The Daughter of Victory Lights

by Kerri Turner

  Mr Walsh opened the door, and Lucy saw Bee curled up beneath a fuzzy counterpane, fingers pressed to one temple. Her face was pale, and Lucy wasn’t used to seeing her with her hair undone and tangled, but otherwise she looked much the same as always.

  ‘See, not dying,’ Bee said with a grimace. ‘Only women’s troubles.’

  ‘Are you sure? Can I get you something? Maybe a cup of tea?’ Lucy tiptoed forward, reaching out so just her fingertips rested on the edge of the bed.

  Bee’s hand sneaked out from underneath the counterpane to give them a squeeze.

  ‘What you can do for me is go out with Humphrey and enjoy yourself,’ she said. ‘I had an excursion planned and I don’t want you to miss it.’

  It was hardly going to help Bee, but if this was what she wanted, Lucy would do it. She gave Bee what she hoped was an encouraging smile, then went downstairs with Mr Walsh to climb into the Anglia.

  They drove for an hour through green, cramped roads, listening to old swing songs on the radio. When they pulled into a wide dirt car park, Mr Walsh explained that he’d brought her to Osborne House, where Queen Victoria and her family had once lived.

  Their tour guide led them past long grass lawns overhung by tall trees to a sprawling yellow building that she insisted wasn’t a palace but certainly looked like one to Lucy.

  Inside, the guide pointed out a glass and gilt brass chandelier that resembled a cluster of hanging flowers; a statue of the queen’s favourite dog, Noble; and a billiard table which the queen herself had learned to play on. But Lucy couldn’t stop fretting over what might happen if Bee got worse and needed some medicine, or was hungry but too weak to go downstairs to the kitchen. They should have stayed home with her.

  Lucy began chewing her thumbnail as they left the building and wandered through the fountain gardens. As they traipsed down a staircase with awkwardly shallow steps, she switched to the other thumb. By the time they reached a boardwalk leading into the wide grounds, she’d bitten crescent moons off both thumbs, her left index finger and her right pinky.

  Mr Walsh kept glancing at her sideways but only broke the silence after twenty or so minutes, telling her they were nearly at the Swiss Cottage. Lucy didn’t know what this meant, and didn’t ask, but he explained that it was a playhouse Prince Albert had made for his children.

  Lucy didn’t care—although she hoped Mr Walsh couldn’t tell—but when the Swiss Cottage came into view, it managed to distract her from her worries. The muddy-brown building didn’t look like a playhouse—at least not one Lucy had ever seen. It was about the same size as her old home in London, with a peaked roof that reached over the edges of walls made from horizontal logs stacked one on top of the other. Its upper storey was ringed with an intricate wooden railing, from which two staircases led down to ground level. High up on the walls were carvings in a language she didn’t understand.

  Mr Walsh encouraged Lucy to explore, telling her that behind the casement windows she would find a full kitchen and scullery, a sitting room, and even a dressing room.

  But Lucy’s feet had turned to lead. All she could do was stare at the fanciful building and think of one thing. The prince must have loved his children very much to give them all this.

  A strange emptiness took over Lucy.

  ‘Why did you bring me here?’ she asked, her voice low.

  ‘Bee thought you might find it interesting. I know there’s not a lot for children to do in Bonchurch and—’ Mr Walsh stopped short, catching sight of her face. ‘You don’t mean Osborne House and the Swiss Cottage, do you?’

  Lucy shook her head. She couldn’t give voice to the question that was burning the back of her throat. Why, after all these years, had she been brought to live with the father who’d kept his existence a secret until now? Why, if he was only going to ignore or hide away from her?

  Mr Walsh sighed. ‘You don’t know this, Lucy, but we—Bee and I—checked up on you throughout the years. From afar, so as not to upset your aunt and uncle. I don’t think I’m wrong in saying you didn’t seem very happy living with them?’

  Again Lucy shook her head, although she felt guilty at the admission, as though she could still get in trouble with Aunt Cynthia for daring to complain.

  ‘And it only seemed to get worse with the passing years,’ Mr Walsh continued. ‘The way your aunt spoke about Evie … It just didn’t seem right. Not when there was another option. A better option; one I’d wanted for you from the very beginning.’

  Lucy’s thumb edged towards her mouth again, but there was no nail left to chew.

  ‘So my father didn’t want me here,’ she said. ‘I came because of you?’

  Mr Walsh studied her before answering. ‘It’s a complicated thing. He was frightened. Had been from the very beginning. I’d hoped his fear was something he’d find his way out of, but then your mother died and everything got so much worse.’ His voice was measured but Lucy thought she heard something in it; a crack perhaps, or the tightness of unshed tears. ‘I’m sorry I ever let him send you away. I should have done more to change his mind. You should have grown up here, with us.’

  It didn’t make Lucy feel any better. If anything, it seemed to confirm that her father had never wanted her.

  She wanted to walk away from the Swiss Cottage; she didn’t want to be confronted with this family’s love for each other. But everywhere she looked she could see it. In one direction was a thatched summerhouse full of wheelbarrows painted with each child’s initials. In another, a miniature fort complete with brick barracks—a gift from the sons to their mother on her birthday. And if she went back the way they’d come, she’d pass a row of carefully tended garden plots bearing the names of the princes and princesses. Was this how families were supposed to be? So full of love they had to put physical marks everywhere for the world to see? It confused her; gave her the sense she’d been missing out on something without realising it.

  She thought about the photo she’d left on her bed; the woman whose mouth was twisted in a half smile, one hand resting on the full curve of her belly. Would it have been different if her mother was still around?

  Her voice shook when she spoke. ‘Mr Walsh, how did my mother die?’

  Mr Walsh didn’t answer straight away. He stared out across a paddock of wildflowers, his shoulders set in a straight line. He raised one hand to his eyepatch, then stopped, his fingers hovering just below it.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s right for you to know just yet,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Not when you still know so little of her. I wouldn’t want you to remember her only in terms of her death.’

  Lucy didn’t remember her at all. She bit her lip to stop from saying so.

  ‘I can see that’s an unsatisfying answer,’ he added. ‘Would it help if I told you some more about her instead?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Let’s see … She once went swimming in the French Riviera in her clothes because there was no time to buy a swimming costume and she didn’t want to miss the opportunity. She used smoke as a special effect in our show when no one else had thought of it. She sang while she was working but never realised it; and I often caught her in the galley—that means kitchen—having a midnight snack.’

  The corners of Lucy’s mouth twitched at these new pieces of information. ‘She sounds interesting. But then … I suppose a lot of bad people do?’

  Mr Walsh’s nostrils flared; he shook his head, his mouth in a grim, straight line. ‘Don’t ever believe that. What your aunts told you was wrong. Your mother was all kinds of good. She was curious and quick to learn. She was warm, caring and fiercely protective of you.’

  This last lessened the emptiness inside Lucy a little. It was nice to think of a mother who’d loved her the way the children who’d once lived in this place had been loved.

  She turned back to the Swiss Cottage, squinting against the sun. She might not have been given an entire house to play in, but if her mother had been alive perhaps she would have given Lucy a room
full of toys and books, or marked a door frame to show her changing height. Things that would show anyone who cared to look that Lucy was, in fact, important to someone.

  It was strange, but Lucy was beginning to miss this person she’d never known.

  She slipped her hand inside Mr Walsh’s as they walked back to the car. His hand was big and warm, and his fingers curled softly around hers.

  His voice was as gentle as the breeze that caressed their cheeks when he said, ‘You know one of the most impressive things about your mother? It was the way she gave people chances. More than they deserved, even. She was just that kind of person.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Are you ready?’ Bee asked. Lucy, not at all sure she was, nodded. ‘Here we go then. One, two, three …’

  They began to move forward, Lucy’s feet circling slowly on the stiff pedals. She glanced at Bee, checking she was still holding on to the bicycle, then looked ahead again. She had wanted to do this since the moment Bee had first suggested it, but her hands were sweating on the handlebars and her throat had gone too dry to swallow.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ Mr Walsh called from where he stood at the edge of the path, hands on his hips, the silver tear of his eyepatch gleaming in the sunlight.

  ‘Yes, very well,’ Bee reiterated. ‘Alright, I’m going to let go soon.’

  ‘No!’ Lucy cried out in panic.

  The handlebars swerved, but Bee righted them.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Trust me. This is the best way to learn. It’ll only be for a second, then I’ll grab hold again. Ready?’

  ‘No,’ Lucy squeaked again as Bee let go of the bicycle. ‘No, no, no!’

  Her feet were still circling and the bike was still moving forward. As soon as she realised this, her hands jerked and the bike swerved sideways. She saw the grass coming at her, then Bee was there, catching the bike before it hit the ground. They rolled gently to a stop.

  ‘Well done,’ Bee said, beaming at her as if she’d done something wonderful. ‘That was brilliant for a first go. You have your mother’s courage, forging ahead even when you’re frightened. You’ll be riding around by yourself in no time.’

  ‘My turn now,’ Mr Walsh called, clapping his hands.

  Lucy clambered off the rusty bicycle, her limbs shaking from both the thrill and the fright. She handed it to him, and he swung one leg over, parked his bottom on the torn seat, then looked at Bee expectantly.

  ‘I still can’t believe you don’t know how to ride a bicycle,’ Bee said, eyeing him distrustfully.

  ‘It’s true. I’m a man of many talents, but this sadly has never been one of them.’

  ‘I think he’s telling us fibs,’ Bee said to Lucy. But she grabbed the bike the way she had for Lucy and began to push it while Mr Walsh turned the pedals.

  Lucy giggled.

  ‘Okay, are you ready?’ Bee asked.

  She was jogging alongside the bike now, the skirt of her blue floral dress dancing around her legs. Mr Walsh was going faster than Lucy had, and Lucy rubbed her palms against her plaid-covered hips, wondering if he would panic as she had done, or outperform her.

  ‘Go!’ Bee cried, letting go and holding her arms in the air.

  Mr Walsh kept moving, his feet circling like mad. Just as he seemed to be off down the driveway, the bicycle veered—straight for Bee.

  Bee screeched, darting to the side, but the bicycle followed.

  ‘Catch me!’ Mr Walsh yelled dramatically, and the bicycle tipped so he was leaning against her. Bee staggered a few steps, struggling to keep them both upright. The feeling inside Lucy was like fizzy lemonade reaching up from her stomach; she clapped her hands over her nose and mouth, but her fingers were unable to stop the snorts of laughter that burbled out. She stuffed her knuckles in her mouth, trying to quieten enough to hear what Bee was saying to Mr Walsh as she righted the bike to try again.

  On the second attempt, the same thing happened. This time, Bee managed to avoid the bicycle for longer.

  ‘You’re doing that on purpose!’ she shouted as she darted away.

  ‘I’m not!’ Mr Walsh said, pedalling hard. ‘The bicycle—you’re like a magnet for it! Or maybe it’s because I can only see out of one eye—the bike keeps wanting to go in that direction.’

  He fell against Bee again. Lucy doubled over. She’d never seen adults play about like children, and the rusty bike’s wobbly pursuit of Bee made her stomach hurt in a way that felt so much better than the ache she got for going to bed without tea. She allowed her knees to meet the grass then lay back, arms wrapped around her torso as her mirth died down into tiny hiccups.

  She could still hear Mr Walsh’s madcap chase, but kept staring up at the even, blue sky. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and she could smell the grass and dirt, and hear the call of the occasional seagull. Lucy pulled her sweat-damp hair off her neck, wondering if she’d ever felt so good before.

  Bee plopped down next to her, having finally escaped the bicycle’s pursuit. ‘That man,’ she said breathlessly, shaking her head. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her grey hair was escaping from its combs in wisps around her face. Lucy thought she had never seen her look so pretty.

  She rolled onto her front, propping herself on her elbows so she could see Mr Walsh. He was zooming up and down the driveway, stretching his legs straight out to the side every now and then and whooping.

  ‘Do you think my mum knew how to ride a bicycle?’ Lucy asked.

  Bee thought for a second before answering. ‘You know, I can’t say. It wouldn’t surprise me if she did. She was capable of very many things.’

  ‘I wish we could ask her.’

  ‘So do I. I miss her.’ Bee prodded Lucy to her feet, then held out a hand to be helped up. ‘Come on, let’s go stop the crazy man before he hurts himself. It’s your turn again anyway.’

  She said the same to Mr Walsh, but in a fit of amusing selfishness, he refused to give the bicycle back.

  Soon Lucy and Bee were chasing him, trying to stop the bicycle or get him to fall off it—whichever came first. Bee was pretending to be mad, and Lucy could barely speak through her laughter.

  Flynn, one scarred hand pressed to the window, watched the three of them carousing with the old bicycle. The girl had a laugh like Evie’s. He had to close his eyes against the onslaught of it. The sound was a reminder that his heart had long ago splintered into a thousand tiny shards which would never fit back together the way they once had.

  Dropping his hand, he wrapped his arms around his waist and leaned his forehead against the glass. It was cool on his skin, as though soothing a sudden fever.

  Soon the three would disappear inside and he’d hear the tink tink tink of a metal basket hitting the sides of a saucepan, the bubbling of oil as a mound of chips—the only thing Bee could reliably cook without burning—was lowered in. He would still be able to hear their voices, but not make out their conversation.

  He willed them to stay outside just a little longer. But already Humphrey was dismounting the bicycle, forcing the rusty wheels to keep turning as he pushed it back to the garden shed. When it was put away, they would enter this shared house, closer to him in proximity yet never more far away.

  His was a self-imposed exile—Flynn knew that—yet it didn’t make it any easier to bear in the rare moments he regretted it. Moments like this, when he saw the person within the shadowy figure of the daughter he’d never really known. His curiosity—something he’d thought long dead—was building and it felt dangerous. For curiosity led to yearning, and yearning led to actions beyond good sense.

  If the little girl ever found out the truth about what kind of father she’d been born to, it would hurt her. He didn’t want to give her a lifetime of nightmares to contend with. It would be a terrible inheritance. That was why he stayed away from her.

  Yet Bee told him he was hurting her with his absence; a statement Humphrey agreed with. It troubled Flynn. He owed Humphrey so much; why couldn’t
he repay a tiny fraction of that debt by granting the girl just one visit?

  The scars on his face and hands flared. A phantom pain, something he knew wasn’t real but it made him gasp all the same. It was the sear of regret across skin that was thick and callused with reminders of all he hadn’t done.

  Meeting Lucy could be dangerous. It might increase his nightmares; cement his regret to even deeper levels. But having her here in the house—a voice he couldn’t talk to; a presence he often couldn’t see—wasn’t making things any better.

  Perhaps it was finally time to confront what he’d hidden from for a decade.

  Perhaps it was time to accept the frightening yet vaguely thrilling truth: he wanted to meet this daughter of his and Evie’s.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Bee tugged at the sleeves of Lucy’s mustard-yellow blouse, making sure they were straight. When she stood back, her lips pursed, she looked nervous. That was good; it made Lucy feel less silly for also being nervous. But it was bad too. If Bee was nervous it meant there was something to be nervous about.

  ‘Good enough,’ she said. ‘Although I don’t know why I’m bothering. He likely won’t even notice.’ She turned away, pulling the loose hairs out of the brush she’d run across Lucy’s scalp.

  Lucy looked down at herself. If Aunt Cynthia could see her now even she would have to admit she was presentable. Her face was thoroughly scrubbed, shining pink and smelling of lavender soap. Her hair was neatly pulled back, held in place with a black ribbon. Framing her collarbones was a crisp white Peter Pan collar, and the pleated skirt she wore exactly matched the mustard colour of the blouse. Her feet were clad in patent leather black buckle-up shoes, with white socks covering her ankles. Lucy felt like one of Ruth’s dolls.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ Bee said, placing the brush on the dressing table. ‘If he’s not terribly nice, you’re not to take it to heart.’

  ‘He’ll be mean?’ Lucy’s fingers trembled against the material of her skirt. It had been scary enough knowing that today she would finally meet her father, but now she wanted to crawl back into bed and hide under the covers.