The Daughter of Victory Lights

by Kerri Turner

  Lucy pulled one hand from under the covers and reached for the shells. Her arm felt as if it might float right away from her, but her fingers closed around the dog whelk and she pulled it close to her face. A weak smile settled on her lips and she decided to sit up. It was a struggle, like she’d never done it before, but eventually she pulled herself to a slumped position against the bedhead. Her dalmatian was next to her, and she sat it on her lap.

  She could see the heavy bundle at the foot of her bed now. It was the ginger cat. He was curled in a tight coil, his yellow eyes focused on her. She smiled at him, leaning down and burying her fingers in his velvety fur. The cat closed his eyes and purred.

  ‘My goodness, look at you,’ Bee said. She stood just inside the door, her hands holding a fresh pillowcase. She wore a blouse tucked into a dark skirt and both were rumpled, as if she’d worn them for more than a day. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you awake and sitting up.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her cool hand to Lucy’s forehead. ‘Much better,’ she muttered, then pulled the pillow out from behind Lucy and yanked the case off. As she put the new pillowcase on, Lucy thought her eyes looked a little wet.

  ‘Have I been sick?’ Lucy asked.

  She couldn’t remember much. She knew her father had found her, knew he’d picked her up in a way no one ever had before and carried her back home, where, instead of getting in trouble, she’d been made a hot chocolate and wrapped in a blanket until Bee came home and forced her into a bath and then bed. The next day had been one of rest, in which Lucy had hoped to see her father but hadn’t; and the day after she’d begun to get restless, not able to decide if she was hot or cold.

  ‘Some of your scratches and cuts from falling off the bicycle got infected. It gave you quite the fever,’ Bee said.

  She shoved the fresh pillow behind Lucy, then her hand rested once more on Lucy’s forehead, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d felt the last time. Lucy breathed in the scent of her soap and perfume, taking comfort from their familiarity.

  ‘Did you get my bicycle back?’

  ‘Humphrey did. It’s a little battered, but no major damage done.’

  Bee made Lucy take a sip of the water, then said she was going to go get her father.

  Lucy fiddled with the dog whelk shell while she waited, her eyes on the cat. He was sleeping like he hadn’t slept in days, and even when she wiggled her toes underneath him he didn’t budge.

  It took only minutes for Bee to return, and she did so without her father.

  ‘He’ll come when he can,’ she said in answer to Lucy’s questioning look. Her voice sounded strangely tight.

  Lucy watched as she pottered around the room, straightening things that were already straight. Her eyes kept darting to Lucy, anxious.

  ‘Bee, was I very sick?’

  Bee nodded.

  ‘Sick enough to die?’

  Bee dropped the brush she’d been pulling stray hairs out of. Bending down with a grunt to pick it back up, she placed it carefully on the dressing table before answering.

  ‘I don’t know about that. But you were sick enough to give us all a fright.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run off.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have. But it’s not entirely your fault.’

  Lucy looked down at the shell in her hands. She’d forgotten for a moment what her father had said to her that had made her run away. Did the way he’d held her as he struggled back to the house show that he’d changed his mind about sending her away? Her head felt stuffed with cotton wool, and she wanted to lie back down and sleep some more, but she needed to ask something. It might be her last opportunity to do so.

  ‘Is that how my mother died? From getting sick?’

  Bee didn’t even flinch. ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Then how? How did it happen?’

  Bee turned to look at her, propping her backside against the edge of the dressing table. Her hair, instead of its usual curls, was in a short braid over her shoulder, and she tugged at it once, then pushed herself upright to keep moving about the room.

  ‘I think it’s time we tried to get some food into you,’ she said. ‘The doctor said we might as soon as you woke up. Something gentle though. Perhaps a little porridge. Let me see what I can make.’

  Lucy was disappointed. She wanted to push the matter, but her eyelids were drooping again, and the warmth of the cat at her feet and Bee’s bustling presence made her comfortable. But as sleep claimed her there was one thought in her mind: if she had to leave, she would ask her father to hold her in his arms one more time.

  Lucy didn’t know how long she slept for, but when she awoke again her father was there. It had gone dark, but a soft, warm glow emanated from one of Bee’s lacquered metal lamps which had been brought into the room. Her father was sitting on a chair next to her bed, one hand resting on top of the counterpane as though it wanted to hold hers but couldn’t quite reach. When he noticed her looking, he pulled it back into his lap.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  Lucy’s skin prickled. Was this her opportunity to try for another embrace? She opened her mouth, but he didn’t let her answer.

  ‘I’m sorry I upset you. That I didn’t tell you about … about Evie. Your mother.’

  Lucy almost bit the tip of her tongue. She wasn’t used to adults saying sorry; in her world, they were always right, even when they appeared wrong.

  Using her thumbnail, she picked at the neat threads on the edge of the counterpane. Sometime during the haze since he’d told her to leave, a fuzzy thought had taken hold in her head. It crystallised now, with such intensity that if she’d had anything in her stomach Lucy would have brought it back up.

  ‘I think it was my fault she died,’ she mumbled. She didn’t want it to be true, but it explained so much.

  She saw her father’s hands stiffen and he sat forward, his shoulders a tense line around his ears.

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘Because … because of some things people have said when they think no one can hear. Things about me.’ Lucy held her breath, waiting for confirmation that this was the reason no one had ever wanted to tell her the truth.

  ‘I see. That certainly would be … confusing. But, Lucy, it’s not your fault your mother died.’

  ‘How could you know that for absolute certain?’

  He sighed, a sound that seemed to overflow with years of sadness. ‘Because I was there when it happened. It was your mother’s doing, not yours. Hers, and mine.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  1952: Saint-Malo, France

  For the first time in decades, the Victory was taking cargo on board. They were once again in Saint-Malo, performing in the evenings. During the day, the Victory’s hold was stocked full of cut firewood, seasoned oak and beech which had been drying for four years and would now be transported across the ocean and into stores for the cooler seasons.

  Evie watched as men with muscular arms and cigarettes dangling carelessly from their lips loaded the firewood into the hold. Humphrey had scheduled only a small number of performances once they got going on their cargo route; if the Victory didn’t make the delivery in good time he wouldn’t get full pay for it, or future orders. The change in priorities had tongues nervously wagging, but Humphrey had told them this was how the boat had got her start and doubling as a tramp steamer would see them through this low season until things picked back up—which he was certain they would. But there was a manic energy to him, Evie thought. He kept the rehearsal for their last performance in Saint-Malo going a full two hours longer than usual, only ending when the complaints of blisters on feet turned to threats to disappear like the contortionist had.

  Now, the atmosphere on board was thick with tension as the performers got their hair, make-up and costumes ready.

  ‘You be good tonight,’ Evie whispered to her sleeping baby, and kissed her on the forehead. Lucy’s silk-soft skin was war
m and sweet-smelling, and Evie felt the familiar tug at having to leave her. ‘I’ll be back to check on you as often as I can. So will Alvin and Bee.’

  She tiptoed out of her cabin—not an easy task given the cradle now took up most of the minimal space—and gently pulled the door closed. She was running late and knew she would have to hurry to get in place before the sound of the clarinet started the show. She passed Flynn, who was standing next to the junior switchboard he was manning again now she was back to climbing the masts, but barely glanced at him. Her love for Lucy had lessened the pain of Flynn’s presence so that now she hardly felt it at all. The slight twinge that still existed was for her daughter and the sadness that she might never know the love of a father.

  Evie climbed the rope webbing and took a seat on her perch on the mast; she knew up here she would be nothing more to the audience than a speck against the dark sky and the illumination of her beam, if they saw her at all. The breeze was strong tonight, and she could feel the boat dip and sway beneath her.

  Within minutes the show began. Humphrey went through his opening act with his usual verve, making the small audience cheer and holler. There was something different though … Evie couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. She stared at Humphrey, who was lit by the baby mirror spot, but his expressions were as bright and comical as always. Perhaps it was just the general mood of the boat, the tension of the difficult rehearsal still plaguing them? Or maybe her seasickness was returning and making her feel odd.

  Evie’s eyes scanned the deck. Everyone was in their usual place waiting for their cues. There was Bee, standing in the shadows and laughing like she’d never seen Humphrey’s performance before; the dancers were ready on top of the bridge, feet shuffling to keep warm; Alvin was opening the lid on his tin of paraffin … It was all so familiar Evie could have pictured it in her sleep. Even the boat itself: its streamlined length, the lines that connected masts to ship, the hulking shape of the bridge. Except …

  For a second Evie didn’t understand what she was seeing. Grey wisps were curling around the edges of the deck. She thought perhaps Flynn had opened the funnel too soon. But that couldn’t be it. This smoke was too low to be coming from the funnel.

  ‘Smoke …’ she whispered, frowning down at it. Then, a sharp hiss of air through her teeth as her heart suddenly clenched fiercely in her chest. ‘Smoke!’

  One or two of the dancers on the bridge looked up at her, and even Humphrey paused in his performance. But Evie didn’t notice; she was already disentangling herself from her perch, scrambling back down the rope webbing. Her feet, suddenly clumsy in her panic, kept getting caught, her loafers awkward and slippery.

  ‘Smoke, there’s smoke!’ she yelled, waving frantically over one shoulder. Why was this damned mast so tall? Why had she climbed so high?

  The dancers were leaning towards each other, whispering. One of them caught Evie’s words above the sound of the band, and crept to the edge of the bridge. She leaned over, then a loud scream ripped through the night air.

  Everyone on the boat froze, even Humphrey. Then they turned as one to where the scream had come from.

  ‘Fire! It’s fire!’ the girl shouted frantically. She was already pulling at the lifeboats, urging the confused women around her to help.

  Humphrey looked back at the stunned audience bobbing in their boats around the Victory, then he ran towards the dancers.

  Evie jumped the last few metres to the deck. Pain jolted through the soles of her feet. The impact snatched the air from her lungs for a second, then it came back in a single, gasping word.

  ‘Lucy.’

  People were rushing past her, running to help with the lifeboats. Frantically pushing them out of her way, Evie sprinted towards the stairwell that led below deck. As she threw herself down the stairs, her toes caught on the edge of a step and she fell heavily, her hands slamming into the ground. She heard a loud crack, felt white-hot pain shoot through her left leg.

  Looking up, her eyes watering, she gasped. There was so much smoke. How had they not seen this? How had it not poured out of the boat, announcing its presence before it had gotten this bad? The smell of it was powerful, invasive and foreign, so different to the usual below-deck smells of perfume, hairspray and Lucy’s nappies soaking in a bucket. It caught in her eyes, her nose, her throat.

  Evie tried to stand, but her leg gave way in another flash of pain. The crack she’d heard was something bad. She wouldn’t give up though. She needed to get to Lucy.

  Pulling herself along on her elbows, she kept her head down, trying not to breathe too deeply lest she choke. She felt the fire against her skin, a terrifying heat, but couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from. All she knew was that Lucy was in the midst of that frightening swirl of grey and black and she had to get to her.

  Everything in Flynn’s world narrowed until all that existed were the grey curls of smoke that swirled over the edge of the deck and swallowed a section of the rail from view before dispersing into the air above to form a steady plume. He thought of all that dry oak and beech in the hold, designed to cause a long-lasting blaze. The fire must have started from one of the loaders’ cigarettes, not properly extinguished when the man flicked the butt away. Flynn’s mind grasped onto this fact and held it in an iron-like grip, as though it might save him. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

  Then he heard running feet coming at him, and his shoulder was knocked so forcefully he stumbled forward. It was Evie. She’d jumped the last few feet down the rope webbing and was now running across the deck towards the stairs that led below. Running towards the fire.

  Without thinking, Flynn took a step forward, then another, and then he was racing after her, calling her name into a sharp wind that threw his words back at him. She disappeared into the stairwell, and he heard a cry a second later.

  She was crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Flynn’s eyes watered as he took the steps two at a time after her. Evie tried to stand, but her leg crumpled and she hit the ground once more. She was pulling herself forward on her elbows, deeper into the boat and towards danger, as he reached her.

  ‘Evie!’ he cried, grabbing her beneath her armpits. ‘What are you doing? We have to get out of here!’

  The smell of the smoke was thick and wild and rough. Evie grasped his shirt, her fingers curling into the material. There was a loud noise, like the pop of fireworks, and they both ducked.

  ‘Lucy!’ Evie gasped.

  But Flynn was talking over the top of her as he pulled her up. ‘We’ve got to get out of here. If the fire reaches the boiler, the whole boat will go up.’

  ‘Lucy, she’s in my cabin!’ Evie screamed.

  This time Flynn heard her. He jerked his head to look down the corridor, where the frightening sounds and unnatural heat were coming from.

  Tears were streaming down Evie’s face. ‘You have to get her, Flynn. I can’t—I think I broke my ankle.’

  Flynn didn’t hesitate. He propped Evie against the wall, then pushed his way into the choking cloud that filled the hallway, face tucked into the crook of his elbow.

  He reached Evie’s door and shouldered it open, eyes darting frantically around the small space. He hadn’t been in her cabin since before the cradle was installed but he spotted it right away, tucked next to the bed. From it emerged a high, thin wail.

  He took four rapid steps and glanced down at the tiny squalling girl, the dalmatian he’d given her tucked at her side. Not wanting to waste any time handling the baby he wasn’t familiar with, he grabbed the entire cradle off its stand, hugged it to his chest and ran back into the hall. He couldn’t cover his face with his hands full, and his eyes streamed. Was it his imagination, or had the heat gotten worse in the minute he’d been gone?

  Evie was where he’d left her, gesturing frantically for him.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Flynn said, the hot air sticking in his throat and making him cough.

  He tried to shift the cradle to one arm so he could help Evie
up the stairs. It slipped, and Evie held out her hands to prevent Lucy from falling. He heard her gasp, then she pinched his arm hard enough to bruise, making him look over his shoulder. Bright orange flames were licking the walls of the hallway.

  Flynn swore.

  ‘Come on, Evie, you’ve got to help me,’ he said, trying to lever his weight underneath her while not letting go of Lucy.

  He managed to get the three of them a couple of hobbling steps forward, then almost dropped the baby again.

  ‘Stop!’ Evie gasped. She coughed, then wiped at her eyes. ‘We can’t do it like this. We’ll hurt her. Go on without me.’

  Her words made Flynn sick. ‘No,’ he said.

  He tried to shove his shoulder underneath her mid-section so he could carry her over his shoulder, the way he’d done with Humphrey’s magician’s assistant what seemed a lifetime ago.

  Evie’s voice was panicked. ‘Flynn, it won’t work.’

  Still, he continued trying, until Evie grabbed his face, her fingernails sinking into his skin, forcing him to meet her eyes. In them, he saw the same determination to forge ahead despite any fear that had first attracted him to her.

  ‘Listen to me. We need to save her. We need to save our daughter. Take her up, put her in one of the lifeboats and get her away from here.’

  Flynn’s watering eyes darted to the stairs and back to Evie again. He didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Please, Flynn.’

  ‘I’ll come back for you.’

  He pressed the words against her fever-hot skin, so close to her ear that wisps of her hair touched his lips; then he was racing towards the square of star-flecked sky that showed at the top of the stairs, his body curved protectively around Lucy’s cradle.