by Kerri Turner
Humphrey’s words made Alvin and Flynn glance at each other. He opened his mouth as though to say more, but resisted the impulse and left, closing the door behind him to give them privacy.
As Flynn ushered Alvin to the chairs, his friend said, ‘I see Humphrey still wears that old teardrop eyepatch.’
‘He wants to display his grief and regret for all the world to see. Says it’s a symbol of how he’s trying to make up for all he did wrong, and acknowledgement that he never can.’
‘I never knew him to be so grim,’ Alvin said.
‘That day changed us all.’
There was silence then, broken only by bustling thumps downstairs, presumably Bee preparing lunch.
‘How’s your wife?’ Flynn finally asked. He didn’t want to face that other subject.
‘One in a million. Rose is the only thing that could have taken me from your side. I hope you know that.’
‘You stayed long enough as it was. Life had to continue. At least for some of us.’ Flynn tried to sound carefree, perhaps a touch jovial, but Alvin always knew when he was being false. He regarded Flynn, not taking in his scars the way most others did, but looking deep into his eyes. Flynn wanted to avert his gaze, but there was no point. Alvin would see everything anyway.
‘How are you doing?’ Alvin asked. ‘Your letter sounded …’ He trailed off.
Flynn shrugged, running a hand across his face. ‘You know how I get. It just … it helps when you’re here.’
The years of shared experience stretched between them.
Alvin flexed his feet, eyes on his shoelaces, then said, ‘I saw the little girl on my way in.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sweet thing. I told her I introduced her mother to the boat, and that she’d grown since I used to rock her to sleep as a baby. That got her all excited.’
‘She seems to like hearing about her past. About Evie.’
‘That must be difficult.’
‘For me or her?’
Alvin snorted, a sound which Flynn took to mean ‘both’.
‘Bee and Humphrey are taking charge of telling her stories,’ he added.
‘I can imagine how good they are at that. Bee wanted to teach Evie every bad deed in her repertoire. And Evie was more like Humphrey than anyone else on that boat. All that ambition, all that determination to carve a place for themselves in the world.’
‘Yes.’ Flynn didn’t want to talk about Evie. He had asked Alvin here to help him forget. ‘Anyway, I’ve met the child once. I made the mistake of saying she should learn the piano and now she wants me to teach her.’
‘Why not? May as well make some use of that pursuit of yours.’
‘You really think it would be a good idea to expose her to my presence?’
‘I’m a daddy now too, Flynn, and all my little girls want is to be around me.’
‘That’s because you’re a real father. You were always bound to be good at it.’
‘Better than you anyway. Let’s face it, you were a real piece of shit well before everything else that happened.’
Flynn threw his head back and laughed. The first real laugh he’d experienced in … well, he didn’t know how long. It felt surprisingly good.
Alvin grabbed his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Most people avoided touching Flynn, and the comfort of Alvin’s warm hand softened the hard edges of Flynn’s heart.
‘Give her the piano lessons. No harm can come of it.’
Flynn ran his thumb over his bottom lip. ‘You don’t think so?’
‘It’s better than learning the piano to keep a promise to a long-dead woman,’ Alvin said. ‘Look, no one’s asking you to go all Life with the Lyons. Just teach her to bang some keys. Use this opportunity to do a little bit of good. For her, and for you as well. It’s the least you can do.’
And there was the truth of the matter. For the entirety of Lucy’s life, Flynn had done the absolute least. He hadn’t even given her a roof over her head.
‘I was expecting you to reassure me that disappearing from the girl’s life would be the right thing to do,’ he said.
‘What kind of friend would I be if I only told you the lies you want to hear?’ Alvin leaned in, his dark eyes catching Flynn’s and holding them. ‘I know it’s hard, Flynn. But she’s your daughter. You have to at least try.’
And even though Flynn cursed at him, he knew Alvin was right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lucy walked along the beach determinedly barefoot despite the shingle hurting her soles a little. The sun warmed her shoulders, and she knew it would be darkening the scattering of freckles there, which made her smile. Aunt Cynthia had spent hours squeezing lemon juice on them to lighten them.
‘Don’t go too far,’ Bee yelled, the wind carrying her voice to Lucy and making others on the beach turn to stare.
As Lucy waved back, the same wind caught her hair, whipping her face with it. It was a warm wind, friendly and caressing, and she took off at a sprint, racing it.
The low tide had left a row of flotsam along the shore where the red shingle gave way to sand. Lucy poked through it, studying bits of seaweed and broken shells. A light spot caught her eye and she reached for it, pulling out a stick bleached almost white by the sun. Its edges had gone as smooth as china. She rubbed her hands over it, then ran back to where Bee was sitting on a checked woollen rug, her back to the row of white changing cabins with colourful roofs and striped doors.
‘What have you got there?’ Bee asked, shielding her eyes from the sun. Lucy handed her the stick and Bee rubbed her hands over it, just as Lucy had. ‘You know how it got so smooth? It’s because of the waves. Their motion gradually whittles it down so it doesn’t have any sharp edges any more. Amazing, isn’t it? That something so gentle has the power to do something like that if given enough time to work at it.’
Lucy flopped down next to her, careful to keep her feet over the edge of the blanket so as not to spread sand on it. Bee had brought her to this bigger beach in Ventnor as a treat; she’d even promised her an ice cream from Blakes, the little overhanging hut. Lucy thought perhaps it was in reward for the good behaviour she’d been working so hard at. It made her happy to know it had been noticed.
She shifted her feet back and forth, slowly submerging them beneath the small red pebbles. ‘Bee,’ she ventured, not looking at the older woman. ‘Am I … am I going to see my dad again?’ She squeezed her buried toes, feeling the shingle caught in the folds of skin.
‘Do you want to see him again?’
Lucy shrugged. She was trying to look casual, but her insides had gone tight. ‘If he wants to see me. But it’s alright if he doesn’t. It doesn’t really matter.’
‘I told that man,’ Bee muttered to herself, shaking her head. ‘But would he listen to me? Would he listen to Alvin even?’ A little louder, she said, ‘We’ll have to make it happen.’
‘No! I don’t want to make him see me. I don’t really care anyway. It’s the piano I was thinking of really. Maybe if he wasn’t there sometimes I could—’
‘Nonsense, of course he wants to see you. I think he’d decided you wouldn’t want to see him again.’
Lucy was startled. She’d been so sure that she was the one who’d disappointed or angered him in some way. ‘Why wouldn’t I want to?’
‘For a thousand different reasons he’s convinced himself of, which would probably make little sense to you.’
Lucy stared at the blue expanse of the sea, watching its surface ripple and dip. More words itched the back of her throat, making her tongue quiver. She wanted to ask Bee the question, but wasn’t sure if she should. Aunt Cynthia would undoubtedly say it was unforgivably rude and nosy. But she would have gossiped to other people to find out what she wanted to know. Was asking someone directly so much worse?
The pressure built, and finally it was too much: the words burst out of her mouth.
‘What happened to his face and hands?’
Bee turned to her. Her expr
ession looked as though she was trying to figure something out. Lucy’s feet twitched beneath the sand; was she going to be in trouble?
‘You agree with me that your father isn’t a monster, don’t you?’ Bee finally said. Her voice was gentle, and Lucy hurried to nod. ‘Then it doesn’t matter what happened.’
It wasn’t the answer Lucy had wanted. She bit her tongue to stop herself from demanding a better one. There were other questions she could ask; ones that wouldn’t strictly go against her promise of good behaviour.
‘Bee, the village children say you’re wanted. Is that true?’
Bee’s back went ramrod straight and her shoulders lifted with tension. Her eyes darted from side to side, as though searching the beach for eavesdroppers. A swirl of butterfly nerves tickled Lucy’s stomach. Perhaps it had been wrong to ask this after all.
‘What exactly did they say?’
There was a razor edge to Bee’s voice that Lucy had never heard before. She licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry.
‘Just … just that you used to … um, dance. For men. With … no clothes on.’ She whispered the last words, her voice almost blending in with the turning over of the waves.
But Bee heard her. She threw her head back, her eyes filling with tears of mirth, her hands sinking into the mixed shingle and sand next to the blanket as though she needed to hold on as she gasped for air.
Lucy didn’t know what to do or say, so she simply waited.
Finally, Bee picked up the hem of her skirt and wiped her eyes on it. ‘Why, those gossiping old fishwives,’ she said, shaking her head so that her grey curls bounced.
‘So it’s not true then? You’re not wanted?’
Bee had pulled her hands free and was cleaning the grains of sand from beneath her painted-pink fingernails as she said, ‘Oh, they want to hang me alright.’
Fear, unexpected and brutal, exploded inside Lucy. It filled her ears and eyes and mouth, and she looked around wildly, her hands frantically clutching at the air. There must be something she could hold on to, something she could do to help Bee.
And then Bee was before her, both hands against her cheeks, speaking in a strong voice, telling Lucy to look her in the eyes.
Gasping for air, Lucy forced her eyes to focus on Bee’s.
‘It’s alright,’ she was saying. ‘Lucy, listen to me. I was only joking. Do you hear me? You need to calm down now. Will you do that for me?’
Lucy nodded, the movement difficult with Bee’s hands still on her face. With every rough breath she could smell the now-familiar spicy scent of Bee’s perfume. She wanted to stuff the smell away somewhere safe, so it would never disappear.
Bee waited a minute, then carefully let go of Lucy. Without her touch Lucy suddenly felt weak, like her knees could buckle underneath her. But she managed to stay standing.
‘That’s better,’ Bee said. ‘There’s no need for a fuss. It was a terrible joke and I shouldn’t have made it. Look at me, child: I’m nothing but an old woman. Grey-haired, wrinkled, and with a name nobody recognises. Who could possibly want me?’
She bent down and picked up two corners of the checked blanket, turned away from Lucy and shook it out. The sound was like the sharp snaps of distant thunder.
‘I know you’ve had to face death and the loss of people who are important to you far too early in life,’ she continued. ‘But, Lucy, you must remember: if you spend all your time worrying about others dying then you miss out on the chance to enjoy living.’
Lucy took the two corners of the blanket Bee was holding out to her. Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse.
‘Bee?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Do you think dying is scary?’
Bee paused as their hands met on the folded blanket. Could she tell Lucy was thinking of her mother?
‘I suppose for most people the scary part is not knowing what comes after you die, rather than death itself.’
‘Don’t you believe in heaven?’
To Lucy’s surprise, Bee chuckled. ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. That heaven will turn out to be real and I’ll be stuck watching the people I love from the outside for all eternity. But I’m not going anywhere for a while yet. I’ve got too many pleasures to enjoy here first. So don’t you go worrying or even thinking about it.’
Lucy held the blanket while Bee slipped her coat on. Together they walked back to the short set of stairs that would take them up to the road where the car was parked. Lucy glanced at Bee out of the corner of her eye every now and then: the tension that had briefly gripped her body had gone, and she was walking with her usual bouncing step. It really must have been nothing more than a bad joke.
With relief, Lucy allowed her fears to be swept away by the same wind that picked up tiny grains of sand and flung them around their ankles.
Before Bee had the chance to ask her father about seeing Lucy again, he summoned the pair of them and announced, rather formally, that he was going to teach Lucy how to play the piano.
Lucy wasn’t sure if he was happy about it, but she wanted so much to learn that she decided not to risk asking, and instead thanked him over and over.
The day of her first lesson, she was just as nervous as on their very first meeting. Once again Bee made sure her outfit was pristine, and once again delivered a promise to slip a fish into her father’s bed if he was rude or mean to her.
Her father sat in the same chair as last time, and indicated Lucy should sit on the stool. His hands didn’t tremble so much when he poured the water this time, but his eyes kept darting away from her face, as if keeping them there too long hurt.
Accepting the cup of water, Lucy placed it on the floor, then said, ‘I’ve brought something for you.’
She pulled the wave-smoothed stick from her pocket and held it on her palm, stretched out towards her father. He took it, careful not to touch her skin with his own.
He turned the stick over, then his eyes met hers. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Just a stick. But the waves have made it go all smooth and nice to touch. I thought it was pretty …’ Lucy trailed off as she saw the way her father’s hand withdrew, as if trying not to touch the stick while still holding on to it.
‘It came from the beach?’
‘Yes.’
He pushed the stick back at her. ‘Thank you. It … it was a lovely gesture. But I don’t like the beach.’
Lucy stared uncomprehending at the stick now in her hand again. How could someone not like the beach? The sand caressing the soles of your feet; the waves making a pleasant swish-swish noise like a wireless kept on quietly in the background; the salty air that made you hungry, and made all the food you ate for the rest of the day taste better. Lucy might be new to the beach but she’d already fallen in love with it. She couldn’t understand how her father didn’t feel the same way.
‘I’ll just put it over here,’ she said, sliding off the stool. She walked over to the upright piano, softly burnished with polish, and placed it on the music stand, in front of the sheets of music. It looked nice there, nestled against the backdrop of straight lines and curling symbols and dots. ‘If I leave it here, you don’t have to touch it. You’ll barely even notice it from most of the room. But you’ll still have your present. From me.’
Lucy desperately wanted her father to accept the present; the first she’d ever given him. Maybe he realised that because he didn’t say anything further.
Lucy ran her fingers up and down the piano keys with a feather-light touch. She itched for the lesson to start so she could press them down, walk her fingers slowly the entire length of the instrument and hear the notes that would come out.
‘It’s the water,’ her father said, breaking the silence. He stood and came over to the piano.
Lucy was surprised by how solid his steps were. She’d thought his movements would match his external appearance, mark him as different somehow. But he moved the same way any other man did.
She stepped to
the side, making room for him to sit down on the soft leather-topped bench. Lifting one hand, he placed it gently on the row of black and white keys. His eyes were focused on the stick.
‘I don’t like the water.’
Did he mean he was afraid of it? Lucy, not knowing how to deal with this information, stood in silence, watching him.
Absentmindedly his fingers pressed down in a wave and a small, perfectly formed cluster of notes emanated from the instrument. Lucy gasped, delighted. The thought of her own fingers emitting such beautiful music gave her a sense of potential, something she’d never felt before.
Without thinking, she sat down on the seat next to her father. He shifted away, but didn’t leave. His hands reached for the bundle of music, pulling it out from behind the stick and shuffling until the sheet he wanted was topmost, then carefully inserting it back in place. He paused, as though steadying himself for a difficult task, then pointed to the paper with his pinky finger.
‘See this here? This is a scale. It’s the first of many you’ll learn. I’m going to teach you how to read the music, and see if we can get this scale right. That will be enough for one day.’
Lucy sat up straighter. She wanted to say something in response but wasn’t sure how to address him. Father? Sir? Nothing seemed to fit, so instead she gave him a nod to show she was ready.
She wasn’t going to wreck this opportunity by saying or doing the wrong thing. She was going to be better than good; she was going to be the perfect daughter. He would see, through these piano lessons, that she was worth having around. And then he would never want to send her back to London.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lucy’s plan came to her in the middle of the night while she was moving her fingers in the air, reliving her first piano lesson. If she took the beach to her father one piece at a time, he would get used to it in tiny stages. He’d still be in his room, where he was comfortable, but the beach would slowly grow around him. By the time he faced the real thing, it would hardly be different from being in his own room. It seemed a fair trade for learning to play the piano, and something that would win her favour with him.
