by Kerri Turner
With slow steps, Evie made her way back below deck to the galley. Perhaps a glass of warm milk would help her sleep. A drop of something stronger in it wouldn’t hurt either, and might calm the baby who was just as restless from the events of the night.
Alvin was in the galley, rinsing out a cup. He looked up when Evie shuffled in and gave her a small smile. He still wore his fire breather’s costume, dried into soft wrinkles after being in the water.
‘Looks like we all had the same idea,’ he said.
Evie looked beyond him. Flynn was seated at one of the small tables bolted to the floor, a plate of iced biscuits before him and a glass of whisky between his fingers. Evie hesitated, then decided she couldn’t be bothered getting worked up over his presence. There were greater problems on board the Victory that night.
She took the seat across from him.
He glanced up, then pushed the untouched plate over to her. ‘Cookie?’
‘Biscuit,’ she countered, then immediately wished she hadn’t. What did it matter? She looked down at the plate, picked up one of the biscuits and crumbled its edge between forefinger and thumb. She wasn’t sure she could eat.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Flynn’s voice was a touch slurred, and she wondered how much he’d already had to drink.
‘Not after tonight’s events.’ She didn’t mention that her stomach was also making her uncomfortable. ‘What about you?’
‘Same old nightmares.’
Evie placed the biscuit back on the plate and wiped her fingertips on a cotton napkin. Flynn had never mentioned nightmares to her before.
‘Because of the things you saw? During the war?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Because of the things I still see every damn time I close my eyes.’ Flynn threw back a mouthful of whisky. ‘Put it this way: everything since the war has been an exercise in trying to forget.’
Evie looked down at her hands. There was a small pile of biscuit crumbs before her and she used her fingernails to edge the pile into straight lines.
‘Have you managed to yet? Forget, I mean.’
‘Do I seem like a man who’s moved beyond his nightmares?’
He drained the last of his whisky, then pushed his chair back to get up. He stared at the mound of her stomach peeking over the edge of the table, the corners of his eyes tight, and Evie put her hand on her belly self-consciously.
‘I almost did forget, you know,’ he said, his voice a soft whisper that barely carried to her. ‘With you. It was the closest I ever came. But the nightmares came back. They always come back.’
Unexpected tears came to Evie’s eyes. She didn’t know if Flynn saw them; by the time she’d dabbed them away with the sleeve of her dressing gown he’d left and Alvin was in his vacated chair.
Alvin pushed over a mug with steam rising from the top. It was full of hot milk.
‘You read my mind. Thank you.’ Gratefully, Evie took a sip. She was shaken by Flynn’s confession, and exhausted by the stresses and fear of the night. A tight pang ran across her stomach.
‘You’ve good reason to be angry with him, Evie. I know that,’ Alvin said. ‘But the war … we didn’t fight in it, me or Flynn.’
Evie was startled. ‘You didn’t?’ From Flynn’s strong reactions, she’d always assumed he’d seen action.
‘No. We were both in Graves Registration companies, following in the wake of the fighting men and clearing up the mess of the battlefields. Going to extraordinary lengths to identify the bodies—or parts of bodies—so their families would know what became of their boys. That kind of work … it worms its way inside your head and stays there. On the outside, a Graves Registration man might seem to have adjusted to peacetime, but we’re all still stuck in the war, unable to find a way out.’ He stopped, running a hand from the back of his head to his forehead.
Evie could see it now: the haunted expression at the back of Alvin’s eyes that mirrored Flynn’s. She opened her mouth to respond, but a sharp, intense pain shot through the depths of her belly. She gasped, clutching her stomach. A spasm ran beneath her hands, and she cried out.
‘Evie, what is it?’ Alvin had shot out of his seat to her side and was holding her shoulders, trying to look at her face.
But Evie was hunched over, intense pain squeezing her from the inside, taking her breath away.
‘The baby. Alvin … I think the baby is coming.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Evie’s baby finally arrived after a long, exhausting labour. Evie held her daughter close to her breast for hours afterwards, losing herself in the scent of her damp, fine hair. It reminded her of Spencer when he’d been just a baby, and she was sorry her beautiful little girl wouldn’t know her cousin.
Both Evie and the injured performer were seen by a doctor in Lisbon, who seemed hopeful of a full recovery for both—albeit a much slower one for the dancer. The boat was now on her way to France and Calais, the home city of the injured woman: they were taking her back to her family and the best care Humphrey’s money could provide. There would be no shows until they reached their destination and Evie was glad of the reprieve. It meant she had more time to spend with her new daughter.
Evie took a grizzling Lucy onto the deck, one hand cupped around her face to protect it from the wind. ‘Shush, shush,’ she murmured. The rosebud mouth turned down in a deep frown and Evie laughed.
‘You look like you’re doing well,’ said a hesitant voice.
Evie turned to look at Flynn. Having him so close while their baby was in her arms made her heart flutter somewhere in her throat.
He unfurled his crossed arms to reveal a plush dalmatian with a red tongue and a bow around its neck. ‘For the baby.’
‘A Dismal Desmond!’ Evie cried in delight. ‘I haven’t seen one of those in years. Wherever did you get it?’
‘I found it. During the war, at a bombing site. I-I’ve had it with me since. Thought it should go to someone who’d love it as its original owner must have.’ He gave an awkward shrug and held the dalmatian out. ‘Maybe it’ll bring joy instead of just being a reminder of past failings.’
Evie wanted to say something, to offer some comfort after the truths Alvin had told her, but Flynn’s expression didn’t invite conversation. She shifted Lucy’s weight to one arm and took the Dismal Desmond, making it dance in front of the baby’s face. Her eyes followed it back and forth, and for a second Evie thought she heard Flynn chuckle.
His weight was tilted forward on his toes to see the baby better, and Evie saw his throat move as he swallowed a few times. She wondered: did he feel the same kind of connection to Lucy that Evie had experienced the moment she’d first seen her pink rumpled body and pinched face? Or did it hurt him to look at the child he had created but didn’t yet know?
‘Would you like to hold her?’ she asked tentatively.
Flynn stumbled backwards, hands rising in front of him as though to protect himself. ‘No, no, I-I can’t. I … should go.’
But he lingered for just a second, and had Evie blinked she would have missed the way his fingers stretched out, towards the baby or the dalmatian or both. Then he was gone.
Evie cradled Lucy closer. Feeling her move just above her own heartbeat made it seem she was part of Evie’s own body still. But she knew now there was more to it than that; Lucy was a part of her soul. If only Flynn would allow himself to experience that. Then he too might know the healing joy and comfort of one’s own child.
Holding both baby and dalmatian was uncomfortable, so Evie made her way back to her cabin and tucked Lucy into the frilly cradle, squeezed in the gap between her bed and the wall, that Humphrey had procured for her.
She perched the dalmatian at the foot of the cradle, then took out pen and paper and began to write.
My dearest Lucy,
A wise man once told me that sometimes our biggest trials can become our biggest triumphs. I knew from very early on that you were going to be a fighter—from the first time you kicked me you never s
eemed to stop. But there will be times when the world throws so many things at you, you’ll feel sure you can’t go on. My darling girl, in these times I want you to remember this advice and ignore all conventional wisdom. Ignore the stiff upper lip; do not keep calm and carry on. Dig your fingers into your fears and face them head-on. For that is the only way to become free of them.
I am sure by the time you read this, you will know all about the war and my part in it. After peace was declared, women were expected to restore the world to what it had been before, so the returning men could adjust back to regular life. It didn’t work. Instead, people suffered in silence, and the façade demanded of them only made their problems worse. Many of them still suffer, hiding the fact that moving on has been an impossibility.
Lucy, as soon as you are able to speak I am going to make you promise me you will never cry in secret. Share your tears and what scares you with me, and never be ashamed of that. If nothing else, we will have the comfort of not facing our hurts alone.
I cannot wait to see the person you will become.
Love,
Your mother, Evie
She put the pen down, folded the paper in two, and slid it underneath Lucy’s bedding so it would be close to her whenever Evie was above deck working. She hoped that somehow her words would imprint themselves on her daughter; that simply by being close to them, Lucy would know that she was never alone. There would always be one person to love her, one person to protect her, one person to share the burdens of the world.
Her daughter squirmed, and Evie brushed the backs of her fingers against the velvet-soft cheek. She didn’t know what kind of relationship Flynn might end up having with their child, but she hoped the dalmatian, like her letter, was his way of making sure his daughter carried a piece of him with her. Evie didn’t want Lucy to ever feel as though she’d been unloved by those who created her.
The Victory was delayed by the detour to Calais to take the injured dancer home. Humphrey told the cast and crew they’d need to skip a number of cities in order to get back on their planned course.
Without the word-of-mouth of prior performances in neighbouring cities to attract an audience, the crowds dwindled, but Humphrey kept up a jolly bravado. He began to pass around a bottle of gin before each show in an attempt to raise spirits and bring a little extra vitality to the performances. From her resumed perch high up on the mast, Evie couldn’t tell if it worked, but at least the alcohol kept her insides warm.
It was thrilling to be back at her work. Where Lucy was an essential piece of her heart that would always fit no matter how the world around them changed, her work with the lights was a thrilling rush, like refreshing ocean water against sweat-soaked skin. And it was a high that could be returned to again and again by virtue of her own hard work. It reminded Evie that no matter how many other roles the world thrust upon her—sister, lover, mother—she could still choose the person ‘Evie’ was.
Humphrey had altered the show several times recently, getting her to use bigger clouds of coloured smoke and showcasing popular tunes from the likes of Sarah Vaughan, Perry Como and Edith Piaf in the hope of attracting a broader audience. Evie wasn’t sure these measures improved the show, but having a newborn resulted in many sleepless hours and she thought her own judgement might be off due to tiredness.
She watched now as Alvin breathed his impressive columns of flame. Even from up so high, she could almost feel the heat. It was dangerous having flames on a boat, but Alvin had such control. He was reaching the end of his act where he ran a naked flame over the skin of his arms, then threw the two batons in the air. They spun over four times before he caught them, then extinguished both. Just when the audience thought he was done, he put the ends in his mouth and removed them to show they were lit again. An impressive trick that made you believe the man really did breathe fire.
Alvin bowed towards the water, waved his batons, then ran off into the darkness. The musical introduction to the next act rang out. Flynn was dimming the battens, and Evie used the gate on the baby mirror spot to narrow a spotlight beam on the deck where a comedic contortionist would be waiting to tie herself in a knot and pat the top of her head with her foot, a gesture which always resulted in laughter.
Only no one was there.
Evie craned her neck, scanning the boat. Had she forgotten another change to the act? Was the woman standing somewhere else?
Evie had once been an expert at picking out the unseen in a night sky, but she didn’t want to swing the light back and forth and expose to the audience that there’d been a mistake.
Where was the contortionist?
The Victory seemed frozen in confusion. A movement to the left of the spotlight caught Evie’s eye: Humphrey was frantically gesturing to her. Evie understood. With the kind of quick decision-making that had been imperative in her regiment, she swung the light to a diver who was just finding her balance on the edge of the railing.
The woman must have been startled but she didn’t show it. Instead, she jumped in the air, somersaulting twice before breaking the surface of the inky water. Another took her place, directed there by Humphrey. She executed an impressive handstand on the rail, while the next act was hustled into place.
After the show had finished, Humphrey shut himself in his cabin. Not even Bee was permitted entry. The missing contortionist had apparently abandoned ship without any of them knowing.
Evie stood outside Humphrey’s ornate door, cradling baby Lucy in her arms. Was the Victory at risk? Evie had found a home on this boat, with these people, and she knew life as an unmarried mother wouldn’t stay so simple if she was forced back on land. She pressed her nose to the top of Lucy’s downy head, trying to take comfort in the milky scent of her.
One of the swimmers was darting from cabin door to cabin door in her dressing gown, telling anyone who would listen how little money they had collected that night.
‘Quiet with that nasty gossip,’ Alvin snapped, his head appearing around the edge of his cabin door. ‘How is it helping anyone?’
The girl gave a saucy flick of her hem, but didn’t say any more.
Humphrey must have heard, for his door opened. He stood framed in it, a reassuring smile on his face. But Evie couldn’t help noticing his hair was a mess, as though distressed fingers had teased at it, and his eyepatch—white tonight, with a bright blue anchor picked out in sequins—was slightly askew.
‘No one need fear for their pay packet,’ he announced. His voice was full of confidence, a showman’s voice. ‘I know the dwindling audiences and takings can’t have escaped your notice and you must be worried. I too have had my concerns. But know this: I’ve come too far from that young man with a hopeful crush on a nude girl and a vague idea of changing the world of entertainment. I am the PT Barnum of the water and the Victory is my masterpiece. As long as I am alive she will go on!’
An appreciative cheer went up.
Humphrey invited anyone with ideas on how to fill the gap in the show made by the contortionist’s departure to come into his office to share them. There was a push to get in first, and shared expressions of relief as they were all comforted by their leader.
Lucy fussed, and Evie held her closer. They were still safe. They were still home.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
1963: London, England
‘Must you embarrass me like that at every turn?’ Lucy could tell Aunt Cynthia was trying to control her voice, but it was shrill enough to carry over Spencer’s slamming of the car door. The box handbag hooked over her elbow quivered with every word.
Spencer and Ruth ran inside the house in a tangle of noise, sensing their mother’s mood. Lucy, who wasn’t as quick, was held up by sharp fingers that gripped her upper arm.
‘You know it’s not appropriate to mention her and what she did in polite society. In any society.’
‘You mean my mother?’ Lucy said. Aunt Cynthia flinched. ‘I don’t even know what she did. I was just saying�
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‘I don’t care what you were saying! You’ve been told time and time again not to mention that woman. Now get inside and wash your face. There’ll be no tea for you tonight.’
Lucy felt a sinking sensation in her chest, but didn’t dare sigh. She hated going to bed without tea. She watched the rubber toes of her plimsolls through a curtain of dark, limp hair as she walked towards the house, glancing back once to see Aunt Cynthia checking down the street that no one had witnessed the ruckus. Lucy knew she would pay double if anyone had.
Obediently, she made her way into the kitchen where she splashed water on her hands and face. Spencer—almost a man, although not above pulling Lucy’s ponytail if she got too close when he was in a mood—had already disappeared behind the closed door of his bedroom. But she could hear Ruth trying on the new shoes her mother had just bought for her.
Lucy knew very little about her own mother aside from the fact she was dead. The things she did know she could probably count on one hand: her name was Evelyn Bell; she was sister to Lucy’s aunts Cynthia and Maureen; she had died when Lucy was still only a baby; and she’d done something so bad it was forbidden to speak of her. What that something was, Lucy could only guess at. She liked to imagine her mother as some sort of exciting adventurer who had got herself into one too many sticky situations; or perhaps a government agent who had gone undercover in the war.
Or perhaps the father she knew nothing about—not even a name—had killed her, and that’s why he was kept such a secret. While mention of her mother would get Lucy no tea and an early night, a question about her father resulted in the sharp snap of a leather belt on her tender skin. In the end she’d found it easier not to think of either of them much at all. That way she wouldn’t accidentally slip and get into trouble. Again.
