twined around a teacup she wasn’t drinking from.
Evelyn swallowed. ‘No, Cynthia. I’ve given this a great deal of thought—’
‘Obviously not,’ her sister snapped. She glared at Maureen. ‘Can you believe this?’
‘It is rather shocking.’
‘Shocking? It’s downright distasteful. It’s … it’s obscene!’
‘Cynthia.’ Evelyn tried to make her voice sound a warning, but it was half-pleading.
‘Come now, Evelyn,’ Maureen said. She gave up on her tea, pushing the cup and saucer away. ‘You have to admit this is an unconventional idea.’
‘Stop tiptoeing around her like that,’ Cynthia said. She pushed herself off the table and walked over to the sink so rapidly the skirt of her brown dress swung around her calves. Grabbing an already clean glass, she began to scrub it furiously. ‘I won’t allow it, Evelyn. I won’t let you bring shame on our family. A woman going out on her own with a bunch of immoral strangers. Who knows what kind of trouble you’d get yourself into.’
‘I’m sorry, Cynthia.’
She really was. This was one of the last times she’d be with her sisters before she joined the Victory, and she didn’t want to leave on an argument.
‘Sorry?’ Cynthia slammed the glass down and turned to face her again. ‘If you were sorry you wouldn’t go. But it doesn’t matter, because as I said, I won’t allow it. I’m the matriarch of this family now, and you do not have my permission to go.’
‘I don’t need your permission.’
For a moment, there was silence. Evelyn caught Maureen’s eye; she looked frightened.
‘You don’t?’ Cynthia hissed. ‘I see. So all you care about is yourself. You’re going to leave your sisters, and your nephew, to go gallivanting off to some godforsaken country and parade around like a common harlot. What will happen to Spencer? Who’ll help him get to and from school when he starts, and sit with him while he does his homework? If the boy becomes a failure it will be your fault.’
Evelyn shook her head. It sent a sharp pain through her to have her sister use Spencer against her. She loved the little boy almost as if he were her own, and it was the thought of leaving him that had nearly stopped her taking Humphrey Walsh up on his unexpected offer of a new life. Now, hearing the same concerns she’d tossed and turned over coming from her sister’s mouth, Evelyn doubted herself all over again.
The truth was, she was scared. After a life of doing what was expected of her, leaving to help a group of strangers better their law-breaking performance just so she could do the kind of work she craved again … It was madness.
It was also freedom.
When she thought of that strange boat, a suffocating weight lifted from her. She had never expected an opportunity for escape, but it had come; an exhilarating, terrifying, incomprehensible opportunity. She had to take it. If it all went wrong—well, at least she’d know and could stop trying to fill that empty space in her soul, stop avoiding the life she, as a woman, was supposed to want.
But Spencer … her sweet boy who had made her days bearable. How could she part from him?
‘He’s not my child,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s yours. You’ll do those things for him.’
‘And when would I have the time?’ Cynthia began. But she was interrupted by a high-pitched wail.
All three sisters turned to look at the doorway. Spencer had dirty fingermarks on his shirt from whatever he’d been eating, and his knee-high socks had fallen around his ankles. His face was red and crumpled.
‘You hate me!’ he cried, his voice sticking into Evelyn like a knife. She moved towards him, but he shook his head and stamped his feet. ‘You hate me and you’re leaving and I’m going to be all alone. Well, I hate you too. I hate you!’ And he whipped around and ran from the room.
‘See what you’ve done now?’ Cynthia snapped. The kettle on the stovetop began to whistle, a shrill sound in sympathy with Spenc
er’s cry. ‘I hope you’re happy with yourself and your selfish choices.’
She snatched the kettle from the hob and turned the stove off with a sharp twist of her wrist. Her flat shoes made squeaking noises as she stalked across the spotless floor, going to comfort her son.
Evelyn blinked a few times to rid herself of tears.
‘She’s right, you know,’ Maureen said, pushing back her chair and taking her teacup to the sink. She turned the tap on, careful not to disturb the milk that was keeping cool in the half-filled tub, and rinsed the cup and saucer. ‘She might not have the best way of putting it, but that doesn’t mean what she’s saying isn’t right. Think how much hurt you’re causing other people. And for what?’
‘For a life.’
Maureen shook her head. ‘You have a life. One everyone else manages to be grateful for. Why can’t you?’
It was the same question Evelyn had often asked herself, and she had no answer.
Maureen left, and Evelyn sank down on a chair, alone in the kitchen of the house she’d lived in for years. A house that had never felt like a home to her. She wondered if she really would have the courage to leave it.
In the end, she almost didn’t. But the fear of drowning in the sameness of a life she’d never been able to resign herself to made her pack her bags.
The morning of Evelyn’s departure, Cynthia stayed inside her bedroom with the door closed. Spencer had slept in there the previous night, under his mother’s instruction, so as to prevent Evelyn saying goodbye to him this morning. Charles had whispered an apology to Evelyn before leaving for work, but even his fury hadn’t coaxed Cynthia out of the room.
Evelyn tapped on the closed door. ‘I wish I could find the words to make you understand, Cynthia,’ she murmured. ‘I know the life you envisioned for me. But how can I be a wife and mother with all I’ve seen and done? Those experiences change a person. You can’t go back to who you were before, with the same expectations of the future.’
