The Daughter of Victory Lights

by Kerri Turner

  The Victory’s performers and crew were crowded around several tables in a club. Evie didn’t understand how going dancing would drum up business for the show, but after so many days in the same siren suit and lace-up loafers it was pleasant to be dolled up in a borrowed cerise taffeta dress with cobalt chiffon overlay, her hands clean and tucked into black beaded gloves, and her hair pinned in victory rolls.

  She was seated at a table with Flynn, Alvin and an Australian dancer. They were all chatting excitedly, happy to be out. Around them, cigarette girls in shorts and tuxedo jackets, their trays hanging from suspenders, dodged waiters who placed silver domes on the white tablecloths. Jacques Hélian, whom Evie had heard on the radio numerous times, was leading the band in upbeat, brass-heavy tunes which only got louder as the night wore on. She had already eaten her fill of rillettes de Tours and fried sole, washed down with cool glasses of Côtes du Rhône. Now she sat back, feeling like a film star as she pulled a compact mirror from her purse and reapplied her scarlet lipstick.

  ‘It’s almost time,’ said the Australian woman, extinguishing her cigarette in the silver ashtray in the centre of their table, her lipstick marking the butt like a kiss. Alvin took her arm and together they walked onto the dance floor.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Flynn asked Evie.

  He was holding his hand out to her, and she noticed the handkerchief in his pocket almost matched the colours of her dress. It was strange to see him dressed formally instead of in his usual work uniform of plaid shirt and trousers. It was even stranger seeing his thick-knuckled hand held out to her in invitation. Her stomach flipped nervously.

  ‘Oh, thank you, that’s kind. But you don’t have to. I’m just as happy to sit here and watch.’

  ‘It’s part of our job to get up there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Trying to suppress a blush, Evie pushed back her chair. Of course he hadn’t really wanted to dance with her.

  ‘Take your purse with you,’ he said.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Trust me, you don’t want to risk it getting lost in the madness. I imagine its contents might be hard to replace.’

  Evie’s regiment badge was tucked inside the enamelled mesh clutch. While losing the money, perfume and other trinkets would be a nuisance, the badge was utterly irreplaceable.

  She grabbed the clutch and gestured to the men’s hats and ladies’ coats scattered about the tables. ‘What about those?’ They’d been instructed to refuse the use of the coat room, much to the disdain of the vestiaires.

  ‘They’re of less importance.’ Evie shot Flynn a doubtful look, and he added, ‘They’ll be taken care of.’

  Evie wanted to ask what madness he’d been referring to, but his hand was on the small of her back and he was leading her to the dance floor. He turned her to face him, and when she rested her hand on his shoulder she reflected that it had been a long time since she’d danced with a man—especially one who moved so well.

  ‘I promise not to stand on your toes,’ Flynn said and Evie smiled.

  The invitation to dance might only have been out of obligation to the Victory, but nonetheless it felt good when the music swept her into its embrace. She was beginning to really enjoy herself when she noticed something. Alvin, who was parading around with the Australian dancer, kept bumping into them. At first Evie thought it an accident, but after a second and then a third bump, she knew it had to be deliberate.

  ‘What is he doing?’ she muttered, glancing at Flynn.

  With an expert spin he had her by his side, one arm sliding around her waist to usher her out of the way. Evie tried to protest, not ready to stop dancing, but Flynn silenced her with a motion of his head. They didn’t leave the dance floor, as she had anticipated, but came to a stop only a few feet away from where they’d been dancing. Evie could now see that Alvin and his partner’s wild dancing had cleared a space in the crowd—a space that was ringed with Victory performers. The club’s other patrons continued to dance, but more than a few were looking at them with curiosity or irritation.

  ‘Get ready for it,’ Flynn whispered, his head bent forward so his breath brushed against Evie’s ear.

  She drew in a sharp breath of her own, but it was drowned out by the loud blurt of a trombone that missed a note by quite some distance. A mutter ran through the crowd and heads turned to where the band was playing. The bandleader looked unimpressed. Evie stood on her toes to see better. One of the Victory’s performers was pulling on the end of the trombone player’s instrument. He pulled a face at the watching crowd, then skipped away before anyone could grab him.

  No one was dancing any more. The crowd still moved, but in confusion, hands raised to whisper behind them, eyebrows lowered as they tried to figure out what was going on. Then a loud shout startled them all, and the crowd, including Evie and Flynn, turned around to look behind them.

  In the circle Alvin and his partner had created stood Bee, her arms thrown up in the air. She was wearing a scarlet taffeta evening dress which dipped dangerously low at the neck. Evie grabbed Flynn’s arm, afraid Bee might accidentally expose herself in front of all these strangers and get arrested.

  ‘I had a husband who used to make sounds like that,’ Bee said loudly, her voice bouncing around the club. The room went still, even the clattering of the waiters halting. ‘Only it came out the wrong end. Then again, there’s only one end on a man that’s the right one, and I’ll tell you this: it ain’t his head!’

  Shocked gasps rippled through the crowd. Some of the ladies turned their heads away; others, who couldn’t speak English, turned to their companions to ask what was going on.

  Bee grinned and gave her shoulders a little shake. As she did so, a man skidded before her on his knees, a clarinet pilfered from the band lifted to his lips. As the instrument’s owner shouted, red-faced behind two performers who blocked his way, the thief began playing and, with a swing of her hips, Bee sang the chorus of her Victory song.

  Evie’s mouth dropped open. Always shocking, the song was made even more so in the elegant cream and white surrounds of the club. Behind her, she felt a tremor of laughter run through Flynn.

  ‘Ooh, can you feel my suspenders through your trousers?’ Bee demanded, sitting on the clarinet player’s knee while he continued to play. He shook his head, and she leaned in closer so his face almost disappeared in her cleavage. ‘Guess I’ll have to try harder then!’

  A laugh broke from Evie’s lips, but her attention was diverted by a couple of women who were suddenly spinning in mid-air. They must have been thrown by their dance partners, but all Evie saw was a whirl of taffeta and tulle skirts and nylon stockings as the women somersaulted out of the crowd. Loud mutterings in French became shouted remarks, but whether in appreciation or protest Evie couldn’t tell.

  The impromptu performance was getting bigger and louder. Evie felt fingers close around her arm, then Flynn was speaking in her ear again. ‘Get ready to get out of here.’

  Before Evie could ask what was going to happen, Alvin was standing next to Bee holding a baton tipped with fire. He tilted his head back and spat a long column of flames above the heads of the crowd. Chaos erupted. Women screamed, running in every direction, pushing at those who got in their way. A lone few clapped appreciatively, but when they realised the general mood of the room they stopped and changed their faces into frowns.

  Evie was jolted by those running past; she would have been knocked over if it weren’t for Flynn, who was pushing her hard from behind. ‘Flynn,’ she gasped, but couldn’t say anything else. His hand clasped hers, tight enough that she felt the beads on her gloves break off and scatter. Somewhere behind her Bee was yelling that if people wanted to see more they should head down to the shore after dark the following evening.

  Flynn pulled Evie back among the tables and chairs, and scooped up bundles of coats and hats. Without knowing what she was doing, Evie held out her arms. When they were full of crumpled fabric, Flynn gestured with hands laden with hats for her to foll
ow him. They went through the front door, slipping unnoticed past the crowd of people who were demanding their coats back from the vestiaires. Around the side of the building they ducked, to where Victory performers were coming out of a concealed exit.

  ‘Alvin!’ Flynn called. The fire breather turned just in time to catch the hat Flynn tossed like a discus. ‘Nice show.’

  Alvin responded with a salute, then disappeared down the street.

  Flynn grabbed a couple of coats from Evie’s pile and tossed them to their owners, then told her to follow him. She wrapped her arms tightly around the remaining bundle. The boning in her borrowed dress dug into her waist painfully but she ignored it, a sense of urgency gripping her as they twisted through the streets of Saint-Malo, not fast enough to draw attention but quickly leaving the chaos behind.

  Finally, Flynn came to an abrupt halt. He put his pile of hats on top of his own head and pulled Evie close so they were pressed up against a wall, the very image of a couple caught up in their own romance. His proximity made her insides tumble.

  She tried to gasp out a question but Flynn put a hand on her lips, stilling her words. He kept his face close to hers, sharing the same air, and Evie thought that if she tipped her head forward just a fraction their noses would be touching.

  Flynn slowly lifted his head, his eyes darting from side to side. ‘I think we’re okay now.’

  Evie didn’t respond. His hand was still on her mouth, and the thought of her lips moving against his palm made her dizzy. A small, hidden part of her wanted to feel it, to taste his skin, and she was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see the flush of warmth spreading across her cheeks, neck and chest.

  Realising where his hand was, Flynn dropped it and took a step away. The air between them was cool, the summer evening unable to compete with the warmth of human closeness.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I-I didn’t—’

  ‘It’s alright.’ Evie pressed her back into the wall behind her. ‘Were we …’ She had to clear her throat to return her voice to its normal pitch. ‘Were we being followed?’

  ‘Hard to say. We usually aren’t, but sometimes locals don’t take well to foreigners upsetting the peace. You can’t be too careful. At least, that’s what Humphrey tells us, and what the boss says goes.’

  ‘Causing such upset is supposed to bring people to the show?’

  ‘Once the initial shock wears off, people get gossiping and it becomes the most exciting thing that’s happened to them in weeks. Those who were there want more, and those who weren’t want a taste of it.’

  Evie nodded. Even with the hats still piled on his head, Flynn didn’t look ridiculous. She forced her gaze down and gave herself a stern but silent talking-to: just because she hadn’t been so close to a man in some years didn’t mean she needed to go giddy with desire over the first one that came along.

  ‘Would you look at that,’ she said, lifting up her little mesh purse which was caught in the bundle of coats. ‘I managed to hold on to it.’

  Flynn stared at her. His eyes were almost black in the blue light of night, and she couldn’t help thinking how thick and dark his lashes were. She thought he might be tilting towards her, just a touch, and she parted her lips.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, taking the coats out of her arms and turning away from her. ‘Let’s get these back to their owners.’

  Evie’s disappointment was followed by a sharp internal rebuke. She had drunk too much wine and was letting the magic of a new place and exciting events carry her away. It was lucky Flynn wasn’t as foolish as she, or who knew what might have happened.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Evie stood on the deck, running her fingers through the curls she’d just released from their night-time pins. She must have seen hundreds of sunrises in her years with the 93rd Searchlight Regiment, but none like this. It was as though someone had spilled watercolour paints across the sky—all smudgy lavender and soft apricot and pink the exact colour of Spencer’s toes when he was born.

  No one else was up yet aside from herself and Humphrey, who had already pulled the net full of bottles from the water and laid it on the deck in preparation for setting sail. Cast and crew often slept late after a show but Evie hadn’t wanted to miss her last glimpse of Saint-Malo. The boat thrummed underneath the soles of her loafers; they would be moving off soon.

  Evie wrapped her hands around the cool metal rail and leaned forward. As the Victory began to make ripples, impulse took her and she lifted one arm and waved it in farewell.

  ‘Leaving someone you know?’

  The voice made her jump. Flushing, she turned to see Alvin, who’d emerged from below deck and was stretching his arms high above his head as he yawned.

  ‘No, just taken by a silly fancy,’ she said, trying to laugh off her embarrassment.

  Alvin joined her at the railing, leaning his elbows on it. ‘Nothing silly about fancies. Without them we probably wouldn’t have jobs.’

  They stood in silence, watching as Saint-Malo retreated into the new day. The Victory wasn’t heading for too-deep water—they’d be tracing the Brittany coast, making stops at port cities and large towns to perform—but Evie didn’t know when they’d have shore leave again.

  Humming a tune from the show, she turned her back and slid down until she was seated, knees bent at a sharp angle. She pulled a red scarf out of the pocket of her siren suit and tied it around her head. The breeze skimming the boards lifted the flyaway hairs around her face, and she closed her eyes, tilting her head back to enjoy the sensation.

  ‘Not seasick again, are you?’

  Evie opened her eyes to see Alvin squinting down at her. She smiled. ‘No, thank heavens. Just enjoying a rare break.’

  Alvin hitched his trousers and sat next to her. She could smell the fresh scent of soap on him.

  ‘What are you doing up so early?’ she asked. ‘Not usual for you performers.’

  ‘I often don’t sleep well. Not since the war.’

  Evie understood. Even now, these years later, she was still sometimes visited by nightmares of the things she’d seen.

  ‘How did you end up on the Victory, Alvin? I take it you served during the war.’

  ‘Yes. I was a member of the Victory first though, in the years before fighting broke out. My mother and father were with the Hicks and Sawyer Minstrels so I grew up knowing and loving the life of a performer. By the time I was on my own, vaudeville was popular, but it was hard for a black man. I did the best I could anyway, but then America became all about cinema. So I came here to see what I could make of myself. Got a job at the Windmill Theatre in London. You know it?’

  ‘Only by reputation. There were articles in the papers about how they stayed open right through the war.’

  ‘So I heard. I was on board the Victory by then, though. Humphrey was exempt from conscription because of his eye and took her over to safer waters in North America. While back home I took the opportunity to enlist. That’s how I met Flynn—our companies crossed paths during the war and we became friendly. I introduced him to the boat after we left the services.’

  The Victory caught the swell of a wave, lifting Evie and Alvin high enough to see over the railing on the far starboard side. It was almost impossible to pinpoint where sea met sky. Evie waited for the boat to dip back down to a level position before continuing.

  ‘So how did you go from the Windmill to the Victory?’

  ‘Humphrey worked at the Windmill, cleaning the place and selling tickets. He was just a kid, fresh from dropping out of school, but after he gave the theatre manager an idea that proved profitable, Mr Van Damm allowed him to audition for Revudeville.’

  ‘What was the idea?’

  ‘You’ve heard of tableaux vivants? They’re a sort of living photograph. Only at the Windmill, ours were done nude. Mr Van Damm had flair for creating scenes, but even his creativity was tested by the censorship laws that meant the girls could be naked so long as they didn’t move. Humphrey’s idea was t
o have girls spinning on a rope, or pushed in a cart by a clothed person. They technically weren’t moving but being moved, you see? Kept us out of trouble and proved mighty popular with the patrons too. Your newspaper articles say anything about the Windmill steeplechase?’

  Evie shook her head.

  ‘As soon as a show ended, men would rush for the front seats. You’ve never seen anything like it—they’d be crawling over the backs of chairs, getting bloody noses from flying elbows and fists. It was a kind of madness. Made Humphrey realise how much effort men would go to when they wanted to see a show badly enough. I took him to a burlesque club so he could see how wild they got over shows which dared to do the illegal. That same night it got raided by the police. We ran, but some of the dancers were locked up for the night, along with a bunch of men from the audience. Humphrey began to imagine ways of holding a show out of the reach of police. Or at least difficult enough to get to that they wouldn’t bother, but paying audiences would.’

  ‘So he came up with a boat.’ Evie shook her head, marvelling at the ingenuity.

  ‘It cost him though.’ The clouds above shifted, casting a shadow over Alvin’s face. ‘He was in love with Betti Talbot, one of the Windmill girls. She was Mr Van Damm’s daughter—she changed her name so no one would judge her father for her participation in the nude shows. She was a nice girl, and warm towards Humphrey, I believe, but when he asked her to marry him and perform on his boat she refused. Said she couldn’t leave her father. Humphrey offered for them both to join the Victory, but Mr Van Damm was loyal to the Windmill’s owner and wouldn’t go.’

  ‘Humphrey didn’t stay for the girl?’

  ‘He’d already bought the boat. It was all chipped paint and dry decking back then—the early years she doubled as a tramp steamer, carrying firewood and building supplies to pay for her improvements—but he thought it was a grand, romantic gesture. Instead, he said the boat became his biggest magic trick: making an entire future disappear.’