Daisy Belle

by Caitlin Davies

‘So now listen to me, you need to rest.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said the sailor. ‘Next week I sail for America.’

  Father sighed. ‘Not in this state you won’t. Why go there?’

  ‘I have to, I’m to swim Niagara.’

  ‘Matt,’ said Father, looking concerned. Perhaps he was regretting the endurance race after all. ‘Don’t go, you’ll never come back alive.’

  ‘I want money,’ muttered the sailor, ‘and I must have it.’

  And that, you see, should have been a lesson for me, as I stood in the doorway watching Father wipe blood from the sailor’s mouth. I should have known that performing only for money would never bring anything but grief.

  *

  We never saw Captain Matthew Webb again; he died after plunging into the rapids under Niagara. He was sucked into a whirlpool and his bloated body buried far away from the country where he’d reigned supreme. He’d wanted fame and money and he’d paid with his life. Father called it the fickleness of fickle fortune, and he should know, because not long after the six-day swim our own fortunes were on the wane again. Where all the money had gone I did not know; perhaps the event had proved too costly to run; but Mother had to give back her piano, there were no more new toys for little Minnie, and we were to look for a cheaper place to live.

  Father absented himself for days at a time at the Crown and Cushion, until finally one evening he came up with a plan. ‘Daisy,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking long and hard and I have an idea. You’ve done the Thames and so has Emily Parker and God knows who else will try it now. Swimming might be all the rage but diving is more daring still. We’ve lost the performance element, it’s time to bring it back.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Three weeks later we were on our way to the Royal Aquarium. ‘When we get inside,’ said Father, tightening a shawl around my shoulders and tilting forward my hat, ‘keep your eyes down. If anyone speaks to you, I will reply. No one must take any notice of you until the time comes.’ Then off we went to join the sightseers entering the Aq. But it was hard to keep my eyes to the ground when we entered the great hall where the air was hot as a summer’s day under the vast glass roof. As we walked down the promenade I could hear an orchestra tuning up, water tumbling from a fountain, the shrieks of birds in hanging cages swinging above my head. I wanted to stop, to look at a large blue bird alone in a cage, at the sculpture of a rearing horse and at the exotic trees with fruit the colour of sunshine. But most of all I wanted to gaze at the fish. There they were, in big glass tanks stretching along the sides of the promenade, every creature imaginable. I tugged on Father’s sleeve, insisting we take a look, and before he could object I had rushed to a tank and had my face pushed up against the glass. I admired the pretty coral and purple-encrusted rocks, and then suddenly hundreds of tiny fish came floating down like falling snow. They flicked their tails and turned direction, one moment congregating and then just as quickly pulling apart. I saw one chase the other, just as I used to chase my brothers when I was a child, and I wished they were here to see this, the life of the ocean brought indoors.

  I moved to the next tank where two starfish were stuck to the side, their fingers outstretched against the glass.

  ‘Have you ever touched a starfish?’ asked Father.

  I shook my head; he knew I hadn’t.

  ‘Why don’t you try to now?’

  So I reached my hand over the glass, dipped it into the water and gently placed a fingertip on the starfish, surprised at how soft its limbs were and how gritty its skin. ‘Why does this one have four legs when that one has five?’ I asked, about to touch its friend.

  ‘Ah, they are very clever creatures,’ said Father. ‘A starfish can lose a leg to a predator and when the predator has gone it can grow it back.’

  It could grow back a limb? I stared at the starfish, impressed.

  ‘It will let a predator take a leg,’ nodded Father, ‘if that’s the only way it can escape.’

  I went to the next tank where a sheet of sand turned into a ray, its sides flapping like a man in an opera cloak. I saw fish with the skin of a leopard, others that floated backwards and some that seemed to be as thin as paper. I stopped at a tank full of grey and silver fish, swimming and dancing among rocks and corals in their very own city. Did they sense me standing there watching them? At first they seemed to pay me no attention, but then up they came to the glass, mouths open, fins flapping, tails swishing.

  ‘The manatee is dead,’ said a gentleman behind me.

  ‘The sea cow?’ asked his companion. ‘Let’s go and see the whale.’

  ‘A whale?’ I turned, wide-eyed, to ask Father if there really was a whale but he had left my side and was deep in conversation with a lady who had her back to me. Perhaps she was asking for directions, for he had one hand resting on her shoulder and with the other he was pointing down the promenade. He seemed very keen to show her the way, I thought, as I heard her laugh and saw her twirl a parasol in her hand.

  I returned to watching the fish ducking between rockeries, sliding through plants, swimming as far as they could up and down, from one side of the tank to the other. Then another thought occurred to me: perhaps they were not enjoying themselves; perhaps they were looking for a way out. And if they were, if this was why they never stopped moving, I knew they would never find it. I was beginning to feel upset, but then Father was by my side, stroking his chin and looking from me to the tank and back again.

  ‘How do they breathe?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oxygen,’ he said. ‘The plants give out oxygen in the water, so what one breathes in, the other breathes out. The fish can live there forever.’

  Was this true? Somehow I didn’t think it was and I was about to ask how long a fish could live for when I saw him looking from me to the tank again. I knew exactly what he was thinking; I could read Father’s mind as clearly as a picture book. What if it were a human in there? If the tank could be viewed on every side then it would be perfect for a performance. I wondered if I could fit into a tank, crouched up small, and if I could then how people would marvel when they watched me in a mysterious world where humans could breathe underwater.

  But this wasn’t why we had come to the Aq. There were other amusements that the visitors were far more interested in, and Father had been here several times in recent weeks and reported back on everything he saw. A lady called LaLa with skin as dark as cocoa had a jaw so strong that when she put a rope between her teeth she could lift up and carry three hulking men. There were animals too, performing fleas, packs of fierce wolves, even a bull that could climb a ladder. It was like a circus fairground, he said, with a water show where performers swam, and best of all at five o’clock each day a man dived from a perilously high platform into a shallow tank. And that was why we were here. But he’d never mentioned there being a whale.

  ‘Can we see it?’ I asked.

  Father consulted his pocket watch. ‘Yes, we have half an hour.’

  All the way down the promenade and towards the annex I pestered him with questions: where had the whale come from? How did they get it here? There had been another whale, he said, brought from New York, then laid in a box on a bed of seaweed and taken on a steamship to England. Every five minutes, all throughout the day and night, it had been doused with seawater. Then it had been brought to the Aq and put in a tank of fresh water, but it had died so now they had brought another one.

  We reached the annex, and went inside where it was very brightly lit, for Father said a whale didn’t get on well in the dark. In the middle was an iron tank surrounded by an elevated walkway and I climbed up the steps to take a look. At first there seemed to be nothing in the tank but for a huge stone on the bottom. Then the stone moved and I gasped as slowly it came floating up. It was the oddest-looking creature, like an enormous white seal with a bump-shaped head and two small fins as flat as shovels. Its mouth was closed and it seemed to have a smile on its face as it began to paddle around, using its tail to propel
itself forward. Then it sank to the bottom again and rubbed itself vigorously against the sides of the tank.

  ‘What are they?’ I asked, pointing at two deep scars on its creamy skin.

  ‘From a harpoon perhaps,’ said Father, ‘or a spear.’

  ‘It’s in good health,’ said a gentleman next to me, peering through a monocle. ‘It seems perfectly happy and healthy and quite at home. I think this one will live.’

  At this the whale rose right up to the surface and let out a giant spurt of water and I laughed so hard I almost fell off the stand. Billy would love this, I thought, for he had often told me childhood stories about whales.

  ‘That’s its trap door,’ said Father. ‘A whale can’t keep under for more than about twenty minutes, it must come up and breathe. Look,’ he said as two men came into the annex carrying buckets, ‘now it’s feeding time.’

  The men climbed onto the stand and poured hundreds of eels, slithering and slipping, into the water. Having had its meal the monster began to swim again, round and round the tank, giving a slight lurch as it turned to complete the circle. When it rose to the surface I was sure it wanted to speak, to tell me something. Then it submerged and came right up to the side of the tank and gave such a sudden lunge that I jumped in shock. Its mouth was open, its fins held out on either side as if it were waving. It turned its head away for a moment as if playing peek-a-boo, then lunged towards me again like a ghoul. Was it teasing, or did it want to eat me? I stared transfixed at its tiny eyes, like pinpricks in a field of snow, wondering how well it could see. Was it threatening or playful? I wasn’t sure.

  ‘Come on Daisy,’ said Father, ‘we’ve seen enough, it’s nearly time.’

  But I couldn’t tear myself away from the whale, as it began to roll and lurch, swimming round and round under the water. And all the time it shook its head in a slow, mournful manner as if it were searching for something and knew it would never find it. After a while it came back to my side of the tank, pressing its forehead against the glass. What was it trying to tell me, was it asking me to join it or to leave it alone? How did it feel being locked in this tank when it was used to the vastness of the ocean? It must, I thought, be like locking a person in a cupboard.

  ‘Daisy…’ Father warned. ‘Come on, the show is starting, we can’t be late.’

  He hurried me out of the annex and down the promenade until we reached the hall where the diving show was held. At one end was a glass tank, sunk below floor level. Behind this was a stage, while above were a series of ropes and ladders and platforms. We took our place in the front row of seats just as a wiry man came bursting through a set of curtains and onto the stage, wearing bright red tights and yellow trunks.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted Mr Sinclair, the diving manager, a puffy-faced man in a velvet waistcoat. ‘This evening for your entertainment, Professor Poisson! All the way from Paris!’

  ‘Paris?’ muttered Father. ‘More like Preston. I recognise him.’

  Professor Poisson gave a bow, climbed a few steps up a ladder to the first wooden platform, placed his feet in a loop of rope and with a quick tug from below he was hauled legs first towards the summit of the dome. The spectators held their breath as he travelled up to the second platform, a good sixty feet above the ground. Then he took hold of the ledge, flipped himself around so his feet were on the plank and released the rope. A lady cried that she was feeling giddy, another asked how the man could dive into something so shallow, surely he would kill himself? But a moment later Professor Poisson gave a shout, flung himself off the platform and landed with his arms outstretched, belly first in the water.

  The audience stood up, clapping and cheering, as he scrambled out of the tank and ran back to the stage. Then Mr Sinclair called for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Today we lay a challenge before the world. Is there any man who can match what you have seen here this afternoon?’ He laughed and looked around. ‘We have had no fewer than seventy applicants this past six months… and not one of them could even do half the height.’

  At this Father rose from his seat and waved his hat to get attention. ‘I think these diving men are getting a little stale,’ he said.

  A couple of gentlemen laughed.

  ‘I wonder, sir —’ Father looked around, ensuring that everyone was listening. ‘Is a lady volunteer eligible?’

  ‘A lady volunteer?’ asked Mr Sinclair.

  Behind me I heard men whistle in disbelief. ‘Never!’ one cried.

  ‘Yes,’ said Father, ‘would you accept the challenge from a girl? If so,’ he continued, raising his voice, ‘I will back her from a hundred to five hundred pounds… or for an engagement similar to Professor Poisson!’

  ‘My good sir,’ objected Mr Sinclair, ‘I can’t possibly assent to a contest for money. But if she can dive I will give her an engagement. Who is the girl?’

  Then Father pointed at me, and I stood up, removing my hat.

  ‘Why, it’s Daisy Belle!’ gasped a woman. ‘It’s the girl who swam the Thames!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On the following Saturday we returned to the Aq for the public challenge. As I walked along the promenade this time I barely looked at the birds in their hanging cages or the glorious fish in their tanks. All I could think was, would I make it? We reached the diving area and Mr Sinclair showed me into a dressing room behind the stage where I changed into my costume. Father thought it best if I dressed like Professor Poisson, he said it would make the crowd take me more seriously that way, and so I wore blue tights and bright white trunks. A great cheer rang out as I emerged back onto the stage and walked to the ladder where Father stood, and as I started to climb I could feel the crowd were agog with excitement. I would not use the ropes like Professor Poisson had done, instead I would step my way up to the second platform, for it would take longer this way and the anticipation would slowly mount. But when I reached the first platform I nearly lost my footing, and as I steadied myself I heard the men below laughing and the muscles of my legs began to twitch. The worst thing in the world was to be laughed at. I had to show a girl could do it. Yet never in my life had I dived from such a height: it was one thing practising on makeshift boards suspended from the gallery at the Lambeth Baths and quite another to be here at the Aq. As I started to make my way up to the second platform, step by careful step, the band ceased playing and absolute silence fell on the crowd.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ cried Mr Sinclair, ‘what you are about to see here this afternoon will prove or disprove the equality of the sexes. For the first time in the history of the world, a woman will compete with a man… She will dive from up there – sixty feet high! Down into there – an eight-foot tank! The tank is not padded in any way, ladies and gentlemen. The success of the diving is entirely down to skill.’

  I reached the second platform and took a deep breath, stepped from the ladder and onto the plank. Then I eyed the tank, as small as a bathtub below. I thought of when Father had first taught me to dive, how I had learned that danger clears the mind. I knew that if I didn’t dive well, if I missed that tank or went too deep, then a few minutes from now I would be no more.

  I saw Father gesturing with his hands at either side of his face and I couldn’t think what he was trying to tell me. I knew the main thing was to keep my body rigid and not allow my legs to curl, and to judge correctly how and where I would land. There were only two ways to do this dive; I could hit the water with my arms outstretched and end on my belly like Professor Poisson. Or I could dive in head first. With the tank so shallow I must hit it at an angle, and whatever happened I did not want to land on my face. Still I stood there, practising the leap in my mind. But I was so high up that for a moment I couldn’t tell if I were standing tall and straight or leaning too far forward. Dive, I said to myself, just dive.

  I could still see Father; he seemed to be pinching his cheeks and finally I realised what he was trying to say: don’t forget to smile. So I opened my mouth and put a big smile on
my face, bounced on the platform and lifted my arms. I thought of the fish I had seen the week before, and the whale, felt a sense of exhilaration that I at least was free. Then off I flew, my body turning in a wondrous curve as I streaked through the air. I saw nothing, I heard nothing, it was as if I were underwater. Then I sensed a blur of colour, heard a roar of noise and after that I had only one thought left; when would I feel the water? I stretched my legs and arms, arched out my back and hit the water with a slap. I was under. It was over, I had done it. Not a single part of me had touched the sides of the tank, although my head had been just inches from the bottom. I came triumphantly to the surface, my legs as soft as jelly.

  ‘A near perfect dive,’ said Father, helping me over the side of the tank and covering me with a cloak, and I waved to acknowledge the deafening applause, such had been the pent-up excitement.

  Then I ran back to the stage, panting and laughing and dripping, and stood there to watch Professor Poisson.

  ‘And now,’ cried Mr Sinclair, ‘our diving man will attempt the dangerous feat.’

  But the Professor looked annoyed. He hadn’t even started to climb the ladder; instead he was standing with his arms tightly folded over his chest. ‘The lady’s platform is nearer to the tank than mine,’ he said in a petulant voice. ‘And her platform is a good foot or two lower than mine.’

  The crowd murmured their disapproval. They had come to see a challenge and they had paid good money. Was the man going to dive or not?

  ‘The courage is oozing out of his toes,’ said Father, at which several gentlemen laughed.

  ‘I will not do my dive,’ said Professor Poisson, ‘because it is not equal unless her platform is heightened a few feet.’

  At this I just could not help myself. I had done the dive from the platform provided, I had completed my part of the challenge and now he must do the same. ‘Very well!’ I called out. ‘If you can manage your dive then after that I shall dive from your platform as well.’