The Daughter of Victory Lights

by Kerri Turner

  Flynn reached the deck, gulping in air that was a little clearer than below, but not by much. Lucy was crying loudly now and he hoped he wasn’t hurting or suffocating her. There was no time to be gentle though.

  His eyes swung down the length of the boat. The crew and performers were jumping into lifeboats and lowering them to the water, where they pulled away from the Victory towards the horrified audience. Their panicked shouts could barely be heard over the increasing cracks of the larger boat succumbing to fire.

  Humphrey stood next to the lifeboats, a small ginger kitten in his arms, barking orders. Bee was with him, her painted face white in the lights that still shone down on them.

  Flynn sprinted towards them faster than he’d ever moved before. ‘Here,’ he shouted, shoving the cradle into Bee’s arms.

  She was already clutching the oilcloth gasmask bag she kept her camera in, and nearly didn’t catch the cradle. But Flynn trusted her, and was already turning away, running back to the stairs.

  Evie looked down the hallway. The flames were moving closer at a pace that seemed impossible. She turned back to the stairs where Flynn had disappeared with Lucy, but the opening was obscured by smoke. Evie’s arms were strong from lugging lights around; she would pull herself up the stairs until Flynn came back for her.

  She reached forward and instantly felt a searing pain in her hands. She cried out. The rubber matting on the stairs, put there to prevent wet performers slipping, was bubbling and melting in the intense heat.

  But behind her was fire.

  Gritting her teeth, Evie reached out once more. The agony of her scorching skin almost sent her reeling, but she kept going, heaving her body up one step at a time. She tried to ignore the black rubber adhering to her fingers, wrists and forearms, and the thought of the dry decking above, where Lucy was, and how easily it would catch fire.

  Nearby, a loud pop signalled the explosion of a lamp. Evie flinched. Her limbs were strangely wobbly, and her throat and chest burned as she tried to make it up one more stair. Pools of sooty tears collected in the corners of her mouth.

  Please let Flynn get Lucy to safety.

  It was the one thing that mattered to her now.

  At first Flynn couldn’t see anything through the black smoke. Then a guttural sound tore from him. Evie’s name. She was almost at the top of the stairs, her body frighteningly still and limp. Curls of bright yellow flames licked her feet.

  He reached for her, felt the skin on his face and hands blister as his arms snaked around her.

  ‘Evie!’ he said again.

  She shifted then groaned as he heaved her weight up and into his arms.

  ‘Lucy,’ she murmured, eyelids fluttering. Thank god, she was still alive.

  ‘She’s safe, Evie. Come on now—let’s get out of here.’

  His feet staggered and he almost tipped sideways. Evie’s face was tucked against his neck, her body still again; with a roar he pushed himself upward, carrying her onto the deck. There was an ungodly screaming sound, and Flynn realised it was him. Both their clothes were alight.

  Without thinking, he lurched towards the steel railing. When he felt it hit his middle, he tipped forward. A moment later dark waves rushed up to meet them. The roar of the fire, the screams and the wailing baby were instantly muffled as the icy water closed around them. The current pulled Evie from his arms. Flynn let out a scream that only emerged as bubbles.

  He no longer knew if his eyes were open or closed. He kicked his legs once, twice, and his hands pulled at the water as though it were a tangible thing he could break apart to reveal Evie. Where was she?

  But his senses were dwindling, that old stillness coming over him. He was back at Omaha Beach, wanting to open his mouth and breathe in deeply, knowing his lungs would fill with water if he did but unable to stop the impulse. His lips parted, and then he was drifting to the ocean floor, where the Victory and all she stood for would soon rest.

  Hands closed around his arms, and the sounds of the burning world returned as they raised him up. He heard voices lifted in panic as his face broke the surface. Alvin and Bee.

  Alvin was in the water with him; Bee in the lifeboat they were trying to pull him into.

  He tried to tell them they were pulling the wrong person from the water. Tried to scream that Evie was still down there somewhere. But before he knew if they’d understood, he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  1963: Isle of Wight, England

  Her father was looking at his hands. He’d interlaced his fingers and twisted them so much they looked uncomfortable. His face had gone pale underneath the scars.

  ‘I came to briefly in the lifeboat,’ he said. ‘I kept calling your mother’s name, but they didn’t want to tell me what had happened because I was badly injured and they were afraid I was going to die. But I called and called until there was no option but to tell me.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Lucy whispered through numb lips.

  ‘We lost her, somewhere in the ocean. They weren’t able to find her. She survived the fire but the waves took her.’

  His hands unknotted and pressed against his chest, as though he was trying to hold in the pain there.

  ‘I asked to hold you then. I didn’t let you go until I fell unconscious once more.’

  Lucy closed her eyes, trying to see if she could remember the feel of her father’s scorched skin against hers. She’d thought when he’d carried her home through the fog that it was the first time he’d ever touched her, ever held her.

  When she opened her eyes again, she found her vision was blurred.

  ‘Are you alright?’ His voice broke on the words.

  Lucy smiled as she wiped her palms across her wet face. ‘Yes.’

  It was true. Despite her tears, there was something freeing in knowing this story. It gave her a place in the chain of events that had brought together four very different people into this one house. It made her belong. She was part of them; no longer a motherless child dependent on the charity of others. And even if her father sent her away, it would be with the knowledge that she wasn’t unloved. Her mother had loved her more than anything. More even than her own life. Her mother hadn’t abandoned her; she had chosen to save her.

  Lucy looked at the photograph of her mother with the warm glow of immense pride. Her mother was a hero. Her father too. They were both heroes. Her heroes.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you something to eat. You’ve been too long without food, and we could both use something fortifying after all that.’

  Her father’s voice was so quiet it was like someone had snapped most of his vocal cords. He stood up and went to the door, where he paused and waited for her.

  Lucy threw back the counterpane and clambered to her feet. Her knees were a little weak. She snatched up her dalmatian before following her father through the unlit house.

  Her father took a seat at the kitchen table, and Lucy studied him for a moment. The texture of his skin was like when she closed her eyes almost all the way and looked at the world through her eyelashes.

  She smiled shyly at him. He didn’t say anything, so she pulled out the vinyl chair opposite him and sat down. The chair made a whoosh noise as air escaped its seat.

  ‘Here, have a cookie.’ He pushed a china plate forward, and Lucy giggled.

  ‘You mean biscuit.’

  His face twisted in an odd expression. ‘Your mother once corrected me on that too. Also in the middle of the night.’

  Lucy rested her dalmatian on the table, then reached out for a biscuit.

  Her father drew in a sharp breath. ‘You still have Dismal Desmond, after all these years.’

  ‘How did you know his name?’ Lucy was so surprised she spoke with her mouth full, spilling buttery shortbread crumbs onto the tabletop. She hadn’t liked the name much, but it was imprinted on his neck, unable to be changed.

  ‘I gave him to you. When you were just a baby.’

  Lucy stared at her dog.
It was like looking at him with new eyes. She’d always loved him, but now he was even more precious to her. He showed her that her father had been with her from the very beginning after all.

  She shuffled a second biscuit closer. Her father didn’t say anything in reprimand, so she lifted it and began nibbling. It was chocolate with sweet bursts of raisins.

  ‘You know, the other children around here call you a monster,’ she ventured, then realised this might sound like an insult and hurried on. ‘But you’re not at all like a monster. I told them that, the last time I saw them at the duck pond. They made fun of me a bit, but I know I’m right. Monsters don’t make music. I don’t think monsters have daughters either.’

  The sugar was hitting her limbs, making them feel more alive and giving her confidence.

  ‘And I don’t think they’d be scared of the beach,’ she continued. ‘And you shouldn’t be either. It’s like what Bee says about monsters: you mustn’t be afraid of them, otherwise you won’t be able to fight them. That’s why you were able to save me, and tried to save my mother. You didn’t have time to be scared. You just did what you needed to do.’

  Lucy wasn’t really paying attention to her father any more, her focus on the sugary cream filling of the third biscuit she’d taken and split in two. But when she heard a strange, rough sound, she looked up. He was crying. He didn’t even put his hands to his face to try and conceal it.

  Heart hammering, Lucy put down the licked biscuit halves and stared at him. She’d seen him cry once before. But this was different. This was right in front of her, when he knew she was watching. Her own throat thickened. If he kept crying, she was sure she would too.

  ‘Daddy,’ she whispered in a choked voice.

  Startled, he looked up. His face was glistening, and something stirred inside her, something warm yet aching and sad.

  Without thinking, she said, ‘When are you going to send me back to Aunt Cynthia?’

  ‘What?’ His sobs came to a shuddering stop. He hiccupped, then pulled a checked handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘I just … I just want to know. To be ready for it.’

  The handkerchief stilled and his scarred forehead creased in a way she’d come to recognise as a frown. ‘Have you been thinking that was a possibility the whole time you’ve been here?’

  Lucy gave a small nod. ‘I’ve been trying to be good so you wouldn’t want to send me back. It’s hard though. I keep messing it up. I’ve been bad sometimes, and I … I understand if you don’t want me here any more. But,’ her voice lowered, barely audible, ‘I wish I could stay.’

  Her father’s mouth dropped open the tiniest amount. He looked at Lucy, his hands pressed flat on the table before him. He stared for so long that Lucy’s fear of his answer began to twist into discomfort instead.

  ‘I have been a foolish man,’ he finally said, his words coming out long and slow. He reached out to her, but as with so many times before his fingers stopped just short of her own. ‘Foolish and self-pitying. I thought I deserved to be punished to make up for … well, everything. Everything I did, and everything I didn’t do. I’m sorry my wallowing punished you too. I should have seen that it might.’

  He swallowed, then leaned forward, his dark eyes intense, as if his next words were especially important for her to hear.

  ‘Lucy, there is nothing in this world that could make me send you back to your aunt. I was wrong to send you there in the first place.’

  Lucy tried to reel back her suddenly soaring heart. She didn’t know yet if she could trust these glorious, perfect words.

  ‘Even if I don’t make friends with the other children?’ she tested.

  ‘Even then.’

  ‘Even if I get into trouble when I go to school?’

  ‘Even then.’

  ‘Even if—’

  He raised a hand to stop her. ‘There is nothing, Lucy. Nothing at all. You and I … we’re … we’re family. I know I haven’t treated you like it so far, but I haven’t really known how to be a father.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Lucy said. ‘I don’t really know how to be a daughter.’

  He smiled. ‘You’ve done a pretty good job at it so far. Better than I have.’ He sat back, folding his arms loosely. His shoulders seemed straighter, his voice stronger. ‘I’m never going to be the best father in the world, Lucy. I’m too broken for that. But I’ll make an effort to heal what can be healed. No more punishments and self-pity. No more hiding away. How does that sound?’

  Lucy wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him on his cheek over and over in thanks. She was staying! And would never be sent away, no matter how many times her naughty impulses got the better of her. And her father wasn’t going to shut her out any more. It all seemed too good to be true, and she beamed at him.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pushing the plate of biscuits forward. His eyes turned down again, but this time they seemed to be smiling. ‘Take the rest of these back up to your room. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning, at breakfast.’

  ‘Bee won’t like me getting crumbs in my bed,’ Lucy said, but she still took hold of the plate.

  ‘You can blame it on me. She won’t mind then.’

  Lucy grinned. She had never had anyone to blame for her bad behaviour before.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The feel of the waves pumped through Flynn’s veins. His muscles twitched with the desire to freeze. His brain screamed at him to turn around and run upstairs as fast as he could, back to his room, his sanctuary.

  But he was creating a new sanctuary, a much larger one, and this moment he had shied away from for so long had to happen. He would follow his doctor’s instructions and close his eyes to count his steps when the panic threatened to overwhelm him.

  As he laced up his shoes in preparation, Evie appeared in his mind. Her image frightened him at first, that familiar cowering he’d given in to time and time again. But this time he forced himself to take her in. The wide mouth he had kissed, which had turned up in smiles and down in heartbreak depending on his actions. The eyes that were more expressive than she’d ever realised. The siren suit with its silly, sparkling sequins and the regiment badge she was so proud of. He had hoped back then that Evie would be the one who chased away his demons. It was a task too big to give a single person, but somehow she had done exactly that. Not in the short time they’d been together and he’d thought himself falling in love. Not in the years of recovery from his burns after her death, nor in the endless hours learning to play the piano in a belated attempt to keep a promise he’d never intended to see through. But through a small girl who had so much of her mother in her.

  Lucy was still somewhat of a stranger to him, but he’d seen Evie’s kindness and dedication in her attempts to eradicate his fear of the beach. Now that he’d finally stopped hiding away from her he’d also discovered laughter through watching her antics. And most of all, he’d found a love that wasn’t getting buried under the weight of all his past horrors, but instead grew with each passing day.

  Flynn no longer wanted to stand on the sidelines of Lucy’s life. He wanted to help shape it. He wanted to teach her honesty, empathy and self-forgiveness; the traits he’d so undervalued. He wanted her to know that with her mother’s courage, and his own tenacity to cling to life even when he no longer wished to, she could fly through this world.

  He stood up. Lucy slipped her hand into his.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked. Her voice was high-pitched, the excitement barely contained within her trembling body.

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  His daughter’s hand was small and warm. If he hadn’t made a promise to himself to no longer live with regret, he might have felt it now for not knowing the sensation of her hand in his own sooner. But he knew now that a life lived in regret only caused pain for others.

  Bee stretched out her hand to take hold of the little girl’s free one. Flynn felt Humphrey’s callused fingers tuck into his o
wn. They were all linked.

  Flynn took a shaking breath. He looked at his daughter, her face bright, eager and forgiving. He would not let her down.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  They were out the door. Lucy couldn’t believe it; it had seemed impossible that they would ever get this far. But it was really happening.

  Her father’s hand was clammy and quivering around her own, and he kept closing his eyes while he counted in a hushed tone, but he stayed with them. Brave, as she knew he could be. She gave his hand a squeeze, and his mouth twitched in the briefest of smiles.

  They left the grounds of their home—for it was home now. Lucy had thought the word strange not long ago, but now it was perfect. Now it encompassed a sense of belonging that her previous house in London had never provided. The thought of all that she had gained from coming here made Lucy want to cry, but in the best of ways.

  They turned onto the path that would take them to the beach. The path that had thrown Lucy from her bicycle; the path where her father had found her.

  This time, there were four of them: Humphrey, Bee, Flynn and Lucy. Not lost in a swirling white fog, but hand in hand, a connected chain. Each held a photograph of Evie in their pocket. In one she was dressed in her siren suit, her feet planted in a net above the deck of a boat; in another she wore a fancy dress and victory rolls in her hair; and another showed her frowning at a bundle of filters, unaware she was being watched. Lucy’s photograph showed her smiling and pregnant, her mouth forever lifted in half a smile.

  As Lucy thought of that smile, she felt her own settling on her features. She didn’t care how odd the four of them might look to anyone they came across on their way to the beach. In fact, her chest was swelling with pride.

  For where others saw a monster, a magician and a wanted woman, Lucy saw her family.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE