The Daughter of Victory Lights

by Kerri Turner

  Her cousins and the children at school thought her odd and called her names like ‘orphan’ and ‘bastard’, becoming frustrated when Lucy wasn’t hurt by them. Lucy didn’t tell them that the only mothers she’d ever known were her aunts, and if that’s what mothers were like she was happy to go without one, thank you very much.

  She was just drying her hands when she heard the doorbell chime. She threw the towel into the sink—something Aunt Cynthia would berate her for later—and raced to be the one to answer it. If it was a delivery person, she might get a joke, or even a smuggled treat.

  But it wasn’t a delivery person. At least, he didn’t look like any delivery person Lucy had seen before. In fact, she had never seen anyone like him at all.

  The man wore a neat suit and still had marks from his comb in his hair. His pale skin, which rested in gentle folds like a tissue that had been crumpled then smoothed back out, was marked by a pink flush that gave his otherwise solemn face a jolly look. But it was the black eyepatch with a silver tear embroidered on it, covering his right eye, that dazzled her. There was something otherworldly yet dignified about it.

  Lucy stood with the door open, staring at the patch without saying a word.

  ‘Hello, Lucy,’ the man said.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  A second after gasping this question, Lucy realised she was being rude. Not only had she not welcomed the man, she’d been staring at his eyepatch in a very obvious way. She glanced behind her, checking Aunt Cynthia hadn’t seen, then opened the door wider and politely asked him to come in.

  She showed him to a seat in the lounge room, then went running through the house to find Aunt Cynthia, her eager curiosity making her footsteps heavy on the rug-covered timber floors.

  Aunt Cynthia reprimanded Lucy for her thundering feet before following her to the lounge room. They collected Ruth along the way, her cousin always ready to nose into anything interesting that might be happening.

  Lucy knew it would be proper to introduce the man to her aunt by name, but realised she’d forgotten to ask his. Thankfully, he took over, standing up and reaching his hand out.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Begley. My name is Humphrey Walsh. You’ve never met me before, but I am—I was—from the Victory.’

  Aunt Cynthia drew in her breath, a sharp whistle between her teeth. Both Lucy and Ruth looked at her; something was happening, something they didn’t understand.

  Aunt Cynthia must have felt their looks, for she turned a hot glare on them. ‘Upstairs. Now.’

  Lucy turned. Today was not a day to obey slowly.

  ‘You too, Ruth. And tell your brother to stay in his room until told otherwise.’

  Ruth choked out a little sound of disbelief.

  Lucy understood why. It was always her being sent away, always her voice that was silenced; never Ruth’s or Spencer’s.

  Her cousin’s face clouded with thunder, but she followed Lucy upstairs, her feet making sounds as heavy as she dared to show she wasn’t happy.

  Lucy sat on the twin bed in the room she and Ruth shared, her hands bunched in the rough fabric of her skirt as she bounced up and down nervously. She could hear Aunt Cynthia’s voice below, but not make out what she was saying.

  ‘We should sneak out and listen,’ Ruth said, looking sideways at Lucy. She was sitting on her own bed, legs curled on the ex-army issue blankets Aunt Cynthia hated but had to use because there was no other option. Behind her sat a collection of dolls, their lifeless eyes staring at the dark wooden furniture of the room.

  Lucy’s own bed had no dolls. She didn’t like them anyway, with their dull frozen faces always looking at her like they were waiting for her to do something wrong. She much preferred the one toy she did have: a rather worn spotted dalmatian with a drooping face, once-red tongue, and a bow around his neck. Lucy didn’t know where the dog had come from. Certainly not from Aunt Cynthia, who hated the ‘ratty old thing’ as she called it, and only let Lucy keep it so she didn’t have an excuse to complain about having no toys to play with.

  Lucy stopped bouncing and considered Ruth’s suggestion. Her cousin only ever wanted to team up when there was something bad to be done. That way, if they were caught she could blame it on Lucy and escape trouble herself. Still, Lucy was tempted. She’d never seen Aunt Cynthia react to a visitor in such a manner, not even when a woman in an expensive-looking dress and tears smearing her make-up all down her face had come looking for Uncle Charles.

  ‘Come on, don’t be a scaredy-cat. Besides, I think I heard them say your name.’

  Ruth’s look was cunning, but Lucy lifted herself off the bed a little anyway. ‘Really? You think they’re talking about me?’

  Ruth shrugged, flopping down casually on her stomach. The springs of the bed squeaked underneath her. ‘I don’t know why they’d want to. But that’s what I heard.’

  Lucy bit her lip, looking from her cousin to the door that muffled the voices. She shouldn’t—she knew that. But if Ruth was telling the truth and they were talking about her, she wanted to know what was being said.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, her heart already tap dancing at the thought of getting caught. ‘But we have to be quiet.’

  Ruth rolled her eyes, annoyed at Lucy acting as though she knew more about sneaking around. She stood up, pushed Lucy out of the way, and opened the door quietly. Aunt Cynthia’s voice was instantly louder.

  ‘I don’t know what you think gives you the right to show up after all these years and demand—’ her aunt was shouting.

  Ruth widened her eyes and looked back at Lucy. Aunt Cynthia hadn’t sounded this angry even when Lucy had used her best gravy boat to dig tunnels in the dirt outside.

  Lucy, a little scared now, hesitated, but Ruth grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the room after her.

  The two girls tiptoed to the top of the stairs and crouched down. Lucy could feel the warmth of her cousin’s skin against her own, and wished they were the type of friends who could put an arm around one another. But already Ruth had let go of her hand, wiping it on her tartan skirt out of habit.

  ‘… kept secrets from her and made her think things that aren’t true.’ The man—Mr Walsh—wasn’t yelling like Aunt Cynthia, but he was definitely angry. It was a quiet sort of anger, Lucy thought, like a low rumble of thunder before lightning lashed out.

  ‘I’ve done nothing of the sort! And if you think you can just—’

  ‘Calm down, darling,’ came another voice. ‘There’s no need to get so worked up. I’m sure we can sort this out.’

  Lucy and Ruth glanced at each other; neither of them had heard Uncle Charles come home. It was too early for his workday to be over.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ Aunt Cynthia spat. She always got angrier when Uncle Charles called her a nice name. ‘You can’t possibly be thinking we should go along with this?’

  There was a pause, then Charles said with a sigh, ‘Having Lucy here does seem to leave you a little … overworked. Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier with a new arrangement?’

  Lucy gave an involuntary shiver. Ruth had been right: they were talking about her.

  ‘Are you saying I’m not capable of running my own household?’ Uncle Charles was smart enough not to answer, and there was another pause before Aunt Cynthia spoke again. ‘How do we even know this man is who he says he is?’

  ‘I’d be happy to give you proof I’m Humphrey Walsh,’ the man said. ‘As for the rest—there are many things I could tell you that I couldn’t know if I wasn’t who I say I am. Would you like me to tell you the date Evie left this house? Or made her last visit to it? Or perhaps who fathered—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Aunt Cynthia screeched.

  There was silence. Lucy’s ears were hot and reverberating with the angry words, desperate to hear more.

  ‘You called her Evie?’ Uncle Charles asked. His voice had gone soft and, to Lucy, sounded a little sad. ‘I thought she hated to be called anything other th
an Evelyn.’

  ‘It seems, then, that you didn’t really know her at all.’

  For some reason, this sentence and the silence that followed made tears sting at the backs of Lucy’s eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek, determined not to let her cousin see her being a cry-baby.

  ‘What about school?’ Uncle Charles asked.

  A weird sound echoed his question, probably from Aunt Cynthia.

  ‘There’s a school in Bonchurch,’ Mr Walsh said. ‘She’ll start at the beginning of the new school year, with everyone else. Until then we’ll school her at home.’

  ‘And he … he’ll be there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have any right to ask for the child if he wasn’t.’ Mr Walsh’s voice was disdainful, and another silence followed.

  Lucy didn’t think she’d ever heard a conversation punctuated with so much quiet. Usually, the gaps when Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Charles weren’t speaking to each other were filled with the noise of the television set.

  ‘You are determined to go ahead with this ridiculous plan, regardless of what I say,’ Aunt Cynthia finally said. She was no longer shouting, but her voice had a bitter, hard edge.

  No one replied.

  There were a couple of footsteps, and Lucy and Ruth both rose slightly, ready to make a run for it. But the footsteps stopped, and Aunt Cynthia spoke again.

  ‘She’ll be trouble for you, mark my words. She’ll turn out just like her mother. And when she does, you’ll come running back here, begging us to take her back.’

  Then Aunt Cynthia was striding out of the living room and towards the stairs. It was too late for Lucy and Ruth to run. Aunt Cynthia glanced up, saw the both of them, and her face went rigid.

  ‘Lucy made me do it,’ Ruth yelped, darting back to their shared room and slamming the door behind her.

  Lucy, unable to move, stared at her aunt. She was moving again now, her feet hitting every stair with a heavy, final sound. Thump. Thump. Each one made Lucy jump a little, until Aunt Cynthia was standing right in front of her, her pale bird-like face even whiter than usual.

  ‘Stand up straight,’ she ordered.

  Lucy obeyed, her weak knees locking into place thanks to years of practice.

  Her aunt raised a trembling hand, and Lucy winced, bracing herself for a smack. But it didn’t happen, and after a second she opened her eyes again. Aunt Cynthia still had her hand raised, but she was looking at Lucy with narrowed eyes, as though she’d forgotten the punishment she was midway through delivering.

  ‘Go to your room and pack your clothes,’ she said in a cold voice. ‘Your uncle will bring a case in.’

  She dropped her hand and pushed past. Lucy grabbed her skirt, trying to get her to stop. It was the first time she’d wanted to keep her aunt close to her.

  ‘Where am I going?’ she asked in a barely audible voice.

  Aunt Cynthia stared at her a moment, as if considering whether or not to answer. Then her upper lip lifted and she gave a small shrug.

  ‘You’re going to live with your father.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lucy climbed onto the slippery front seat of the Ford Anglia. Its mint-coloured leather matched the exterior exactly, a fact that might have delighted her at another time. But she was too numb to care. Her hands trembled, and she wished Mr Walsh hadn’t put her case in the back so she had something to hold on to.

  The door closed, sealing her inside the car, and her heart jumped, frog-like, into her throat. She looked out the window to where her aunt and uncle were forcing her cousins to wave her off.

  Mr Walsh slid onto the seat next to her, the car lowering slightly with his weight. He didn’t say anything; just turned the key and brought the car to life. A little gasp left Lucy’s lips at the sound of it.

  She leaned close to the window, her nose almost touching it, knowing that any minute her aunt and uncle would tell her to come back inside. But the car began to pull away and they did nothing. There was no shout to stop, no burst of laughter at the joke they’d played on her. Just Uncle Charles’s silent hand raised in farewell.

  Lucy kept looking out the window as the car got further and further away from her family. It hurt to breathe.

  ‘There’s a beach, you know,’ Mr Walsh said, staring ahead at the road.

  Lucy turned to look at him, tears swimming just behind her eyes. ‘What?’ she whispered. She knew it was rude to say ‘what’ like that, but she couldn’t find her manners just then.

  ‘Where we’re going—Bonchurch, your new home. There’s a beach. You can’t get there by car, but that’s what makes it so nice. Not so many people. Of course, there’s a bigger, more popular one at nearby Ventnor if that’s what you prefer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  All Lucy could think of were the words ‘new home’. She didn’t want a new home. She might not have liked the old one much, but it was the only one she’d known. She knew what to expect there. Turning away, she looked back out the window once more. They were gone. She’d missed the last sight of her family.

  She wanted to cry out, to yell at Mr Walsh to go back, that this was some kind of mistake. But years of living under her aunt’s roof meant she knew not to question adults. Instead, she sat back in the curved seat, hunched her shoulders, and tried not to cry.

  Mr Walsh was a kind man. He began to ask her questions. Some were sensible, like how she was at school; but mostly they were silly things, like what food did she think went best with cream or had she ever stood on her hands so long her feet went numb—the latter a bit of fun he highly recommended. If he was trying to amuse her, it worked. The heavy weight that had settled over her lifted just a touch, and she found her lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile.

  She asked if she could wind down the window, and Mr Walsh let her, not minding when she stuck her face out to let the late-spring wind whip her thin, dark hair around her ears.

  But it didn’t take long for the jumbled buildings of London to give way to unfamiliar, endless green stretches, and Lucy became quiet and still again. The leather seat beneath her got uncomfortably warm, and sweat from the backs of her legs made her skin itch. She continued to answer Mr Walsh’s questions, but in single words. He switched to telling her funny stories about his own childhood, but they did nothing to stop the return of the heavy feeling that now took over her whole body.

  After some time, they were surrounded by buildings once more: orange brick, or white with a dark timber trim. Mr Walsh told her they were in Portsmouth.

  He said it was too early for the car ferry—Lucy didn’t know what this meant—so he took her for an orangeade and a Bakewell tart. He allowed her to sit in silence while he munched his own egg and cress sandwich, and an hour later he ushered her into the front seat once more and drove a short distance.

  The Anglia rattled to a stop in a line-up of other cars. After what felt an age—Lucy’s hair was sticking to her neck and she was tired of breathing in the cigarette smoke of the waiting men and women—the lined-up cars turned their engines on and moved forward. One by one they disappeared into a large boat whose back end had opened up like a tongue unfurling. Mr Walsh followed suit, driving onto the tongue and deep inside the boat, where he parked in a formation with the other cars.

  Lucy, at first fascinated, now had the feeling she was being swallowed, like Pinocchio by the whale, and she was relieved when they left the car and went up some stairs to sit in a large carpeted room.

  She had never been in a boat big enough to house cars and stairs and sitting rooms, but it was the glass windows that grabbed her attention. Mr Walsh had explained they were going to the Isle of Wight and Lucy could see the island already, moving very slowly towards them. It was still too fast for her liking though. Once the boat deposited them on shore, it would be impossible for her to bridge the gulf between her new home and the old by herself.

  An announcement came over a loudspeaker, and Mr Walsh led her back down the stairs and into the car. Not too long after, the boat
opened up and they drove out onto land, water lapping at the wheels. Lucy twisted bunches of her hair into loose fists and tried not to cry.

  Mr Walsh carried on driving, through a mixture of seaside towns and long stretches of fields. Sometimes he had to pull over into the high hedges that lined either side of the narrow road to let a car pass in the other direction. Occasionally they drove through tunnels made of tree branches touching overhead. Lucy had never seen anything like them, and the strange combination of wide open spaces and claustrophobic tight squeezes made her stomach feel queasy. She tried not to remember the sickly sweet treats she’d enjoyed before the boat, but they seemed all she could think of. She barely noticed when Mr Walsh pointed out that they could now see glimpses of ocean between the buildings and winding streets.

  A few minutes later he slowed the car and drove it through a gap in an uneven stone wall. Beyond the gap was a short gravelly driveway, with a small garage at the end, the same shape and colour as the house nearby. The garage door had been left open, and Mr Walsh neatly parked the car inside.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said, turning to smile at her. The silver tear on his eyepatch glowed softly. ‘Your new home.’

  There was that word again: home. Lucy swallowed, trying not to be sick.

  Mr Walsh opened his door and got out. Lucy didn’t follow; she was too afraid to. She waited for Mr Walsh to squeeze into the space between the car and the wall and open the door for her; then she had no choice but to meekly follow him out. While he was closing the garage door, and doing the same with the curling iron gate which guarded the opening in the stone wall, she studied the place she was now going to live in. The house stood proudly in a small garden that was near to bursting with bushy shrubs, full-topped trees and tufty magenta flowers. It had to be at least three times the size of the house Lucy had grown up in, and its sand-coloured walls didn’t join onto the other houses nearby. Lucy tilted her head back to stare at the white-framed windows, which were evenly spaced across the front of the house, and the pointed roof jutting up into the sky. The house was a square topped with a perfect triangle, like those she’d drawn when she was younger.