Evelyn had wanted to keep the appliqué for herself, but overnight her conscience got the better of her. Such an accessory must have cost a small fortune. The right thing to do was head back to Battersea Park and try to return it.
There were still excited crowds enjoying the fun fair rides. Over their voices Evelyn heard someone swearing. She followed the glares in the direction it had come from, and saw two men standing next to the red, white and gold carousel. One of them was Alvin, the fire breather, and he was grimacing at a tallish, dark-haired man who was hopping about on one foot. On the ground between them a rather large and dusty spotlight lay on its side.
Evelyn gasped, and before she could stop herself she was kneeling before the light, running her gloved hands over its dirty surface. ‘Hello, beautiful,’ she breathed.
It was smaller than her wartime lights but looked as though it would be able to pierce the night air and point out swimmers in the dark water with no trouble. In fact, it might even be too large for such a job. For years Evelyn had read all she could about different types of lights, keeping the books as hidden from her sister as she did the longing that plagued her. Being so close to one now was like banishing the night sky that lived inside her.
Her fingers found a crack in the glass, and she winced. ‘What did they do to you then?’
‘Hey, that’s ours!’ said the man who’d been cursing over his crushed toes.
‘Do you even know what you’re doing with it?’ Evelyn snapped back. A second later she clasped her hands to her mouth, mortified. She never spoke that way to strangers.
To her relief, Alvin chuckled, causing his friend—also American, by his accent—to raise his eyebrows. He looked to be somewhere in his thirties, and had skin darker than Evelyn’s porcelain but not so rich as his companion’s. His Brylcreemed hair was so black it was almost blue, and his eyes, the dark brown of the milk-less coffee they were still forced to drink thanks to rationing, were framed with thick lashes and had a guarded quality that reminded Evelyn of the soldiers she’d occasionally danced with on her wartime nights off. The men had been wild with abandon, but if she chanced to look them in the eyes at just the right moment, she could see the walls holding back the horrors they’d witnessed and were afraid to return to.
‘Hey there, fancy seeing you here,’ the fire breather said. He was as handsome as his friend, a fact Evelyn had been too distracted by her worry over Spencer to notice on their previous meeting.
‘Hello.’ She stood, straightening her fitted navy skirt and trying to recover her composure. ‘I’m not trying to run off with your light. I simply wanted to see it. Do you know its condition is rather a mess? Not made any better by what you’ve done by dropping it.’
‘What we’ve done?’ Alvin’s companion said. ‘That thing just about broke my toes. Besides, what would you know about it?’
‘Enough not to drop it on my own foot,’ Evelyn retorted. ‘I take it this is a purchase for use on your boat during shows?’ Alvin nodded. ‘Did you check to see how badly the reflector is damaged?’
The men glanced at each other, then back at her.
‘Who are you?’ the one who’d injured his foot asked.
‘I’m sorry. I’m Evelyn Bell, and I’m not usually quite so rude. Only I can’t bear to see such a fine piece of equipment on the brink of ruin.’ She stretched out her hand, and it was the fire breather who clasped it.
‘Nice to meet you formally. This here’s Flynn. He works on the Victory as well, manning the lights and sound equipment and so on. You caught the show then?’
‘I did,’ Evelyn said slowly. How did one put into words the spectacle of skin and song, light and noise, and almost-certainly illegal rebellion she’d been audience to? ‘It was really … something.’
The men shared a smile that said she was not the first person to react so.
‘You’ve dirt on your face,’ Flynn pointed out, not unkindly.
Evelyn turned aside, opening her handbag to pull out a handkerchief and a small mirror. The dust from the spotlight had transferred itself to her chin.
‘Any tips on how to get this thing back on board without damaging it—or ourselves—any further then?’ Flynn asked as she cleaned herself off. ‘Seeing you appear to know so much.’
Evelyn snapped the compact mirror shut and dropped it back in her handbag with the now-soiled handkerchief. She surveyed the light. Its curved inside gleamed silver in the dull sunshine and her hands stretched inside her gloves, eager to touch it. It had been so long.
‘I’d suggest having three on it.’
‘You don’t mean—’ Alvin began, but Evelyn was already pulling off her gloves. She could get a better grip without them.
She pushed her handbag to the crook of her elbow, then bent down and edged her hands underneath the light. The cool metal sent a shiver of excitement through her.
‘Alright, now you two pick it up as before. But don’t hook your fingers around its edge. Keep your hands flat and slide them underneath.’
The men did as they were directed, and together they lifted the light from the ground.
‘One of you will need to lead the way,’ Evelyn said.
The three of them shuffled in the direction Alvin dictated. Evelyn found moving difficult. Her below-the-knee skirt made it hard to take anything more than mincing steps, and her handbag was cutting into the skin of her elbow.
‘You alright?’ Alvin asked, a crease between his heavy brows.
‘Fine,’ Evelyn said determinedly.
They made it to the water’s edge, where they loaded the light into a small boat Alvin and Flynn had left waiting there. They insisted she come for the ride after the help she’d given, and Evelyn was only too pleased to oblige. She tucked herself close to the light, feeling as though she was curling up near a dear friend she hadn’t seen in a long while.
When they reached the side of the Victory a rope ladder was slung down to meet them. Evelyn climbed it first, followed by Alvin. Their precious cargo was left in the small boat below with Flynn.
On the deck, Evelyn righted her skirt once more. How strange it was to be on the very boat she’d watched the night before. In daylight hours it seemed almost ordinary: long, with three tall masts and a steel funnel tipped in red paint. But she didn’t have much time to look around her; the men who’d thrown down the rope ladder were scrambling to help with the light.
While Alvin doled out instructions, Evelyn leaned over the railing to look at the light and couldn’t help calling out her own suggestions for where the ropes they’d flung down should be tied. No doubt the men were giving each other funny looks at this stranger—and a woman at that—ordering them about, but she didn’t care. She was determined to see the light brought safely on board.
After twenty or so fretful minutes, during which Evelyn became worried the barnacles on the side of the boat might slice through the ropes, the treasure was resting on the deck. She crouched low to give it an affectionate pat, then wiped her hands on her skirt. She was dirty and her pageboy haircut was sticking to the back of her neck, but she felt good.
‘Your nails are utterly wrecked, you know.’
Evelyn turned to see the woman from last night’s show who had sung the obscene song. Up close she was older than she appeared from a distance. Her hair, bleached white-blonde, was set into large curls, one side held back with a comb, and her skin was so caked with make-up that it filled the few wrinkles on her sandy-coloured face. Her brown eyes had heavy lids that looked ready to close at a second’s notice, but her smile was amused.
‘I guess I didn’t think of that,’ Evelyn said, looking down at her hands. The red nail polish was flaking off, showing the naked pink underneath in an uneven pattern. She searched in her handbag for the gloves she’d discarded earlier, thinking how appalled her sister would be.
‘Don’t worry. That kind of thing happens to women when they handle a big piece of equipment,’ the singer said.
Evelyn glanced up, wondering if the woman intended a double entendre, but she was scrutinising the men who were carrying the light somewhere into the depths of the ship, directed by Alvin and Flynn to hold it in the same way Evelyn had shown them. Evelyn wondered how she was going to get back off the boat with them gone.
‘My name’s Bee,’ the woman said, turning back to Evelyn and shaking her unnatural hair over her shoulder.
‘Is that short for Beatrice?’
‘No. B-E-E, like a bumblebee, because I’m always buzzing around and looking into people’s business. Not a real name, obviously, but there’s too much baggage that comes with real names. Mother said she named me after a harlot, which was her idea of a joke for no one would ever pay to see me with my clothes off. As though she knew from birth I’d be ugly and unlovable. Shows how little she knew about what men like.’
Evelyn was lost for words. She reached for the first thing that came to mind. ‘It’s no wonder you changed your name then.’
Bee chuckled, a throaty sound that made her large chest bounce in time with it. Evelyn couldn’t help wondering if the effect was deliberate; it made you want to laugh along with her.
‘You know a lot about equipment like that light?’ Bee asked.
‘I should. I worked with lights throughout the war. Only bigger.’
‘Women’s Volunteer Service?’
‘ATS.’
Evelyn was about to ask what group she had been part of during the war—Bee’s accent was a distinctive Birmingham one—but Bee spoke again before she had the chance.
‘Feel like a drink?’
‘Thank you, but I really should be finding my way back.’
‘I didn’t hear “no”. Come on then.’ Bee strode away across the timber deck, and Evelyn had to trot to catch up.
Her gaze drawn to the hum of movement around her, she didn’t see Bee had stopped until she bumped into her. She took a step back, apologising. Bee ignored her, reaching over the railing and grasping hold of a waxed rope tied to it. With a grunt, she began to pull.
Pushing her handbag once more onto her elbow, Evelyn grabbed the rope to help. It was heavy, and when the end emerged from the brown-tinged water, she understood why. Tied to the rope was a fishing net, and in the net was a cluster of bottles, each one wrapped in a piece of cloth.
Bee got Evelyn to hold on to the rope while she leaned over and wiggled her hand through a gap in the net, muttering, ‘Let’s see, what do we have here?’
‘Why do you have so many footlights?’ Evelyn couldn’t resist asking. Her voice came out almost a grunt, revealing the effort holding the net up was costing her.
She had noticed the footlights as they’d walked down the stretch of deck. They were recessed, meaning someone must have built a new deck over the old to allow room for the lights to disappear when not in use.
Bee gave her a quick glance. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘I’ve read in the Strand Electric catalogues that footlights are often overused. You’d be better off spending money and available wattage on a couple of baby mirror spots to use front of house instead.’
Bee pulled down the wet fabric to squint at the label of one of the bottles. ‘Limoncello. Ever had it before? It’s Italian.’
‘No,’ Evelyn gasped, struggling to hold onto the rope.
‘You can let go now. Just feed it back into the water gently, you don’t want to break any. Drunkenness is wasted on fish.’
Evelyn did as she was told.
‘It was my idea to keep the bottles in the water when we’re anchored,’ Bee said, tucking the limoncello bottle under one arm. ‘Keeps them cold. Strand Electric catalogues, did you say?’
Evelyn’s cheeks grew hot. ‘They’re free,’ she said, as though that explained her odd choice of reading material.
Bee pressed her painted lips together, perusing her, then jerked her head. ‘This way.’
Evelyn followed her once more, this time to some stairs that led below deck. The stairs were lined with sheets of black rubber and Evelyn’s shoes stuck a little as she followed Bee down.
‘To stop wet performers from slipping and injuring themselves,’ Bee explained.
Evelyn admired the practicality and attention to detail.
They emerged from the stairwell into a long, narrow hallway with doors along each side. The air was cool yet stuffy, and Evelyn could make out several different accents behind the doors as Bee led her to the very end. Here they were faced with one more door, this time an ornate wooden thing that was clearly not original to the boat. Bee rapped on it and, without waiting for an answer, went in.
‘Humphrey, I’ve someone for you to meet,’ she announced, stepping to the side and holding one arm out like she was presenting a gift.
Evelyn saw that the room doubled as both a bedroom and an office. To one side was a bed attached to the wall, piled high with mismatched exotic-looking cushions. Next to it was a small sink with soaps and a tin of toothpaste lining the edge, and next to that a thin white door. In the centre of the room, dominating it, was a wooden desk bolted to the floor. It was cluttered with papers held down with assorted paperweights, pencils in tins, and shiny scraps of material. Seated behind the desk, his hand poised mid-writing, was the magician from the show.
‘I assume there’s a reason,’ he said, lowering his pen. One hand went to his eyepatch—royal blue satin today, Evelyn noticed—checking it was in place.
‘I always have a reason.’ Bee sat on the edge of his desk, crumpling papers beneath her. A ginger cat, who had been in the spot only a second ago, gave an indignant meow. ‘Oh hush,’ Bee snapped at it. ‘If you’re going to change who you favour every day, don’t expect special treatment from me.’
She reached across the desk and picked up a couple of Bakelite cups, blowing in them to check they were clean. ‘Limoncello?’
The man took a cup from her wordlessly. He had just shaken Evelyn’s hand; a firm and confident grip that was warm even through the cotton of her gloves.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, since Bee hadn’t bothered to introduce them.
‘Evie.’
Evelyn didn’t know why she said it. No one had ever called her Evie before. But the word slipped out of her mouth, its taste foreign on her lips, and it somehow seemed to suit the bustling, strange environment she’d found herself in.
‘She used to work with lights, you know,’ Bee said, sipping her drink. She had forgotten to give Evelyn a cup. ‘During the war. Just now she bossed Alvin and Flynn into doing things her way when they brought that light you purchased on board.’
The man’s eyebrows shot up. Evelyn tried to protest.
‘You misunderstand,’ he said, smiling. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to the side as he folded his hands across his stomach. ‘That’s not a bad thing. Not at all. I’m Humphrey Walsh. I own the Victory, and even I have occasional difficulties getting her inhabitants to do what I want.’
‘She also says we have far too many footlights, and should be using—what was it? Baby somethings?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t mean—I just thought some baby mirror spots might be more efficient.’ Little beads of sweat had popped up over Evelyn’s forehead, and she longed to wipe them away, but didn’t want to draw attention to them.
‘What makes you think that?’ Humphrey Walsh said.
‘I didn’t intend any offence. I don’t even know what I’m talking about really. I’ve just read that footlights are often overused, and that with half the number you could instead purchase a couple of baby mirror spots which would give you more variety …’ She trailed off as Humphrey’s frown deepened.
‘You don’t think we have enough variety? Have you seen the show?’
‘Last night, actually. And it was spectacular. Truly.’
Humphrey’s teeth showed in an amused smile. ‘But?’ he prodded.
‘Well … the lighting, while undeniably bright, is a little flat at times. A constant flood of light doesn’t have quite the same drama as something that changes intensity and focus. And your performers’ faces disappear when they come to the edge of the boat. Footlights aren’t designed for head-to-toe light when someone’s downstage. Or down-boat, I suppose.’
‘The timing of some of the spotlights in the water is off.’
‘Fascinating,’ Humphrey said. Evelyn was almost sure she heard Bee muffle a snort of laughter. ‘And you learned all this from working in the war?’
‘She learned it by reading about it. For fun,’ Bee supplied.
She and Humphrey looked at each other in a way that made Evelyn feel they were communicating silently.
‘Please, Evie, tell me a little about your war work then.’
It took Evelyn a second to realise Humphrey Walsh was asking about her ATS stint. It was disrespectful to the men who’d fought in the war to talk about women’s work during those years, so she decided to just give a few polite details, as was the proper thing to do.
Instead, she found herself telling him everything. She knew she was talking too much, but couldn’t seem to stop herself, only trailing off when she was done describing the difference between the static one-hundred-and-fifty-centimetre searchlight projector and the ninety-centimetre one used to illuminate bomb sites.
Humphrey Walsh, who hadn’t interrupted once, stared at her as if waiting to see if she really had finished talking. Then, with a sudden motion, he pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘You were right to bring her to me, Bee,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Evie, when would you like to start? We’re only scheduled to be in London for another two days. We were here to capitalise on the Festival crowds, but my performers don’t like being in one place so long. We can hold off for another day or two if you need the extra time, but no more than that I’m afraid.’
The words rushed over Evelyn as though they were a different language. When she saw that both Humphrey and Bee were looking at her expectantly, she made a weird little sound.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I … I don’t understand.’
She looked to Bee for help, but the other woman was smiling into her drink, not meeting her gaze.
Humphrey walked from behind his desk to stand in front of Evelyn. ‘We could use someone like you. I might only have one working eye, but I can always spot an unfulfilled passion when I see one. You, my dear, have something burning inside you which can’t be satisfied by everyday life. You’ve had a taste of what makes you tick, and you’re desperate for more. Only nowhere else is offering it.’
‘No,’ Evelyn protested. They were the words she’d been afraid of someone saying. ‘No, that would be awful. To miss the war, I mean—no one should—no one could. I only came to return this.’
She fished in her handbag for the sequinned appliqué and held it out to him. Humphrey took it but didn’t look at it. He was staring at her, lips pursed. The taste of guilt was bitter in Evelyn’s mouth.
When Humphrey Walsh walked to the door and yanked it open, standing aside with one arm held out, something inside Evelyn dropped. She forced herself to smile, but her feet were leaden as she walked towards him. The most exciting thing that would likely happen to her all her life had just passed by. Her secret was out, and with it came punishment in the form of missed opportunity. With a heart that had plummeted through the floor of the boat and was sinking into the river, she thought of all the days stretching before her, no different from any other that had come before.
As she passed Humphrey, he placed his hand on her elbow. ‘All of us here have secrets many would shudder to learn. That’s the one thing about humanity you can always rely on: we’ll forever judge the secrets and faults of others while desperately trying to make sure our own stay hidden. The Victory is different. Come, let me show you around. You’ll see.’
The opportunity hadn’t slipped through her fingers. Realising this, Evelyn felt the weight lift from her body at the same time a nervous fluttering began. She couldn’t really consider what this man was offering.