by Kerri Turner
‘Are you coming?’ Mr Walsh asked. He’d finished with the gate and was almost at the front door, which was painted white to match the window trims.
Lucy shut her gaping mouth and hurried to him.
He smiled and said, ‘Let’s see if we can’t get some nice hot food into you. It’s practically tea time. Mind the umbrella stand on your way in.’
The door made a creaking noise as Mr Walsh opened it, then he was standing aside, waiting for Lucy to go ahead of him. Knowing there was little else she could do, she took a tentative step forward.
Her toes had barely crossed the threshold when a loud voice called out, making her jump. ‘You’re here! And about time too. I was beginning to think you’d made the poor thing walk.’
Just on the heels of the voice was a woman. Her face was creased with age but still plump and friendly. It was surrounded by a frame of grey hair set in curls that swung with each movement in a satisfying way. She wore stacks of bright bracelets on her arms, and as she came close Lucy thought she could smell perfume. It was cool and kind of spicy, not at all like the strong floral scent Aunt Cynthia used. Lucy took a step back, bumping into Mr Walsh who was right behind her.
‘Of course I didn’t,’ he said. ‘You know how long that drive is—you’ve done it yourself on occasion.’
‘But never with such precious cargo.’ The woman looked down at Lucy and gave her a wink.
Lucy had never seen a woman wink before, and a giggle broke free from her lips.
‘That’s just the sound this house has been missing,’ the woman said. She touched Lucy on the shoulder, then pulled her forward, her bracelets clinking softly. ‘Come on, let’s get something warm in your tummy. Then I suppose I should send you to bed. No doubt you’re worn out after your journey. Not to mention all the change.’
Lucy furtively tried to look around her as she followed the woman through the house. She glimpsed wallpaper patterned in turquoise, orange and yellow—a cheerful contrast to the dark furniture and sharp corners of her previous home—before they emerged into a kitchen at the back of the house. This room was an explosion of colour, with its black and white checked linoleum floor, vegetable-patterned wallpaper, and copper pots hanging on the walls.
‘Sit,’ the woman said, pulling out a tangerine-coloured vinyl seat at a rather battered-looking table.
Mr Walsh had disappeared with Lucy’s case somewhere in the rest of the house, and she felt a tug of panic at losing sight of him. She’d only known him a few hours, but it felt a lifetime compared to the newness of everything around her.
To distract herself from what felt like panic, Lucy kept her eyes moving over the kitchen, taking in each detail as though she had to commit it to memory. There was a refrigerator taller than she was with the word Prestcold across the front in gold letters. A twin-tub washing machine was tucked in one corner, as if it hadn’t been properly put away. Most impressive was an electric oven whose inside lit up when the woman turned it on. Even in her tired, nervous state Lucy’s hands longed to turn the dials and pull at the handles to see how they all worked. She folded them carefully on the tabletop in front of her.
The woman, who was busying herself with utensils and packets of things Lucy couldn’t see, hummed an unfamiliar tune. She had placed a glass of milk in front of Lucy, but Lucy was too shy to take a sip.
Eventually, the woman plopped a plate down on the table. ‘Eat up.’
It was a pie in a tin. The woman had used a tin opener to get the lid off, then placed the whole thing in the oven until the edges had started to blacken. It was the kind of thing Aunt Cynthia would have hated. Lucy’s stomach made a little noise; it had settled enough to be hungry again.
‘Go on,’ the woman said, nodding her grey head at the plate. ‘It won’t eat itself. Unless you don’t like pie?’
‘No, I do,’ Lucy whispered, ducking her head and breaking off a forkful.
‘Good. Because I’m not much of a cook. My name’s Bee, by the way, and don’t you go calling me anything else. I don’t like this “Mrs This” and “Mr That”, even coming from children. Bee’s the name I chose long ago, and it will do just fine.’
Lucy didn’t know if she’d be able to call an adult by their first name. Still, she smiled and nodded.
As she chewed, she looked around the room again, her eyes roaming over the shining surfaces. She had never seen so much that was modern in the one place.
‘What is it?’ Bee asked.
Lucy turned her gaze quickly back to her plate, shovelling another forkful into her mouth.
‘I can see you’re thinking something. Around here, when we’ve got something on our mind, we say it. So out with it.’
Lucy swallowed her mouthful of pie without having chewed properly, and it stuck to the inside of her throat. She coughed, and Bee pushed the glass of milk at her. After a few swallows, Lucy managed to choke out, ‘My father must be rich.’
A flicker of amusement ran over Bee’s face.
‘I’m afraid not, little one. In fact, your father has barely anything to his name. It’s Humphrey Walsh who owns this fine house. The rest of us just live with him. And even he isn’t too rich any more. Not after the … well, not after setting us all up here. He keeps us going by writing songs here and there, mostly for radio or television adverts, but that’s all we have.’
Lucy nodded. She wasn’t disappointed. The house was so big, it felt as if they were all rich just by living there.
When Lucy had finished eating, Bee dumped her plate noisily in the deep sink. Lucy waited for her to run the tap, perhaps hand her a towel to dry up with, but she ignored the washing up and turned back to Lucy. She regarded her for a moment with narrowed eyes, her lips twitching like she wanted to say something. Lucy curled her hands neatly in her lap, ready for whatever was coming.
‘Do you think you’ll miss your family?’
‘Um … I’m not sure.’
Bee gave a single nod. ‘I thought as much. They’re difficult people, aren’t they? We could tell from the moment your mother entered our lives that she didn’t have an easy relationship with them.’
Lucy felt the same peculiar sensation in her stomach as whenever Mr Walsh’s car had sped over a particularly large bump. She’d never heard her mother spoken about so casually, without malice or reproach, and she experienced a sudden desperation to ask all the questions she’d spent years telling herself she didn’t care about.
But Bee was already talking about Evelyn Bell, a stream of words pouring from her mouth like they’d been held inside for years, only awaiting Lucy’s arrival to be set free. And for the first time in her life Lucy was hearing details about the woman she should have known better than any other, the woman who had given birth to her. Lucy had always known she existed, but as a shadowy figure who never truly seemed real. Like the Queen, or a famous actress you only ever saw on television. She tried now to form a picture of the woman being described.
A woman who knew what mysteries lay behind the glass surface of giant lights.
A woman who had loved a nephew who didn’t seem to even remember her.
A woman with a core of curiosity and an adventurous spirit.
Lucy wondered if Aunt Cynthia had been right about her inheriting her wilful and disobedient ways from her mother.
Bee’s eyes were distant as she spoke, then her voice trailed off and she gave herself a little shake and smiled wistfully at Lucy.
‘Goodness, look how late I’ve kept you up. I’m not off to a good start, am I? Come on, that’s enough for one night. Let’s take you to your room.’
Lucy was relieved. She needed time to try and fit the story of this living, breathing woman with her own history. It was an awful lot to take in after a lifetime of little to no information.
She followed Bee out of the kitchen and up a set of timber stairs.
When Bee opened the door to her new bedroom, and Lucy saw the lace curtains, fashionable lilac furniture and brightly patterned counte
rpane, her mouth dropped open in surprise.
‘I hope you like it,’ Bee said, walking over and checking the windows were shut. ‘It’s a little sparse at the moment, but I’m sure once your things are unpacked it will feel more like home. And if you think of anything you need, let me know and I’ll arrange to get it.’
‘Am I … am I going to meet my father tonight?’ Lucy said hesitantly.
Bee’s face seemed suddenly unsure. ‘Not tonight. He’s … well, I suppose some people might say he’s shy. Not the right word for it really, but it’ll do for now. Do you need me to tuck you in? Or help you get undressed?’
‘No, thank you,’ Lucy said. She thought Bee seemed relieved.
‘Alright then. Let’s just say goodnight, and we can get to know each other properly tomorrow. How does that sound?’
Without waiting for an answer, Bee walked out the door and shut it behind her.
Lucy hesitated a moment, then tiptoed over and pressed her ear against the door. She could hear Bee’s footsteps moving steadily away from her. There was no sign of Mr Walsh, or anyone else for that matter.
Lucy turned around, rested her back against the door and surveyed the room. She’d never had a bedroom all to herself before, and the novelty was both exciting and a little unsettling. The bed stood in the middle of one wall, a wooden chair next to it. The wallpaper—cream with pale blue, pink and purple flowers on it—looked new and Lucy wondered if it had been chosen especially for her. And the wardrobe—oh, the wardrobe! Not only did its lilac paint exactly match the dressing table with an attached mirror that stood opposite the bed, but it had double doors. So much space for one single girl—Lucy wasn’t sure she’d have enough clothes to fill it.
Temptation overwhelmed her, and she ran over to the windows Bee had just checked and pushed them open. The salty smell of the ocean immediately hit her nostrils, and a breeze curled around her cheeks and hair. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again, peering out into the night. There was nothing much to see aside from the roofs of other houses and the lines of the tall stone fences that meandered through endless greenery. It was so different to London. Lucy felt herself to be tiny in this brand new world. She liked the feeling, and grinned at the night, as if sharing a secret with it.
Stepping back, she let the curtains fall against the open window. She opened her case—Mr Walsh must have brought it up for her—and pulled out her rather crushed dalmatian. Then she walked to the end of her bed, stood with the backs of her heels touching it, and threw herself backwards so she landed on the mattress. She bounced up and down a few times, holding the soft dalmatian against her mouth to smother her giggles.
The curtains stretched white gauzy arms over the bed and Lucy watched them billow, fancying the house was dancing to welcome her. ‘Home,’ she whispered, as though trying out the word. It didn’t fit, but it also didn’t feel quite as bad as it had before.
Clutching her dalmatian, the curtains stretching their pale, flimsy arms above her, Lucy fell asleep. She hoped to dream of the woman Bee had described.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1963: Isle of Wight, England
When Lucy awoke the next morning, all the excitement she had felt the previous night was gone. She was alone in a room that, for all its lovely new furniture, was completely strange to her. There were no familiar soft snores from Ruth in the next bed, no knock from Aunt Cynthia telling her to get out of bed and come help with breakfast. Even the cool breeze wafting in through the windows she’d left open was a stranger to her: it carried a fresh, earthy smell, not at all like the London blend of cigarette smoke, frying bacon and car exhaust fumes.
Lucy pulled the counterpane to her chin, hugged her dalmatian close and tried not to think of the family who’d given her up—seemingly without regret. She’d never known Aunt Cynthia to lose an argument before, so to do so to Mr Walsh meant she must have wanted to. A hard little knot weighed down her stomach.
Half an hour later she sat over a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and toast cut into soldiers. She had little appetite, but made herself take a few bites, for Bee was watching her over the edge of her teacup.
‘Perhaps you’d like to explore the village today?’ Bee eventually said. She looked perplexed, as though she wasn’t sure if this was the kind of thing a ten-year-old girl might do. ‘I don’t know if you noticed yesterday, but our house is at the end of a private lane. If you walk to the end of the lane, then follow the road to the left for long enough, taking a turn here and there, you’ll reach the beach. I could draw you a map.’
Lucy gave her a smile but didn’t say anything.
A crease formed between Bee’s brows and she twisted her teacup on its saucer. ‘Or in the other direction there’s the Bonchurch pond. A pretty little spot, and there’s often ducks swimming there.’
Lucy would rather have met the father who’d brought her here, but couldn’t think of a way of saying so without sounding rude, so she mumbled something about exploring the pond.
She accepted Bee’s messily scrawled map and let herself be waved off from the front door. It was strange to be setting out alone. In her old life there had always been other people around her: neighbourhood children playing in their small gardens; Spencer and Ruth, who let her tag along with their group of friends so long as she didn’t try to join in too much; Aunt Cynthia making her carry a bag of groceries or pulling her by the hand and telling her not to get herself lost. But as Lucy walked down the lane, Bee’s shout to be back by lunchtime fading behind her, she realised there were no sounds except her own footsteps and the calls of occasional birds. The seclusion of the house was so complete, it almost scared her. It wasn’t until she reached the road, with its overhanging streetlamps and painted front doors or iron gates set into the stone fences, that the eerie quietness was at least punctuated by the occasional car going by.
Lucy checked her piece of paper from Bee, then began trudging in the direction of the pond. Trees so green they seemed almost unnatural reached their twiggy fingers over the tops of the rough, uneven stone walls, stroking the velvety moss that clung to the stones. The sun was shining on the back of Lucy’s neck and she had fourpence in her pocket to buy some sweets or a copy of The Beano, thanks to Mr Walsh, who had zipped through the kitchen that morning with a quick hello.
He had an appointment in Ventnor, the next village over, he’d said, and had taken the car even though Bee said it was near enough to walk if you weren’t lazy. Mr Walsh had pulled a face at her, and Bee had pulled one back, which had made Lucy snort in a most unladylike manner. Instead of berating her, as Aunt Cynthia would have, they’d both smiled. Bee had even given her another one of those winks.
Lucy drew her gaze up from the rock she was kicking. On her left were a few stone buildings tucked behind white picket gates. According to Bee’s instructions she should be near the pond by now.
Her plimsolls halted as she stared at six children who were lined up shoulder to shoulder and peering over a low stone wall that divided the road from the pond. They were throwing bits of bread into the water.
Lucy’s first thought was to turn around and go back the way she’d come; she’d never been much good at making friends. But she heard Ruth’s voice telling her not to be such a scaredy-cat, and hesitated. The children were laughing in a way that looked comfortable and relaxed. Perhaps they wouldn’t be as sharp-tongued as Spencer’s and Ruth’s friends had always been to her?
Unsure, Lucy walked a bit further, passing them and then crossing the road, keeping her face turned to the pond. It was smaller than she’d expected a pond might be: a long, thin stretch of green water lined with wild flowers and bushy shrubs. The surface of the water was disturbed by the paddling of four brown ducks. They spotted Lucy almost immediately and swam towards her, leaving a V-shaped ripple behind them. Lucy pictured the mad circles their legs would be making beneath the water and stifled a giggle.
‘Bleeding hell,’ cried one of the children—a boy weari
ng polio leg braces. Lucy wondered how they might work, then forgot her curiosity as the entire group turned to look at her.
‘Don’t feed them,’ the boy shouted, pointing at her. ‘They’re already getting in the way.’
‘I-I’m not … I don’t have anything.’ Lucy held out her empty hands, then snatched them back to her sides when she saw how they trembled.
The boy broke away from the group, lumbering towards her. ‘Good. If you feed them they’ll practically swarm.’
‘I thought you were feeding—’ Lucy started, then squeezed her mouth shut. She was sure the boy was going to sneer at her for being stupid, but he simply shrugged one shoulder.
‘Nope. We were throwing bread in to make the carp come to the surface. It’s jolly good fun, but if there are too many ducks in the way it’s hard to see them. Plus the ducks eat the bread before the carp can get it.’
‘Oh.’
Lucy looked down at the pond. She hadn’t noticed before, but she could see fat, dark shapes moving lazily in the water. She supposed these were the carp.
‘You’re new here,’ said an older girl, one foot propped on the stone wall in an authoritative manner.
‘Yes,’ Lucy said shyly, then realised the girl hadn’t actually asked a question.
She did now though, wanting to know who Lucy was visiting. In a stilted voice, Lucy explained that she wasn’t visiting anyone at all, and had in fact just moved to Bonchurch. It was strange saying it out loud like that, and caused quite a stir. Apparently Bonchurch didn’t often get new residents.
On questioning, Lucy described her new house as best she could. It wasn’t easy—she hadn’t been there long enough to have a clear vision of it in her own mind yet—but they must have known which one she meant for a silence settled over the group as they shared meaningful glances. Butterflies tickled Lucy’s stomach; something had gone wrong, only she wasn’t sure what.