by Kerri Turner
The clouds shifted again, exposing them once more to the sun. Evie sighed. They all had things they’d given up to have this life. Had it proved worth it in the end for Humphrey? Had his love for his boat—so evident in the way he obsessed over every tiny detail of every performance—made up for the loss of the girl he’d also loved?
Alvin’s eyes met hers and understanding passed between them.
‘The Victory’s not for everyone,’ he said. ‘But for some of us, there’s nothing better.’
Evie was searching in the storage room for the red gelatine filter she’d somehow misplaced. She wanted to experiment with placing it over a blue one to make the puffs of smoke appear purple, for all were colours she hadn’t been able to source in Cinemoid. Instead she found Flynn, lying on the ground with his head cushioned on a pile of old costumes, his feet propped on a cardboard box, his eyes glued to the pages of a book. He was wearing a tight-fitting white vest, having taken off his usual button-up shirt, and in his free hand he held a lit cigarette—something Humphrey had strictly banned below deck.
Evie froze, her own hand raised to her mouth, holding half a Scotch egg she’d been snacking on. A normal person would have backed away quickly so as not to interrupt him. Or announced their presence by clearing their throat. But Evie just stood there, staring at the gleam of his pitch-dark hair.
He must have felt her presence, because he tilted the book down, his dark eyes showing no surprise to see her.
Evie popped the rest of the Scotch egg in her mouth, chewing as she stepped forward and wiped her hands on her siren suit. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just looking for the red filter.’ Trying to overcome her embarrassment at being caught watching him, she plucked the book out of his hands. ‘What’s this?’
Flynn made a swipe for it and his feet got tangled in the box they’d been resting on, sending him almost sprawling.
The book was titled Blonde on the Spot. The cover depicted a woman tied to a chair by her wrists and ankles. Her flimsy blue gown was torn to show her legs and an expanse of décolletage as she leaned back in trepidation.
‘Oh,’ Evie said.
‘It’s not smut,’ Flynn said defensively, getting to his feet and snatching the book back. He ran the hand that still held the cigarette through his hair.
‘I’m sure.’ Amusement tickled the back of Evie’s throat.
‘Well okay, maybe it is a bit. It’s just … since the war I’ve found it hard to relax, you know? The quiet gets to me. But when I read these it doesn’t seem so quiet any more.’
‘You don’t need to explain. Anything that helps.’
She shrugged one shoulder and saw relief flood his face. It was such a childlike expression that a rush of something similar to how she felt whenever she looked at Spencer enveloped her: an urge to banish what ailed him and soothe all worries away.
Flynn, unaware, ground his cigarette out on the steel wall. ‘You know, you could borrow some if you want,’ he said, slipping the spent butt back into the packet so there would be no evidence of his rule-breaking. ‘They’re not Shakespeare or whatever you’re probably used to, but they’re fun. You live an unconventional lifestyle now—might as well continue to broaden your horizons.’
His tone was teasing, the embarrassment of moments ago forgotten as he slid the paperback into one of the side pockets of her siren suit. The thought of his hand inside her clothing, even just a pocket, made Evie warm all over. She carefully avoided his eyes as he stepped back.
‘Just give it a shot. Let me know how you like it.’
He leaned down and picked up his discarded shirt. Evie was disappointed to see his bare arms disappear into the sleeves. She watched him leave the storage room, whistling, then she sank onto the cardboard box he’d been using as a footrest and slipped her hand into her pocket to caress the book he’d given her. The box broke beneath her and her backside hit the floor. She barely even noticed.
She pulled out the book, ran her fingers over the ghastly, lurid cover, and opened it. She was already three chapters deep before she remembered she was supposed to be working.
Evie went to the tiny wall-mounted mirror to wipe the cold cream from her face, then hesitated before turning out the light. She looked at Flynn’s book. She hadn’t had the chance to read any more all day, and the story was nagging at her, begging to be completed. Leaving the light on, she crawled beneath her kapok-stuffed counterpane and opened the cover.
The boat had gone quiet, only the muffled sounds of Doris Day’s ‘Again’ playing from behind someone’s closed door. In the quiet of her own cabin, Evie found herself school-girlishly amused by the melodramatic tale of murder and sex. As she finished the last chapter, she became aware of the tingling tracing her body. She got out of bed, turned the light off, then slipped back under the cover, her cheek pressed against the cool pillow.
Evie had gone out with men in her pre-war life and there’d been hand holding and light kisses, even the occasional hand roaming over her breasts and waist. But every time the warm desire in her began to build, the man would kiss her chastely on the cheek and leave. The closest she’d ever got to a naked man before Miroslaw was when a flasher had exposed himself to her; she’d been shocked, and unable to stop herself from giggling at the man’s big pink body, his thing pointing out at her accusingly from a tangle of tight dark hair.
There had been nothing funny about Miroslaw’s nudity though. It had been the gateway to a tenderness she’d never known before. Sometimes there’d been fierce hunger between them; other times an almost hopeless loss that this was all the joy they could find in the world. She longed for that kind of intimacy now.
She relived those moments with Miroslaw and her pulse began to race; then the memory of Miroslaw shaped into Flynn. The stomach flattened out, the torso lengthened, the colour of the skin deepened. And further below …
With a gasp, Evie pressed her hands to her eyes, trying to pretend she hadn’t just conjured an image of Flynn naked.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1951: Brest, France
‘Did you read the book?’
Evie’s hand froze on the glass lens she’d been wiping with a damp rag. She and Flynn had spent a few hours taking apart disused lights in the cargo hold to clean them and see if they could get them working again. Evie had barely been able to look at Flynn all morning, the weight of the book in her pocket reminding her of her night-time imaginings.
‘Yes,’ she said. Her voice was breathless, and she dipped her head, pushing stray strands of hair back into the scarf that was holding it off her face and neck.
‘And?’ Flynn stood back, squinting at the dismantled light before him. ‘You liked it, right?’
‘It was … entertaining, I suppose.’
She reached into her pocket for the book, stepping over her light so she could give it back to him. At the same time Flynn took a step away from his light and they bumped up against one another. He turned, and her arm and the book were caught between them. They both froze.
Evie’s heart began to beat faster and she couldn’t stop the shiver of pleasure that ran through her at Flynn’s closeness. Unable to look at him—for surely he’d noticed that shiver and would understand what it meant—she instead stared at the top button of his shirt. It was undone to expose the little hollow of his neck. She wished she could press her lips to that hollow.
‘I hoped you’d be the kind of girl who’d like them,’ he said.
Her arm and the book were still trapped between their two bodies. Evie wondered why one of them didn’t move. The smell of the French cigarettes he liked and his cedar aftershave was making her head swim and she was afraid that if she looked up at him he would see the desire written clear across her features. But she couldn’t help herself.
The second her eyes met his, he moved in to kiss her.
Evie had had a number of first kisses, but none like this. Flynn’s kiss wasn’t tentative or cautious; it didn’t wait to see if she
would respond. It was demanding, drawing her in as if all he’d ever wanted to do was kiss her. And Evie, forgetting everything, kissed him back.
She squeezed her arm out from between them, dropping the book so she could grab his neck. His leg pushed between hers, and Evie felt the tight yearning within her. His barely there stubble scraped against her skin; his slick hair between her fingers was like satin.
His hands were tugging at the fastenings of her siren suit, and Evie knew he wanted the same thing she did. But could she go through with it? The war had been an exceptional circumstance in which many rules were dropped, and she’d not regretted for a moment her actions with Miroslaw. But now she didn’t have the excuse of fearing death. Now, she would only be feeding her own desires.
She’d witnessed men and women moving between cabins on the Victory almost every night. They didn’t try to hide what they were up to, even sharing a wink when they realised they’d been caught. It was a different world, but Evie didn’t know if she was so far changed she could be part of it.
But as Flynn’s hands found their way beneath the fabric of her clothes, and his tongue met hers, she thought of the naked body she’d imagined. And she thought that if she wasn’t that kind of girl, maybe she would like to be.
Flynn took a step back and she could have screamed in frustration. But he was only ripping his own shirt off, so impatiently one button snapped and went flying. Evie heard it ping against the steel floor and grinned, but then Flynn was removing his vest and undoing his trousers and there was nothing funny any more.
Evie shrugged out of her opened siren suit, pulling it off so she stood in her brassiere and knickers. She never wore a girdle on her working days. She felt no self-consciousness being so bare in front of him, only a need to have skin next to skin.
Flynn must have felt the same need, for in a second he was with her, firm arms wrapping around her waist, lowering her until they were both on the floor of the cargo hold. The cold metal against her skin made her gasp, but Flynn’s tongue was tracing patterns against her skin and soon had her warm.
When he pulled back to yank off his trousers, Evie stayed where she was, watching him through the hair that had spilled from her scarf. Flynn was soon back on the floor with her, pushing one of the abandoned lights out of the way so he had room to plant his forearms either side of her shoulders. His body was barely touching hers, just his chest grazing her breasts in a way that made her shiver with anticipation.
She threaded her arms underneath his, slid her palms across his back. His muscles tensed at her touch. She tasted his skin, just as she’d wanted to, and her fingertips pressed into him, drawing him to her.
She became lost in a world of pleasure both remembered and new.
Evie lay underneath the sheets, her head resting against Flynn’s bare torso. He wore a pair of knitted nylon boxers while she was still nude, despite her cotton nightdress being within reach. After that first urgent time, Flynn had switched to undressing her slowly, showing her how much enjoyment they could have in each other’s body. She found herself reluctant to ever put clothes back on again. Sometimes after he was gone, she would look at herself in the small wall mirror, trying to see what it was about her that drove him so wild.
Flynn was smoking, his free arm slung around Evie, thumb stroking her shoulder. He absentmindedly murmured the words to some song she didn’t know while they waited for the noise of people swapping cabins to stop so he could sneak back to his shared room. He’d deemed it best to keep their sudden romance a secret, at least until they themselves had got used to it. Evie had readily agreed, for the secret only added to the excitement.
‘You’re about as good a singer as I am,’ she said, unable to stifle her giggles any longer.
Her fingers were splayed on his chest, and when he replied she felt the words reverberating through his torso.
‘Maybe we just haven’t found the right song yet.’
Evie could hear the smile in his voice. ‘It would have to be an amazing song to cover my lack of ability.’
‘Perhaps I’ll write you a song then.’ He stubbed his cigarette out in the glass ashtray Evie now kept near the bed in anticipation of his visits, and shifted down further so they were nose to nose. ‘The perfect song, just for you. And because it’s perfect, you will be too when you sing it.’
‘You play an instrument?’
‘No. Which is exactly how it should be. We’ll have a song written by a man who can’t play or write music, sung by a woman who can’t sing.’
Evie laughed. ‘All we’ll need then is someone who can’t dance to it.’
It was such a small moment, a silly joke between two people that no one else would ever understand, but it made Evie wonder why this kind of intimacy should be reserved only for marriage.
The boat had gone dark by the time Flynn tiptoed along the corridor to his own cabin. When he quietly closed the door he heard Alvin’s muffled voice say, ‘Whose cabin were you visiting then?’
Flynn didn’t answer as he climbed up into his own bunk, above Alvin’s. The other man’s snores soon told him he was asleep again.
Flynn was glad; neither of them found it easy to sleep most nights. He himself was drowsy with that pleasant heavy-limbed sensation he always got after spending time with Evie. It was different when he was with her. The horrors of the things he’d seen during the war faded to the tiniest voice at the back of his head, drowned out by her laugh.
Smiling, Flynn fell asleep on top of his covers. A tumble of dreams took him—indefinable shapes and colours, the rapid-fire strafing sounds a rattle beneath the show tunes performed on the Victory. Then everything coalesced into one shape and Flynn knew something was wrong. There was a presence nearby. Someone standing in the cabin watching him.
He twisted to look, and there she was. The young girl from outside the late-night café in Portsmouth. The one he hadn’t saved. She was staring up at him, her skin pale with death, her eyes reproachful. Her arms hung loose and empty, her dalmatian gone.
Flynn reached his hands out to her, beseeching, needing forgiveness for his moment of hesitation that had caused her death. But he couldn’t undo his failure, couldn’t …
‘Flynn!’
With a gasp Flynn opened his eyes. His heart was hammering so fast he was sure it was visible beneath his skin, and his face and neck were clammy.
Alvin’s concerned face was peering over the edge of the bunk, one hand gripping Flynn’s outstretched one.
The shirt Flynn hadn’t taken off had twisted around his throat. He let go of Alvin and clawed at his clothing to right it. From the top corner of his bed the toy dalmatian looked at him with its sad eyes.
‘Nightmare’s back?’ Alvin asked. His eyes were pools of black in the unlit cabin.
Flynn nodded; couldn’t say anything. His heart rate was slowing, but the old nausea had him in its grasp. He knew it was despair making itself physical, and if he didn’t do something to quell it he would be racing upstairs to hurl his stomach’s contents overboard.
‘Whisky?’ Alvin didn’t wait for an answer, just pulled on his slippers and headed for the door. Alvin had nightmares of his own and knew this was one of the few things that helped.
At the door, he paused and looked back at the top bunk where Flynn was shivering, hot and cold at the same time. ‘Maybe you should get rid of that toy. It can’t help.’
‘It’s not supposed to.’
Flynn pulled the dalmatian down in front of him, his hot dry eyes meeting the overlarge fabric ones. His shaking fingers traced the words Dismal Desmond printed on the dog’s neck. He’d been foolish to think he could escape the memories. His old demons were back, haunting him with his ineptitude. First at Pearl Harbor, when he’d sat listening to the wireless while the boys who’d frequented his bar died. Then Portsmouth, when his legs had failed him. And finally Normandy and beyond, where he’d trailed in the wake of the fighting troops, cleaning up the blood and bodies, and sending what remained of
those destroyed lives to the families waiting back home.
Evie was meant to be his salvation, but being with her wasn’t enough to take the past away. That was too big an ask of anyone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1951: Bay of Biscay, France
Flynn was pacing Evie’s cabin instead of relaxing in her arms after lovemaking as had become their habit over the past several weeks. The room was barely four paces across, and the sound of his feet going pad pad pad pad, followed by a swish of his nylon boxer shorts when he turned was driving Evie crazy. But he was clearly agitated about something and if he wanted to pace, she should let him.
She tried to focus instead on the dripping toast she was snacking on. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like some?’ she asked, holding out the china plate.
Flynn paused, his feet blessedly silent for a second; then he shook his head and took up pacing once more. Pad pad pad pad swish.
Evie polished off her toast, licking her fingers with relish. ‘You know, this reminds me of the Salvation Army hostel,’ she said, dabbing at the crumbs with a forefinger and touching them to her tongue. ‘There was one outside Kings Cross station during the war. I used to stop in there sometimes on my way home from the regiment. They gave working girls tea and dripping toast, sometimes even a spot to have a kip. It was nice to feel like someone was looking after you, even for a little while, what with everything going on outside.’
‘Will you shut up about the war?’ Flynn snarled, smacking his hand against the wall. Evie jumped, her words dying in her mouth. ‘Not everyone wants to talk about the goddamned war all the time. We don’t all have such wonderful memories of it, you know.’
He was glaring at her, his dark eyes wild, his naked chest rising and falling rapidly.
Evie raised trembling fingers to her lips. ‘I-I’m sorry, Flynn. I didn’t—’
‘Just because you got to play with searchlights and eat dripping on toast doesn’t mean it was a pleasant, fun time, okay?’