The Daughter of Victory Lights

by Kerri Turner

  ‘You really live there?’ It was the older girl again, and she sounded a touch impressed.

  ‘Um … yes.’

  ‘You actually live with the monster? And the magician and the wanted woman? I don’t believe it. What’s it like in there? Is it scary?’

  Lucy rubbed the side of her nose with the edge of her sleeve, stalling for time. She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Not … not really.’

  It was the wrong answer. The group deflated a little, as if disappointed.

  Lucy hastened to fix her mistake. ‘I mean, I’ve only been there one night. And I haven’t even met them all. Or seen that much of the house. What … what do you mean by “wanted” woman?’

  Out of the three strange things, this seemed the hardest to decipher, although Lucy knew they must mean Bee.

  The children looked around, then gathered in close, and the girl lowered her voice to a whisper.

  ‘We’re not supposed to know, but grown-ups are never as quiet as they think they are. Adrian overheard his ma yelling at his dad to stop staring at the wanted woman, and just because she did it before didn’t mean she was going to dance,’ the girl’s eyes went wide, ‘naked for the men of Bonchurch.’

  Lucy’s lips tickled with the desire to laugh. But the faces of the other children were terribly serious.

  ‘Ma says she would’ve been thrown in the nick for indecency if the bobbies had ever got her,’ a boy who must be Adrian said. ‘But when they’re done with all the thieves and murderers, they’ll come for her again.’

  ‘I bet there’s lots of secrets hidden away in that house,’ the oldest girl added knowingly.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Again, it was the wrong thing to say. The girl looked at Lucy strangely, then turned back to the group, giving directions for where they would go next. The children drifted away without saying goodbye.

  Lucy wanted to join in with them without needing an invitation, as her cousins would have done, but she stayed where she was, watching them leave.

  Alone again, she trudged back to the house. She was no longer in the mood for ducks. She thought about what the children had said about the people she was living with now. A monster, a magician and a wanted woman.

  Lucy supposed her father must be the monster, for it seemed impossible for anyone to think of Mr Walsh as a monster. She tried to imagine what he might be like as she followed the uneven road. Bee and Mr Walsh hadn’t given her any clues. What made him a monster? Did he have a frightening face? A snarling voice that struck fear into the imaginations of children?

  She thought she would still like to meet him anyway. If he did turn out to be monster-like, then at least she would have something exciting to tell the village children the next time she saw them. Her move to Bonchurch could seem more exciting, like a kidnapping. They wouldn’t want to walk away from her then.

  Feeling a little better, Lucy picked up her pace. She even added a little skip to her step.

  Seated at her new mirrored dressing table that evening, Lucy looked past her own reflection to Bee, who was combing out her damp hair. Lucy could tell Bee wasn’t trying to hurt her the way it had sometimes seemed Aunt Cynthia was, so she tried not to wince whenever the comb gave a snarl of her hair an especially hard tug. She held her dalmatian in her lap, and let her fingers sink into his soft sides.

  ‘Done,’ Bee said, putting the comb down to Lucy’s relief. She fluffed Lucy’s hair, her fingers much gentler than the comb had been. ‘Don’t you go to bed until that’s fully dry, mind you. You don’t want to catch a cold.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Lucy looked down, running one finger along the plastic edge of the comb. She wanted to talk to Bee but wasn’t sure how to go about it. Bee had told her that in this house if they had something on their mind they were to speak it, but that didn’t seem so easy in practice.

  ‘Well … goodnight then,’ Bee said, turning towards the door.

  Lucy pushed her chair back so fast it scraped against the floor. ‘Bee?’ she blurted. The adult name felt funny in her mouth and she winced.

  But Bee simply turned back to her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is … is my father a monster?’ Lucy whispered the word. It sounded such an ugly thing to say in this room of soft purples and cream lace.

  ‘What?’ Bee frowned. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of Lucy’s iron-framed bed, facing her. ‘Who said that he was?’

  ‘I met some other children today. When I told them which house I lived in, they said I was living with … with a monster.’

  ‘Hmm …’ Bee ran her fingertips across her wrinkled lips, as if considering the matter, and for one terrifying moment Lucy thought that maybe the children had been correct.

  ‘Come here, sit next to me,’ Bee said.

  Lucy placed her dalmatian on the chair she’d been sitting in, and padded barefoot to Bee. When she sat down she made sure to leave a careful gap between them, but Bee’s weight had created a dent in the bedding and Lucy couldn’t help leaning into it. When her leg touched Bee’s, she was surprised at the comfort the warmth gave her.

  ‘Lucy, tell me … have you ever heard of Pearl Harbor?’ Lucy shook her head no. ‘It’s a place in Hawaii, which is part of America. Your father, who’s American, went to work in Hawaii a long time ago.’

  This was the first thing she’d ever learned about her father. Lucy held the idea in her mind, rolling it over like she would a hard sweet in her mouth. But Bee was still talking, so she saved the fact to explore later.

  ‘This was around the time of the war—you’ll have learned about the war at school? Good. When your father first lived there, Hawaii wasn’t involved in the war. But they got bombed. Your father’s life changed after that. He joined the army and did things that were both good and bad, like all men forced to go to war. Then, after the war, he did some more good and bad things, some of which earned him terrible scars. But none of those things—including the scars—make him a monster. I’ve known monsters, and your father isn’t one.’

  ‘Bee, does that mean … that there really are monsters?’ Lucy asked hesitantly.

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Lucy. Yes, there are monsters, and they almost always take the guise of people. But you can always fight them. In fact, you must fight them. Don’t be afraid, as that’s what they want.’

  Lucy was too taken aback by Bee’s honesty to feel afraid just then. She’d never come across an adult who would tell her the truth even if it was ugly or scary. It made Lucy feel somehow grown-up, and gave her the confidence to ask another question.

  ‘What about Mr Walsh then? The children said he was a magician.’

  At this, Bee laughed, a merry sound that made Lucy want to join in.

  ‘Yes, that one’s true. He was a magician from an early age. His first magic trick was to get people not to see what was right in front of them.’ She tapped her right eye, then the merriment vanished from her face. ‘You mustn’t ask to see his magic though. If you’re lucky, you might spot a bit when he’s in a good mood. But don’t ask, for his memories of magic aren’t always happy ones.’

  Bee got off the bed then, and—apparently forgetting Lucy’s still-damp hair—eased back the covers, a silent instruction that the time for questions was over. She didn’t ask if Lucy needed to be tucked in this time; she just did it, pulling the blankets up around her shoulders and patting them down more times than they needed.

  ‘Goodnight, sweet child,’ she murmured. ‘May your dreams be full of the best kind of magic.’

  She touched Lucy on the cheek with one papery finger, and then she was gone, switching the light off and shutting the door gently behind her.

  Lucy stared into the darkness of her room, hearing again the voices of the village children. They’d been right about the magician, but not the monster. That meant the wanted woman could go either way. Lucy was glad she hadn’t had the chance to ask, just in case it was true. She didn’t want to think about the police taking Bee off
to jail.

  When she fell asleep, she did dream of magic, just as Bee had hoped. Daring tricks that took her breath away, performed by a man wearing an eyepatch and a smile. When she woke, it was with such a sense of awe that she wondered how anyone who’d once been capable of magic could no longer want to do it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Lucy soon settled on which was her favourite room in her new, oversized home. She wasn’t sure she was allowed to go in it, but no one had told her she couldn’t. For company, she took along a partner in crime: an old fat ginger cat who lived in the house. When she picked him up and tucked him under her arm like a squishy handbag, his tail flicked from side to side and he purred in time with her footsteps padding quietly down the linoleum hallway.

  The room was a treasure room. At least, that’s how Lucy thought of it. Piles and piles of what most people would consider junk lay everywhere, sometimes in towers taller than Lucy, sometimes leaning precariously to one side as though everything might topple over. Lucy could spend hours in there without getting bored. Her favourite finds so far were a polished-wood wireless with a torn speaker that revealed fascinating workings beneath; a stack of sheet music she didn’t know how to read; an old ukulele with two broken strings; and a faded eyepatch of blue and green sequins in a fish-scale pattern that must have belonged to Mr Walsh. She wondered why he never wore it. It was much prettier than the black one with the silver tear, which made him look always a little sad, even when he was smiling. She didn’t dare ask though. If she did, he would know where she’d found it and might forbid her from entering the room again. For there were things inside it that Lucy was certain she wasn’t supposed to see.

  Like the books, which she’d found one afternoon beneath a pile of dusty, torn clothing. She’d never seen anything like them before. Their covers were bold colours splashed with cartoonish print, and they had daring titles like Deadly Night Call and The Mad Hatter Mystery. Many had pictures of women on the covers, with their dresses falling off their shoulders or riding up to show their legs. The ones that didn’t had gruesome dead bodies instead. They were obviously not meant for children, which only heightened their appeal. Lucy had decided to read every single one and then go searching the room for more.

  She was lying on her stomach, the cat curled in a ball on her bottom, a grisly murder story open in front of her, when she felt a gush of cool air as the door opened, then Bee’s voice was calling her name. Lucy jumped to her feet and the cat went flying with an angry screech.

  When Bee caught sight of Lucy’s face her eyes narrowed. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Lucy squeaked. She tried to nudge her toy dalmatian on top of the books with her toe before Bee could see them.

  But Bee was faster than that. Her eyes flickered downwards as soon as Lucy moved, and in a flash she’d scooped up the book Lucy had been engrossed in only a moment ago.

  ‘Desperate Moment,’ she read off the cover. ‘A woman battles evil and intrigue.’ She stared at Lucy with a bewildered expression. ‘Lucy, what is this?’

  ‘A book,’ Lucy whispered, looking down at the floor. She scrunched her bare feet into the speckled brown carpet, trying not to think about how much trouble she was in. She should have made a plan for this scenario. It was what the characters in the books would have done. But she’d been a dunderhead, and now she would pay for it.

  ‘Yes, I understood that much,’ Bee said, leaning down to pick up more of the books. She fanned them out, looking at their faded but still bright covers. ‘My goodness,’ she breathed. ‘I’m surprised he still has any left after … He must have begun collecting them again.’

  He? Did the books belong to Mr Walsh? Lucy’s stomach dropped sickeningly. What if what she’d done was so bad that Mr Walsh drove her back to London, just as Aunt Cynthia had predicted he would end up doing? She didn’t want to go.

  The thought was a surprise to Lucy. Aunt Cynthia would be furious about having to take her in again just when she’d got rid of her, and life would be worse than it had been before she’d left. But it wasn’t just that. She realised that she liked the freedom she had here. It was lonely sometimes exploring the house and the village by herself, and she’d not managed to make friends with any of the Bonchurch children yet. But she wasn’t teased and called names all day long, and hadn’t once been sent to bed without tea. All things considered it was an easier, more comfortable life.

  Panic built in Lucy’s chest, so sudden and intense that she had to bite her lip to stop herself begging Bee not to send her away.

  She dared to look up, eyes wide, ready for her sentence. But Bee’s face only showed amusement as she flicked through more of the books.

  ‘It’s been so long since I’ve seen any of these,’ she said. ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘They were stacked in a pile over there,’ Lucy mumbled. She didn’t understand why she hadn’t been punished yet. She risked a question. ‘Do they belong to Mr Walsh?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he was ever a particular fan of pulps. But your father just adored them. Everyone who knew him caught him with one close to his nose at some point.’

  ‘They’re my father’s?’ Lucy gasped, forgetting for a moment to worry about her punishment. She couldn’t believe that she’d been touching things that he too had touched. She wanted to snatch the books back and inspect them for evidence of the man she still hadn’t met. Bee and Mr Walsh were always happy to tell stories about her mother, but remained frustratingly closed-lipped when it came to her father.

  ‘Yes, they are.’ Bee chuckled. ‘But I’m not sure ten is old enough to be reading books like this, Lucy.’

  Lucy knew she was right. That was why she’d kept her discovery of them secret. Bee stared at the books, lips working back and forth.

  ‘You know, I was the most sheltered girl in the world,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘and it didn’t do me a damn bit of good. Pardon the language. Perhaps it’s not so bad for you to read them. See some of the monsters I told you about in the safety of fiction before you have to face them in real life.’

  Lucy’s heart leaped. Maybe she wouldn’t be sent away after all. Or if she was, maybe Bee would let her take a few of the books with her. She’d have to hide them from Aunt Cynthia and Spencer and Ruth, of course, but a book would be something of her very own, something which connected her to this place.

  Bee let the books drop back to the carpeted floor with a dull slap, then saw Lucy’s face. ‘My goodness, child, you don’t need to look so wretched. It’s just some silly pulps after all. And we all have our guilty secrets.’

  Bee placed one hand on the floor, her knees cracking as she lowered her weight into the spot Lucy had been sitting in. The stack of bracelets she wore on one wrist clinked as she stretched her legs out in front of her and arranged her faded below-the-knee skirt over them. The cat climbed into her lap, throwing Lucy a reproachful look, and Bee stroked his head absentmindedly.

  ‘Sit, and let me tell you something,’ she said.

  Lucy squeezed into the space next to her, trying to imitate the way she had settled her skirt. It was harder because Lucy’s only came to her knees. Their shoulders were touching, and Bee’s warmth spread through her clothing to Lucy’s skin in a way that was cosy.

  ‘I did something I knew I shouldn’t once too,’ Bee said. ‘You remember I told you your mother, father, Humphrey and I all lived and worked on a boat called the Victory? Well, we were having a party one night and your father upset your mother, as men are wont to do. I threw a fishing line overboard before going to bed, and the next morning when I found I’d hooked something, I couldn’t resist slipping it into his bed.’

  A snort of laughter escaped Lucy. She pressed her fingers to her lips, but Bee’s solemn nod made her want to giggle even more.

  ‘I think it took about three washes before the fish smell finally came out of his sheets. Not to mention the fright he got when he climbed into bed and his toes touched the thing. To this
day he still doesn’t know who the culprit was.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever want to tell him it was you? So he could know why you did it?’

  Lucy didn’t like the thought of her father upsetting the mother she’d been getting to know through Bee’s stories. It made him seem more like the monster the village children were afraid of.

  But Bee just shrugged. ‘The act itself was enough. Now, your mother was an excellent secret keeper, and I’m banking on you having inherited that trait. I’ll keep your books a secret if you keep my fish a secret. Does that sound fair to you?’

  Lucy couldn’t believe it. Not only was she not in trouble, or being sent away, but Bee, a grown-up, had actually confided a secret in her.

  She felt undeniably grown herself, and nodded her head seriously. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The cat chimed in with a loud purr, and Lucy found herself laughing again, this time with Bee.

  When Bee looked at her with such warmth in her eyes, Lucy felt a strange kind of glow that was almost like an ache. She didn’t know what it was, or what to do with it, so she reached out to bury her fingers in the cat’s ginger fur.

  ‘Where did he come from?’ she asked.

  ‘Who? The cat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was born on the Victory. His mother was ginger too, although none of us ever did figure out how she managed to get herself in the way of having kittens. The rest of the litter was given away, but I had to leave the mother with at least one. I owed her, you see, from an incident the first day I met her. Funnily enough, that was also the first day I met Humphrey. And the first time someone ever called me Bee. They say things happen in threes, and I guess firsts aren’t immune to that rule. Now come on, it’s too warm in here. Help me get back up.’

  Lucy leaped to her feet and took Bee’s hands in her own. She was so relieved to be staying that, as she watched Bee straighten, she made another promise. A silent one, to herself. From this moment on she would never do anything wrong again. She’d been lucky today, but next time she might get sent back. It wouldn’t be an easy promise to keep, but it would be worth it.