by Kerri Turner
But with Evie all he was trying to do was make her feel better. She’d responded to the banana as though he’d given her a pot of gold, but watching her on the deck, pale and crumpled into a heap, it had been impossible not to want to help. He thought he might have detected an urge to pick her up in his arms and cradle her until her seasickness passed. But that was ridiculous. She was nothing at all like the women he usually went for. There was nothing flashy about her.
Still, he had to admit she had a quiet confidence which he found intriguing. Her curiosity sent her buzzing all over the boat, talking to everyone and asking a hundred questions, yet she never seemed to doubt herself. Flynn wondered what it must be like to live in such self-assurance.
As they’d catalogued the lights, she’d berated him about how many of them were burned-out and discarded. He’d stared at her, eyebrows high, but she hadn’t even noticed his surprise that she would talk to him so. She was too busy scribbling ideas to make better use of the limited electric supply available, telling him her plan would mean fewer lights yet hopefully a better output and more variety.
That was the thing about her. She wasn’t caught up in the past, even though as a Londoner she must have been through the Blitz and been exposed to some terrible sights. She didn’t question her every action, afraid of how the consequences of each choice she made might affect someone else. She simply got things done.
Perhaps by being around her he could learn to become like her. He touched the place on his cheek where her underwear had stuck and thought it was certainly worth a try.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1951: Saint-Malo, France
Evie let the pen relax in her hand, drumming the end of it on the almost-blank paper in an uneven rhythm. Barely more than a sentence, and already she was stuck.
Dear Cynthia,
I am sorry we parted on such unhappy terms. I wish
What did she wish? That she and her sister had an entirely different relationship, one that enabled her to be honest with Cynthia and have her feelings understood?
She sighed and looked at the porthole in her tiny cabin. France lay beyond, and the shore leave Flynn had mentioned—and with it the chance to post a letter back home. She had to find some words now if she didn’t want their silence to continue to stretch across the ocean.
I wish you could have seen fit to embrace me when I left, the way sisters should even when they are angry. But I do know how difficult it is for you to understand. Perhaps I’ve not done the best job of explaining, so let me try again.
There is no amount of turning mattresses, beating carpets and cooking breakfasts that could distract a mind as highly trained as mine became during the war. A baby reaching towards me with an open mouth would only make me wonder how many babies I orphaned through my work. This is why Spencer is so precious to me. In him, I see a reason for all that we did. It was for hope of a future in which men and women wouldn’t know what it feels like to kill or be killed.
Please give Spencer a hug from me. As angry as you might still be with me, please don’t deny him the love of his aunt.
Your ever-sorry sister,
Evelyn
She had almost signed off as ‘Evie’, but there had been enough change for Cynthia to cope with. Let her have that small thing.
Evie folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. As she wrote the familiar address on the front, she marvelled that it no longer belonged to her. She had no address now.
Evie perched on a rung that had been riveted to the mast, surrounded by darkness. With every breath she took the sequins on her siren suit rippled gently, matching the stars above. The sea air smelled fresh, and from this high up she could feel the motion of the boat much more. Her stomach turned once, but it was more a reminder of her previous illness than anything else. Just above her were a junior flood and a baby mirror spot, rigged to a length of alloy barrel with hook barrel-clamps. It was up to her to vary the direction and spread of light of the flood, and to change the beam angle of the spot by altering the lens arrangement. She would connect them to the junior switchboard at some point, but was holding off until her plan for the new layout of lights was finalised.
Tonight’s performance was the first Humphrey had allowed Evie to participate in. Flynn was manning the switchboard, following a pattern she had devised but still wasn’t happy with. To try to prove her value, Evie had come up with something new they were going to debut that night. She’d noticed the way great puffs of smoke poured from the red-tipped funnel when the boat sailed, and sometimes while it was still. When she’d asked, Humphrey had explained he could control when the smoke was released as the ship’s engines were rarely ever shut off. Evie had ventured her idea: if they were to spotlight the smoke using a coloured filter, it could become part of the show—a glowing, surreal cloud of colour that spread out and high into the sky to make an unearthly frame for the spectacular events going on underneath.
Humphrey had never allowed smoke out during the show before. But he’d listened to her idea with curiosity and allowed her to experiment with some old dyed sheets of gelatine on a night they’d had no show. It had worked magnificently, the smoke clouds changing from an angry red to a calm ocean blue to an exotic green. The gelatine could only be a temporary measure—she hoped she could convince Humphrey to buy the expensive yet far more durable Cinemoid she’d read about if tonight went well.
It was one thing attempting the special effect under controlled circumstances, with no audience to be disappointed if she failed. But what if tonight too much smoke was released and it obscured the dancers? Or, instead of looking impressive like it did from the deck or masts of the boat, it looked terrifying from the water, too reminiscent of the not-so-long-ago smoke-filled nights of the war? It was a risk, and they were taking it because of her.
Evie shivered. In her head, she ran through her cues, picturing each one being executed in a perfectly timed manner. It calmed her a little. From her vantage point she could see the entire long, narrow boat. At one end, on the bridge, the dancers were waiting, hidden by the dark, their rubber-soled feet shifting restlessly. Further along, Alvin was holding a pile of black towels ready for the swimmers. Loudspeakers were set up at strategic points, ready to burst into life and accompany the few live instruments which were played during the show.
A low sound from a clarinet rippled through the night air, the signal the show was about to begin. Evie’s palms began to sweat, and she wiped them on her siren suit. She was surrounded by stillness now, the only sign of life the gentle rhythmic rocking of the waves. She reached up, hands resting on her lights just as they used to during the war, and waited for Humphrey’s introduction.
During the performance she was kept busy meeting her cues and taking yet more mental notes about where things could be improved. Yet all the time her mind kept flicking to her special effect, which Humphrey had determined would be part of the grand finale.
Finally, a slew of women were climbing the rope webbing that stretched up towards the masts, ready to throw themselves into their final dives. Humphrey stood in the centre of the boat, facing the water, hands coming together for his last magic trick. It was time.
Evie clipped a blue filter in place—they were only trying one colour tonight, and blue had been chosen as the least frightening—and changed the direction of the light. Then she waited, every muscle tense with anticipation, for Flynn to release the smoke as Humphrey had shown him.
It started small, but before long there was a great plume of ethereal blue smoke stretching into the sky, complemented by an orange glow from Alvin’s column of fire below. Even at her distance Evie could hear the shouts of awe from the audience.
She kicked one foot out among the stars, the only expression of triumph she could manage with her hands so busy. It had worked. And this crowd, the first to ever witness such a stunt, would tell all their friends and family about the spectacular they had seen.
Evie had proved herself a worthy addition to the
Victory.
Evie had changed her siren suit for a floral dress and a brown coat that reached mid-calf. Her vinyl-covered embroidered handbag was tucked over one arm. She looked at herself in her tiny cabin mirror and saw the Evelyn of old. In one hand she held a half-hat; in the other, the letter she’d written to Cynthia. The echo of her sister’s voice nagging her about the decency of hats swirled around her head. Evie stared at her reflection, then threw the hat on her bed.
Most of the Victory’s inhabitants were on deck, catching the first sight of Saint-Malo. Evie joined them. The weather was some of the best she’d ever seen, the sky an impossible expanse with only the smallest cottonwool wisp of cloud no enemy plane would have been able to hide behind.
A seagull landed on the railing, where it preened its white and grey feathers with a yellow-tipped beak until it got sick of being teased by the watching performers and flew away. Evie watched it soar towards the city and exchanged a quick anticipatory smile with Alvin, who stood shoulder to shoulder with her. The warm sun and sea breeze caressing her bare head made her giddy. She couldn’t wait to get ashore.
The Victory neared the ramparts that marked the entrance to the port. Evie bit the inside of her cheek. She’d never seen anything like this city before. Long, brownish walls encircled it, looking as though they’d grown right up out of the surrounding beaches. Over the top of the wall peeped grey buildings, some spired, some with flat roofs. They gave her the uncanny feeling that the city was peering out at the boat and her inhabitants instead of the other way around.
‘Ready to have some fun on land?’ Bee asked her.
Humphrey had told them all he expected them to excite interest for the Victory, although no one had explained to Evie exactly what this meant.
‘I’ll say. I’m hoping to get myself some nylon stockings.’ It was exciting to have money of her own.
The first few steps on land felt odd, as though she was a baby animal learning how to walk. Bee told her it was evidence she’d found her sea legs. Evie inhaled deeply. Aside from the salt in the sea air, she could catch lingering traces of perfume and cigarette smoke and the faint scent of baking bread.
The buildings were crammed so close together they were almost on top of one another, and the flat faces of the houses lining the streets were pockmarked from mortar shells, so similar to the scars London wore. Evie felt a surge of affection for this city and its people, who also knew what it was to have your home under siege from the sky. Many of the buildings had been patched up, while others were being rebuilt in the same granite eighteenth-century style, but she wondered if any of the cities that had been attacked would ever be free of signs of the war.
Many of the women she passed wore trousers. They were effortlessly chic and modern, making Evie feel dowdy in her Utility dress and coat. Not even a pair of the best nylons would fool someone into thinking she was anything more than a gaping tourist. She decided to forget the stockings and focus instead on posting her letter, then finding out if there was somewhere she could buy Cinemoid filters and a hood to replace the biscuit tin that was being used on one of the floods.
Evie was lost in her thoughts and didn’t hear the man whistle at first. There was a low rumble of laughter, and she looked up to see Bee throwing a wink to a young man barely out of school, who subsequently put two fingers in his mouth and let out a second shrill whistle. Evie’s feet faltered. She didn’t want to walk past that boy and have his whistle directed at her. Not that she could compare to Bee in her grey and black polka dot dress and perfect curls, but she didn’t know how much that would matter to the whistler.
Up ahead Bee was throwing her platinum curls over her shoulder. ‘Hold your head up,’ she called when she saw Evie hesitating. ‘Whistling’s how you know you look good.’
Instead of hurrying to catch up, Evie’s feet came to a standstill. She looked at her handbag, then rummaged in it as though searching for something. ‘Traveller’s cheques,’ she announced, making her excuse to change direction from the group. ‘From the boss. Need to find the post office to cash them so I can get some equipment.’
She spun so fast her skirt flared around her hips, and walked rapidly away. The sound of footsteps behind her made her nervous, but it was only Flynn.
‘Let me come with you,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to get lost in a strange city.’
Evie didn’t want to admit she was relieved. She was all for adventure, but the very newness of everything was making her wrong-footed and unsure.
‘You’ve been to Saint-Malo before?’ she said. ‘I thought it was the Victory’s first time here.’
He reached out and took Evie’s handbag to carry it for her. ‘It is. But I’ve been to enough cities in France to pick up the occasional phrase. At least enough to ask for directions.’
‘Something I should probably learn as well.’ They walked in silence for a time, Evie not daring to tell Flynn that she was wandering aimlessly. Eventually, she said, ‘Thank you for coming with me.’
‘It’s no problem. You shouldn’t mind men like that though. The performers get it all the time.’
‘But I’m not a performer. I enjoy staying hidden and letting my work be the thing on display.’
Flynn’s dark eyes were narrowed and measuring as he looked sideways at her. It made Evie uncomfortable.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You really love it, don’t you? The lights and setting up the equipment and the false razzle dazzle of it all.’
‘False? I don’t think it’s false. Illuminating the dark has such power. It can be done for good or bad, and I think what we’re doing is good. We bring joy to people, and heaven knows that’s all too fleeting. Of course I love it. Don’t you?’
Flynn rubbed his hand over his clean-shaven chin. His eyes slipped away from her own, darting around the street until they rested on something further ahead.
‘Look at that,’ he murmured, tipping his head.
Evie stared at him a moment longer before looking towards a telephone box filled to bursting with what appeared to be a large number of young men. Another man stood in the opening where the door should have been, one leg ready to hook over the hunched shoulder of someone already inside.
‘Not a bad attempt, but I’ve seen better,’ Flynn said.
‘You’ve seen this before?’
‘Sure. You haven’t? It’s called phone-booth cramming. Or the telephone-box squash, depending where you are. You see how many people you can get inside, and the rule is someone has to make a phone call for it to count.’
As they passed the box, Evie watched the young man heave himself up into the impossibly tiny space left at the top of the pile.
‘Why would anyone do such a thing?’ she asked, tearing her eyes away just in time to step out of the way of a Vespa painted in ice-creamy colours which cut the corner too finely.
‘For fun,’ Flynn said, changing sides so he was the one closer to the road. ‘Like you said, joy’s all too fleeting. Some people create their own.’
Evie couldn’t see the fun in jamming oneself into an impossibly small space. But she knew most people wouldn’t see the fun in tinkering with reflectors and brackets, or calculating how many watts a given amp supply would allow. She was in no place to judge.
‘You couldn’t use those language skills of yours to ask where the nearest post office might be, could you?’ she asked. ‘I have the traveller’s cheques to change, plus I need to send a letter to my sister.’
A friendly local pointed out the direction, and as they strolled together Flynn asked about Evie’s sister. ‘You must miss her. I’m sure she’ll be glad to get a letter from you.’
‘No doubt,’ was all Evie could manage. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about the complicated nature of her relationship with Cynthia. This was a day off and she intended to enjoy her freedom rather than dwell on what it had cost her.
The clerk at the post office was able to give Evie the address of a local amateur th
eatre group, along with the name of the man who headed it. She told Flynn he needn’t come any further with her if he had things he wanted to do himself, but he said her plans were as good as any and stayed by her side. In the end it was convenient having him there, for the theatre director spoke very little English and Evie no French. Flynn managed to negotiate what she hoped was a decent price on a couple of used Cinemoid filters the theatre group was willing to part with.
They didn’t have a hood appropriate for the floodlight, and when she suggested to Flynn that they try somewhere else, he tipped his head back and squinted at the sky.
‘Better not. We’ll need to head back to the boat if we want to be ready in time.’
‘In time for what? And ready how?’
Flynn flashed her a grin, which took Evie aback. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile like that, and the way it wiped the haunted expression from his dark eyes made her understand the kind of person he must have been before the war. Carefree, jovial, perhaps even a little wild.
‘Your first time’s more fun if it’s a surprise,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say I hope you’ve got something fancy to wear.’
First time? Evie wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.
Catching her expression, Flynn actually laughed. It was a stuttering sound, as though he didn’t do it much, and despite her reservations Evie found herself joining in. Whatever lay ahead of her, if it made the usually reticent Flynn behave like this, it couldn’t be all bad.
