by Kerri Turner
The next time he called her to his room for a lesson, she took with her an old jam jar she’d filled with sand and placed it on top of the piano, overlooking the music sheets and the smooth stick. She would try to remember where in the treasure room she’d left the whelk egg case, and bring that along too. That would be the start of a respectable collection. No doubt it would take a long time to get enough of the beach into this room to make him feel like he was actually there, but Lucy was sure it would be worth it.
They sat together on the leather piano bench. Her father had carefully placed himself at the far end so there was a gap between them. He was playing the piano, giving a demonstration of how her hands must learn to move freely up and down the keys, independent of each other yet still connected.
Lucy knew she should be listening closely, but she was distracted. Even though his hands were gnarled with scars, they were still real men’s hands. Big and probably capable of great strength. She wondered what it would feel like to slip her own hand into one of them. Her fingers fluttered, as if ready to reach out, but she made herself still them. She was supposed to be learning the piano, not trying to hold hands with her father.
‘Tell me, Lucy,’ he said, his fingers going still.
Lucy’s attention jolted back to him. Was he going to ask a question she wouldn’t know the answer to because she’d been too busy thinking about his hands? She swallowed. This wasn’t part of her being-good plan.
‘You seem to have a natural … connection … to music. What do you think the perfect song would be?’
His voice was gentle, almost shy, but Lucy’s mind went straight into panic. Was this something he had already mentioned? Or was it some kind of test to see if she really would be any good at the piano? She didn’t know what to say.
Finally, she just opened her mouth and let whatever words were there spill out.
‘It would never end.’
Her father was staring down at his hands, studying them the same way she had only a moment ago. They flexed, a sudden motion, then went still again.
‘Could you explain that to me?’
‘Um …’ Lucy shuffled on the seat, trying to think of what to say next. ‘I guess … I guess if you had the perfect song, you wouldn’t want it to end. You’d want to keep listening to it forever.’
‘Are you saying that the perfect song would never be complete?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe?’
Her father nodded slowly, and she felt a soft glow of pride deep within her stomach for having done something right, even if she didn’t know what that something was.
‘I once promised your mother I’d write her the perfect song.’
Lucy froze. She wanted to lean in, to make sure she didn’t miss any of his soft words, but she was afraid he would stop if she even so much as breathed.
‘Even though I couldn’t play a single instrument,’ he finished.
‘But you play the piano,’ Lucy blurted.
Her father’s cheeks twitched. ‘That wasn’t until long afterwards. I had to learn so I could keep my promise to her. Even if I hadn’t really meant it when I first made it.’
Something hot and defensive rose in Lucy.
Her father must have seen it on her face, for he added, ‘I know it was wrong. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the worst thing I did to her. Not by a long shot.’
‘Oh.’ The word was a pinprick of accusation and reproach.
Lucy swallowed. Why did he have to tell her that? She so wanted to behave, to be good and sweet and helpful, but hearing things like that made it hard not to be sharp.
She pointed at the sheet music before them. ‘That’s not the C major scale we did last time, is it? It looks different.’
She felt her father’s eyes on her for a second or two before he finally turned to look.
‘Correct. It’s the D major scale. I thought we’d learn it, then see if you remember the C.’
The lesson began, but the relaxed air that had been between them before was gone.
Lucy awoke with a jolt. She didn’t know what had disturbed her, but she was sure something had. She looked around, confused. The breeze from the window she liked to keep open was making the white curtains dance in the darkened room.
She reached for her dalmatian, pulling it close; her swimming head slowed and her bearings began to come back as she realised it was the very early hours of the morning of her birthday.
Then she heard it. Music. Beautiful music, coming from somewhere beyond her room. That must have been what woke her.
She sat up. Perhaps it was coming from the beach. Mermaids maybe, singing to lure sailors towards them? Lucy had never believed in things like that before, but since reading the pulp novels—many of which included monsters and fantastical beings—her imagination had been awakened.
With excitement, she pushed the counterpane off, climbed out of bed and padded barefoot to the window. The curtains were still billowing, and she grabbed them in her arms, pulling them against her in a hug so she could see out. But the sound was quieter out there.
Letting the curtains drop, Lucy turned and faced her room. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she was able to creep across to her door without bumping into anything. Twisting the handle carefully so it wouldn’t squeak, she eased the door open.
The music was louder now. It was definitely coming from somewhere inside the house.
Lucy hesitated. She should probably go back to bed, tuck herself in and forget about the music. But there was something about it, something insistent, that made her want to find its source.
Bit by bit she poked her head out of the doorway, checking no one was there. Her hands balled in the skirt of her cotton nightdress, her bare feet almost soundless against the linoleum, she followed the sound of the haunting notes. They led her to her father’s closed door.
He must be playing the piano. It seemed so obvious now, but something about the still night air and darkness had made the instrument sound different. That, and she’d only heard her father play scales on it. What he was doing playing this melody in the middle of the night, Lucy couldn’t guess at.
She looked around again to make sure she was alone. Her heart was pounding, for she knew what she was about to do was wrong and definitely against her promise to herself. But she couldn’t help it. She kneeled on the linoleum and put one eye to the keyhole just underneath the door’s handle.
It was difficult to see anything in the room. Holding her breath, she touched her fingertips to the door handle and gave it a very slow, small twist, easing the door open just enough so she could press her face to the gap.
Her father was seated at the piano, just as she’d expected, his hands running up and down the keys. A tall lamp had been turned on, and in its circle of light she could see that he was crying.
It wasn’t the first time Lucy had seen an adult cry. Aunt Cynthia used to on occasion, her face going red and splotchy underneath her carefully applied make-up. But this was different. Her father’s shoulders were hunched, moving with the sobs she couldn’t hear as his hands pounded the piano keys.
Lucy felt a strange ache deep within her, and something else too: a kind of fear of what she was witnessing. She wanted to run and throw her arms around him, and at the same time go back to her room and pull the bedcovers over her head.
Without warning, her father picked up the sheets of music and flung them across the room. The wave-smoothed stick fell onto the keys and one scarred hand slammed down on them, making a blunt, ugly sound that echoed in the following silence.
The jar of sand Lucy had given him swayed on top of the piano. Her father reached out to still it, then jerked his hand away like it had burned him.
‘Useless!’ he rasped, his voice a strangled sound against the night air. Lucy shrank back. ‘I’m just … useless!’
He picked up the stick and held it close to his face. Lucy trembled. Was he going to break it? But instead, he spoke to it.
‘Why?’ he said,
giving it a shake. His voice was quieter now, but still rough around the edges. ‘Why did you make me choose? The child or you …’
Lucy stood and backed away, her hand dropping from the door without closing it. Something landed on her shoulder and she just about cried out, only managing to stifle the sound into a strangled gasp at the last minute.
Mr Walsh stood behind her, wearing a pair of checked pyjamas. He was looking down at her, a single finger pressed to his lips to tell her to be quiet.
Guilt thrummed through Lucy. Swallowing, she nodded.
Mr Walsh reached over her shoulder and gently pulled the door closed. Putting a hand on her back, he ushered her in silence back to her room. He held the bedcovers for her as she climbed in, then smoothed them neatly on top of her. Then he stared at her. The night-time shadows drew circles underneath his uncovered eye and in the hollows of both cheeks. He gave her a smile, but Lucy wasn’t sure it was a real one.
‘Don’t fret about what you saw,’ he whispered. ‘All grown men cry in the night at some point.’
This was news to Lucy. ‘Even you?’ she whispered back.
‘Even me.’
‘What about? Monsters? Bee says you mustn’t be afraid of monsters.’
This time the smile was definitely real. ‘Bee’s a wise woman. But my tears aren’t over monsters. They’re over the wreckage of so many futures, caused by my own ambition.’
Lucy didn’t understand, and something told her not to ask. The way he’d said the words reminded her of when the neighbours in London had got a dog and left it alone for long hours during the day. The dog howled in long, lost tones and Lucy had always believed it was crying.
‘Goodnight, Mr Walsh,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you for not getting angry with me.’
‘Goodnight, Lucy.’
Picking up the dalmatian which had fallen to the floor, he tucked it into the covers next to her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
They all got up late the next morning, and Lucy wondered if Bee too had been woken by her father’s piano playing and tears in the night.
Bee talked over her shoulder as she pulled out a small frying pan and turned on the stovetop. ‘Happy birthday, Lucy. You can open your present once you’ve had your breakfast.’
‘How did you know it’s my birthday?’ Lucy gasped.
She hadn’t been expecting anyone to mark the occasion, and this sudden realisation that Bee knew and even had a present for her drove her troubled thoughts about her father to the back of her mind.
‘I was only there when you were born.’ Bee cracked an egg into the pan, which immediately spat hot oil at her.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Don’t ask for the story though, for it isn’t at all exciting. Only hours of pain, a couple of frightening moments, and in the end a very loud, very red and wrinkled little baby who couldn’t have been more loved.’
Bee slid the egg onto a plate piled with slices of tinned ham, accidentally breaking the yolk so it ran in yellow rivulets across the china, then dropped the plate in front of Lucy with a noisy clatter. She went back to the frying pan, which was now emitting thick clouds of smoke, and added another couple of eggs for herself.
Lucy pushed her fork into the gloop of her breakfast, smiling. She liked the idea of being immediately loved. But she also liked the idea of a present. At Aunt Cynthia’s she’d never received many, especially not in comparison to Spencer and Ruth, which Aunt Cynthia said was only proper as she wasn’t their child. It had made Lucy treasure the presents she did get with an almost delirious excitement.
A few minutes later Bee sat across from Lucy, forking up mouthfuls of egg and ham while the creases lining her forehead deepened.
‘I wanted to get you presents before, you know,’ she said after swallowing. ‘For all your other birthdays, I mean. I wanted to post you something, but we thought it would upset your aunt. She seems that type. Anyway, we’ve got you something extra good to make up for the missed years. Once you’ve opened it you can have a long bath if you like. I’ll get the bubbles out, and you can have my rubber duck to play with.’
A hot bath was one of Bee’s favourite treats. They shared a deep rose-pink tub which Bee always filled to the brim, and Lucy was allowed to stay in it as long as she wanted, and often waited until her fingertips were as wrinkled as raisins before getting out. Bee never checked behind Lucy’s ears for cleanliness either, even though Lucy was always careful to scrub there.
‘You know, Aunt Cynthia could never get the painted line off her tub,’ she said, running her fingertip through the smear of yolk left on the plate and licking it. The gesture would have earned her a sharp slap around the ears from Aunt Cynthia, but Lucy had caught Bee doing it herself more than once. ‘It was there for the war, so they knew not to use any more than four inches of water. She spent hours scrubbing at it, but you could still always see a trace of it.’
‘Serves her right, the old … Well, I won’t say the word in front of you. She could never find kindness in her heart for others. Even in their most troubled times. Like when your mother was pregnant with you.’
‘What was your mother like, Bee?’
‘My mother couldn’t wait to get rid of me to the first man who offered marriage. I was too young, but that didn’t stop her. I was one of twelve and in that entire brood I wasn’t lucky enough to have a single family member as good as your mother.’
‘Good morning,’ Mr Walsh interrupted, entering the bright kitchen with a smile. He ducked his head over Lucy’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Happy birthday,’ in her ear.
‘Want me to cook you up some breakfast?’ Bee asked, holding her plate up for him to see what she’d made.
He grimaced and shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll get myself something.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t find yourself a nice woman. Someone who can do all the things for you I’m hopeless at.’
‘I’d rather have you doing things poorly than anyone else doing them perfectly.’
‘You make me sound like your wife. I don’t do well with husbands, remember? Go on now, if you’re only going to have cereal you might as well get Lucy’s present first.’
‘Right you are.’ Mr Walsh disappeared through the kitchen door which led outside.
Lucy was startled. What kind of present was kept outside?
A moment later, she had her answer as Mr Walsh wheeled in a pristine new bicycle that gleamed softly in the morning light.
Lucy gasped, and jumped up from her chair to stroke it.
It had a white basket perched on the front and a silver bell on one of the handlebars, which she instantly wanted to ring—the bell on the old rusted bicycle she’d been riding had long ago stopped working. But she resisted the temptation in case the sound was too loud and woke her father, who she thought must still be asleep after his upsetting night.
Lucy couldn’t stop the silly grin that danced on her features. She had never had such a magnificent present in all her life.
‘Can I ride it straight away?’
‘Not yet,’ Mr Walsh said. He sat down on one of the chairs and his hand went to the inside pocket of his coat. ‘We’ve something else for you.’
Bee’s fork clattered loudly onto her plate. ‘You’re giving it to her today?’
They looked at each other for a long moment, then Mr Walsh sighed and pulled his hand out of his pocket to reveal a folded piece of paper.
‘It’s a miracle it survived that day, caught up in her bedding. It’s time she had it.’
He pushed the paper across the table but didn’t remove his fingertips from it. ‘I’ve held on to this for nearly eleven years, Lucy. I was afraid that if I gave it to you while you lived with your aunt, it would be taken away or destroyed. Then, when you arrived in Bonchurch, you knew so little of your mother, not even what she looked like, and it didn’t feel right to give it to you yet. I wanted you to get to know her, the way the rest of us knew her. I wanted to spark some love for her
before I passed her words on. For this is a letter from her, to you.’
Finally, his fingers lifted. Lucy could barely breathe; she watched her own hands stretch out for the paper, freezing just above as though afraid to touch it.
‘Go on,’ Bee encouraged, her voice the softest Lucy had ever heard it. ‘We’ll go upstairs. Give you some time alone to read it.’
When the sound of their footsteps had faded, Lucy let her fingers fall onto the paper. She had half expected to feel something at the touch of it, a heartbeat or something similar to show that her mother, the mother she’d never known, was communicating with her in this very moment. But it felt like any other paper, smooth and a little soft with age.
She picked it up and carefully opened the single fold, her trembling fingers making the paper shiver.
My dearest Lucy …
Tears clouded the next words. Lucy wiped her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, then read on in the same way she might eat after a long, active day with no food: in big gulps, as though she could never get enough.
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 seemed 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.
