1951: Saint-Malo, France
Evie let the pen relax in her hand, drumming the end of it on the almost-blank paper in an uneven rhythm. Barely more than a sentence, and already she was stuck.
Dear Cynthia,
I am sorry we parted on such unhappy terms. I wish
What did she wish? That she and her sister had an entirely different relationship, one that enabled her to be honest with Cynthia and have her feelings understood?
She sighed and looked at the porthole in her tiny cabin. France lay beyond, and the shore leave Flynn had mentioned—and with it the chance to post a letter back home. She had to find some words now if she didn’t want their silence to continue to stretch across the ocean.
I wish you could have seen fit to embrace me when I left, the way sisters should even when they are angry. But I do know how difficult it is for you to understand. Perhaps I’ve not done the best job of explaining, so let me try again.
There is no amount of turning mattresses, beating carpets and cooking breakfasts that could distract a mind as highly trained as mine became during the war. A baby reaching towards me with an open mouth would only make me wonder how many babies I orphaned through my work. This is why Spencer is so precious to me. In him, I see a reason for all that we did. It was for hope of a future in which men and women wouldn’t know what it feels like to kill or be killed.
Please give Spencer a hug from me. As angry as you might still be with me, please don’t deny him the love of his aunt.
Your ever-sorry sister,
Evelyn
She had almost signed off as ‘Evie’, but there had been enough change for Cynthia to cope with. Let her have that small thing.
Evie folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. As she wrote the familiar address on the front, she marvelled that it no longer belonged to her. She had no address now.
Evie perched on a rung that had been riveted to the mast, surrounded by darkness. With every breath she took the sequins on her siren suit rippled gently, matching the stars above. The sea air smelled fresh, and from this high up she could feel the motion of the boat much more. Her stomach turned once, but it was more a reminder of her previous illness than anything else. Just above her were a junior flood and a baby mirror spot, rigged to a length of alloy barrel with hook barrel-clamps. It was up to her to vary the direction and spread of light of the flood, and to change the beam angle of the spot by altering the lens arrangement. She would connect them to the junior switchboard at some point, but was holding off until her plan for the new layout of lights was finalised.
Tonight’s performance was the first Humphrey had allowed Evie to participate in. Flynn was manning the switchboard, following a pattern she had devised but still wasn’t happy with. To try to prove her value, Evie had come up with something new they were going to debut that night. She’d noticed the way great puffs of smoke poured from the red-tipped funnel when the boat sailed, and sometimes while it was still. When she’d asked, Humphrey had explained he could control when the smoke was released as the ship’s engines were rarely ever shut off. Evie had ventured her idea: if they were to spotlight the smoke using a coloured filter, it could become part of the show—a glowing, surreal cloud of colour that spread out and high into the sky to make an unearthly frame for the spectacular events going on underneath.
Humphrey had never allowed smoke out during the show before. But he’d listened to her idea with curiosity and allowed her to experiment with some old dyed sheets of gelatine on a night they’d had no show. It had worked magnificently, the smoke clouds changing from an angry red to a calm ocean blue to an exotic green. The gelatine could only be a temporary measure—she hoped she could convince Humphrey to buy the expensive yet far more durable Cinemoid she’d read about if tonight went well.
It was one thing attempting the special effect under controlled circumstances, with no audience to be disappointed if she failed. But what if tonight too much smoke was released and it obscured the dancers? Or, instead of looking impressive like it did from the deck or masts of the boat, it looked terrifying from the water, too reminiscent of the not-so-long-ago smoke-filled nights of the war? It was a risk, and they were taking it because of her.
Evie shivered. In her head, she ran through her cues, picturing each one being executed in a perfectly timed manner. It calmed her a little. From her vantage point she could see the entire long, narrow boat. At one end, on the bridge, the dancers were waiting, hidden by the dark, their rubber-soled feet shifting restlessly. Further along, Alvin was holding a pile of black towels ready for the swimmers. Loudspeakers were set up at strategic points, ready to burst into life and accompany the few live instruments which were played during the show.
A low sound from a clarinet rippled through the night air, the signal the show was about to begin. Evie’s palms began to sweat, and she wiped them on her siren suit. She was surrounded by stillness now, the only sign of life the gentle rhythmic rocking of the waves. She reached up, hands resting on her lights just as they used to during the war, and waited for Humphrey’s introduction.
During the performance she was kept busy meeting her cues and taking yet more mental notes about where things could be improved. Yet all the time her mind kept flicking to her special effect, which Humphrey had determined would be part of the grand finale.
Finally, a slew of women were climbing the rope webbing that stretched up towards the masts, ready to throw themselves into their final dives. Humphrey stood in the centre of the boat, facing the water, hands coming together for his last magic trick. It was time.
Evie clipped a blue filter in place—they were only trying one colour tonight, and blue had been chosen as the least frightening—and changed the direction of the light. Then she waited, every muscle tense with anticipation, for Flynn to release the smoke as Humphrey had shown him.
It started small, but before long there was a great plume of ethereal blue smoke stretching into the sky, complemented by an orange glow from Alvin’s column of fire below. Even at her distance Evie could hear the shouts of awe from the audience.
She kicked one foot out among the stars, the only expression of triumph she could manage with her hands so busy. It had worked. And this crowd, the first to ever witness such a stunt, would tell all their friends and family about the spectacular they had seen.
Evie had proved herself a worthy addition to the Victory.
Evie had changed her siren suit for a floral dress and a brown coat that reached mid-calf. Her vinyl-covered embroidered handbag was tucked over one arm. She looked at herself in her tiny cabin mirror and saw the Evelyn of old. In one hand she held a half-hat; in the other, the letter she’d written to Cynthia. The echo of her sister’s voice nagging her about the decency of hats swirled around her head. Evie stared at her reflection, then threw the hat on her bed.
Most of the Victory’s inhabitants were on deck, catching the first sight of Saint-Malo. Evie joined them. The weather was some of the best she’d ever seen, the sky an impossible expanse with only the smallest cottonwool wisp of cloud no enemy plane would have been able to hide behind.
A seagull landed on the railing, where it preened its white and grey feathers with a yellow-tipped beak until it got sick of being teased by the watching performers and flew away. Evie watched it soar towards the city and exchanged a quick anticipatory smile with Alvin, who stood shoulder to shoulder with her. The warm sun and sea breeze caressing her bare head made her giddy. She couldn’t wait to get ashore.
The Victory neared the ramparts that marked the entrance to the port. Evie bit the inside of her cheek. She’d never seen anything like this city before. Long, brownish walls encircled it, looking as though they’d grown right up out of the surrounding beaches. Over the top of the wall peeped grey buildings, some spired, some with flat roofs. They gave her the uncanny feeling that the city was peering out at the boat and her inhabitants instead of the other way around.
‘Ready to have some fun on land?’ Bee asked her.
Humphrey had told them all he expected them to excite interest for the Victory, although no one had explained to Evie exactly what this meant.
‘I’ll say. I’m hoping to get myself some nylon stockings.’ It was exciting to have money of her own.
The first few steps on land felt odd, as though she was a baby animal learning how to walk. Bee told her it was evidence she’d found her sea legs. Evie inhaled deeply. Aside from the salt in the sea air, she could catch lingering traces of perfume and cigarette smoke and the faint scent of baking bread.
The buildings were crammed so close together they were almost on top of one another, and the flat faces of the houses lining the streets were pockmarked from mortar shells, so similar to the scars London wore. Evie felt a surge of affection for this city and its people, who also knew what it was to have your home under siege from the sky. Many of the buildings had been patched up, while others were being rebuilt in the same granite eighteenth-century style, but she wondered if any of the cities that had been attacked would ever be free of signs of the war.
Many of the women she passed wore trousers. They were effortlessly chic and modern, making Evie feel dowdy in her Utility dress and coat. Not even a pair of the best nylons would fool someone into thinking she was anything more than a gaping tourist. She decided to forget the stockings and focus instead on posting her letter, then finding out if there was somewhere she could buy Cinemoid filters and a hood to replace the biscuit tin that was being used on one of the floods.
Evie was lost in her thoughts and didn’t hear the man whistle at first. There was a low rumble of laughter, and she looked up to see Bee throwing a wink to a young man barely out of school, who subsequently put two fingers in his mouth and let out a second shrill whistle. Evie’s feet faltered. She didn’t want to walk past that boy and have his whistle directed at her. Not that she could compare to Bee in her grey and black polka dot dress and perfect curls, but she didn’t know how much that would matter to the whistler.
Up ahead Bee was throwing her platinum curls over her shoulder. ‘Hold your head up,’ she called when she saw Evie hesitating. ‘Whistling’s how you know you look good.’
Instead of hurrying to catch up, Evie’s feet came to a standstill. She looked at her handbag, then rummaged in it as though searching for something. ‘Traveller’s cheques,’ she announced, making her excuse to change direction from the group. ‘From the boss. Need to find the post office to cash them so I can get some equipment.’
She spun so fast her skirt flared around her hips, and walked rapidly away. The sound of footsteps behind her made her nervous, but it was only Flynn.
‘Let me come with you,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to get lost in a strange city.’
Evie didn’t want to admit she was relieved. She was all for adventure, but the very newness of everything was making her wrong-footed and unsure.
‘You’ve been to Saint-Malo before?’ she said. ‘I thought it was the Victory’s first time here.’
He reached out and took Evie’s handbag to carry it for her. ‘It is. But I’ve been to enough cities in France to pick up the occasional phrase. At least enough to ask for directions.’
‘Something I should probably learn as well.’ They walked in silence for a time, Evie not daring to tell Flynn that she was wandering aimlessly. Eventually, she said, ‘Thank you for coming with me.’
‘It’s no problem. You shouldn’t mind men like that though. The performers get it all the time.’
‘But I’m not a performer. I enjoy staying hidden and letting my work be the thing on display.’
Flynn’s dark eyes were narrowed and measuring as he looked sideways at her. It made Evie uncomfortable.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You really love it, don’t you? The lights and setting up the equipment and the false razzle dazzle of it all.’
‘False? I don’t think it’s false. Illuminating the dark has such power. It can be done for good or bad, and I think what we’re doing is good. We bring joy to people, and heaven knows that’s all too fleeting. Of course I love it. Don’t you?’
Flynn rubbed his hand over his clean-shaven chin. His eyes slipped away from her own, darting around the street until they rested on something further ahead.
‘Look at that,’ he murmured, tipping his head.
Evie stared at him a moment longer before looking towards a telephone box filled to bursting with what appeared to be a large number of young men. Another man stood in the opening where the door should have been, one leg ready to hook over the hunched shoulder of someone already inside.
‘Not a bad attempt, but I’ve seen better,’ Flynn said.
‘You’ve seen this before?’
‘Sure. You haven’t? It’s called phone-booth cramming. Or the telephone-box squash, depending where you are. You see how many people you can get inside, and the rule is someone has to make a phone call for it to count.’
As they passed the box, Evie watched the young man heave himself up into the impossibly tiny space left at the top of the pile.
‘Why would anyone do such a thing?’ she asked, tearing her eyes away just in time to step out of the way of a Vespa painted in ice-creamy colours which cut the corner too finely.
‘For fun,’ Flynn said, changing sides so he was the one closer to the road. ‘Like you said, joy’s all too fleeting. Some people create their own.’
Evie couldn’t see the fun in jamming oneself into an impossibly small space. But she knew most people wouldn’t see the fun in tinkering with reflectors and brackets, or calculating how many watts a given amp supply would allow. She was in no place to judge.
‘You couldn’t use those language skills of yours to ask where the nearest post office might be, could you?’ she asked. ‘I have the traveller’s cheques to change, plus I need to send a letter to my sister.’
A friendly local pointed out the direction, and as they strolled together Flynn asked about Evie’s sister. ‘You must miss her. I’m sure she’ll be glad to get a letter from you.’
‘No doubt,’ was all Evie could manage. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about the complicated nature of her relationship with Cynthia. This was a day off and she intended to enjoy her freedom rather than dwell on what it had cost her.
The clerk at the post office was able to give Evie the address of a local amateur theatre group, along with the name of the man who headed it. She told Flynn he needn’t come any further with her if he had things he wanted to do himself, but he said her plans were as good as any and stayed by her side. In the end it was convenient having him there, for the theatre director spoke very little English and Evie no French. Flynn managed to negotiate what she hoped was a decent price on a couple of used Cinemoid filters the theatre group was willing to part with.
They didn’t have a hood appropriate for the floodlight, and when she suggested to Flynn that they try somewhere else, he tipped his head back and squinted at the sky.
‘Better not. We’ll need to head back to the boat if we want to be ready in time.’
‘In time for what? And ready how?’
Flynn flashed her a grin, which took Evie aback. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile like that, and the way it wiped the haunted expression from his dark eyes made her understand the kind of person he must have been before the war. Carefree, jovial, perhaps even a little wild.
‘Your first time’s more fun if it’s a surprise,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say I hope you’ve got something fancy to wear.’
First time? Evie wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.
Catching her expression, Flynn actually laughed. It was a stuttering sound, as though he didn’t do it much, and despite her reservations Evie found herself joining in. Whatever lay ahead of her, if it made the usually reticent Flynn behave like this, it couldn’t be all bad.
The Victory’s performers and crew were crowded around several tables in a club. Evie didn’t understand how going dancing would drum up business for the show, but after so many days in the same siren suit and lace-up loafers it was pleasant to be dolled up in a borrowed cerise taffeta dress with cobalt chiffon overlay, her hands clean and tucked into black beaded gloves, and her hair pinned in victory rolls.
She was seated at a table with Flynn, Alvin and an Australian dancer. They were all chatting excitedly, happy to be out. Around them, cigarette girls in shorts and tuxedo jackets, their trays hanging from suspenders, dodged waiters who placed silver domes on the white tablecloths. Jacques Hélian, whom Evie had heard on the radio numerous times, was leading the band in upbeat, brass-heavy tunes which only got louder as the night wore on. She had already eaten her fill of rillettes de Tours and fried sole, washed down with cool glasses of Côtes du Rhône. Now she sat back, feeling like a film star as she pulled a compact mirror from her purse and reapplied her scarlet lipstick.
‘It’s almost time,’ said the Australian woman, extinguishing her cigarette in the silver ashtray in the centre of their table, her lipstick marking the butt like a kiss. Alvin took her arm and together they walked onto the dance floor.
‘Are you ready?’ Flynn asked Evie.
He was holding his hand out to her, and she noticed the handkerchief in his pocket almost matched the colours of her dress. It was strange to see him dressed formally instead of in his usual work uniform of plaid shirt and trousers. It was even stranger seeing his thick-knuckled hand held out to her in invitation. Her stomach flipped nervously.
‘Oh, thank you, that’s kind. But you don’t have to. I’m just as happy to sit here and watch.’
‘It’s part of our job to get up there.’
‘Oh.’ Trying to suppress a blush, Evie pushed back her chair. Of course he hadn’t really wanted to dance with her.
‘Take your purse with you,’ he said.
‘What? Why?’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to risk it getting lost in the madness. I imagine its contents might be hard to replace.’
Evie’s regiment badge was tucked inside the enamelled mesh clutch. While losing the money, perfume and other trinkets would be a nuisance, the badge was utterly irreplaceable.
She grabbed the clutch and gestured to the men’s hats and ladies’ coats scattered about the tables. ‘What about those?’ They’d been instructed to refuse the use of the coat room, much to the disdain of the vestiaires.
‘They’re of less importance.’ Evie shot Flynn a doubtful look, and he added, ‘They’ll be taken care of.’
Evie wanted to ask what madness he’d been referring to, but his hand was on the small of her back and he was leading her to the dance floor. He turned her to face him, and when she rested her hand on his shoulder she reflected that it had been a long time since she’d danced with a man—especially one who moved so well.
‘I promise not to stand on your toes,’ Flynn said and Evie smiled.
The invitation to dance might only have been out of obligation to the Victory, but nonetheless it felt good when the music swept her into its embrace. She was beginning to really enjoy herself when she noticed something. Alvin, who was parading around with the Australian dancer, kept bumping into them. At first Evie thought it an accident, but after a second and then a third bump, she knew it had to be deliberate.
‘What is he doing?’ she muttered, glancing at Flynn.
With an expert spin he had her by his side, one arm sliding around her waist to usher her out of the way. Evie tried to protest, not ready to stop dancing, but Flynn silenced her with a motion of his head. They didn’t leave the dance floor, as she had anticipated, but came to a stop only a few feet away from where they’d been dancing. Evie could now see that Alvin and his partner’s wild dancing had cleared a space in the crowd—a space that was ringed with Victory performers. The club’s other patrons continued to dance, but more than a few were looking at them with curiosity or irritation.
‘Get ready for it,’ Flynn whispered, his head bent forward so his breath brushed against Evie’s ear.
She drew in a sharp breath of her own, but it was drowned out by the loud blurt of a trombone that missed a note by quite some distance. A mutter ran through the crowd and heads turned to where the band was playing. The bandleader looked unimpressed. Evie stood on her toes to see better. One of the Victory’s performers was pulling on the end of the trombone player’s instrument. He pulled a face at the watching crowd, then skipped away before anyone could grab him.
No one was dancing any more. The crowd still moved, but in confusion, hands raised to whisper behind them, eyebrows lowered as they tried to figure out what was going on. Then a loud shout startled them all, and the crowd, including Evie and Flynn, turned around to look behind them.
In the circle Alvin and his partner had created stood Bee, her arms thrown up in the air. She was wearing a scarlet taffeta evening dress which dipped dangerously low at the neck. Evie grabbed Flynn’s arm, afraid Bee might accidentally expose herself in front of all these strangers and get arrested.
‘I had a husband who used to make sounds like that,’ Bee said loudly, her voice bouncing around the club. The room went still, even the clattering of the waiters halting. ‘Only it came out the wrong end. Then again, there’s only one end on a man that’s the right one, and I’ll tell you this: it ain’t his head!’
Shocked gasps rippled through the crowd. Some of the ladies turned their heads away; others, who couldn’t speak English, turned to their companions to ask what was going on.
Bee grinned and gave her shoulders a little shake. As she did so, a man skidded before her on his knees, a clarinet pilfered from the band lifted to his lips. As the instrument’s owner shouted, red-faced behind two performers who blocked his way, the thief began playing and, with a swing of her hips, Bee sang the chorus of her Victory song.
Evie’s mouth dropped open. Always shocking, the song was made even more so in the elegant cream and white surrounds of the club. Behind her, she felt a tremor of laughter run through Flynn.
‘Ooh, can you feel my suspenders through your trousers?’ Bee demanded, sitting on the clarinet player’s knee while he continued to play. He shook his head, and she leaned in closer so his face almost disappeared in her cleavage. ‘Guess I’ll have to try harder then!’
A laugh broke from Evie’s lips, but her attention was diverted by a couple of women who were suddenly spinning in mid-air. They must have been thrown by their dance partners, but all Evie saw was a whirl of taffeta and tulle skirts and nylon stockings as the women somersaulted out of the crowd. Loud mutterings in French became shouted remarks, but whether in appreciation or protest Evie couldn’t tell.
The impromptu performance was getting bigger and louder. Evie felt fingers close around her arm, then Flynn was speaking in her ear again. ‘Get ready to get out of here.’
Before Evie could ask what was going to happen, Alvin was standing next to Bee holding a baton tipped with fire. He tilted his head back and spat a long column of flames above the heads of the crowd. Chaos erupted. Women screamed, running in every direction, pushing at those who got in their way. A lone few clapped appreciatively, but when they realised the general mood of the room they stopped and changed their faces into frowns.
Evie was jolted by those running past; she would have been knocked over if it weren’t for Flynn, who was pushing her hard from behind. ‘Flynn,’ she gasped, but couldn’t say anything else. His hand clasped hers, tight enough that she felt the beads on her gloves break off and scatter. Somewhere behind her Bee was yelling that if people wanted to see more they should head down to the shore after dark the following evening.
Flynn pulled Evie back among the tables and chairs, and scooped up bundles of coats and hats. Without knowing what she was doing, Evie held out her arms. When they were full of crumpled fabric, Flynn gestured with hands laden with hats for her to follow him. They went through the front door, slipping unnoticed past the crowd of people who were demanding their coats back from the vestiaires. Around the side of the building they ducked, to where Victory performers were coming out of a concealed exit.
‘Alvin!’ Flynn called. The fire breather turned just in time to catch the hat Flynn tossed like a discus. ‘Nice show.’
Alvin responded with a salute, then disappeared down the street.
Flynn grabbed a couple of coats from Evie’s pile and tossed them to their owners, then told her to follow him. She wrapped her arms tightly around the remaining bundle. The boning in her borrowed dress dug into her waist painfully but she ignored it, a sense of urgency gripping her as they twisted through the streets of Saint-Malo, not fast enough to draw attention but quickly leaving the chaos behind.
Finally, Flynn came to an abrupt halt. He put his pile of hats on top of his own head and pulled Evie close so they were pressed up against a wall, the very image of a couple caught up in their own romance. His proximity made her insides tumble.
She tried to gasp out a question but Flynn put a hand on her lips, stilling her words. He kept his face close to hers, sharing the same air, and Evie thought that if she tipped her head forward just a fraction their noses would be touching.
Flynn slowly lifted his head, his eyes darting from side to side. ‘I think we’re okay now.’
Evie didn’t respond. His hand was still on her mouth, and the thought of her lips moving against his palm made her dizzy. A small, hidden part of her wanted to feel it, to taste his skin, and she was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see the flush of warmth spreading across her cheeks, neck and chest.
Realising where his hand was, Flynn dropped it and took a step away. The air between them was cool, the summer evening unable to compete with the warmth of human closeness.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I-I didn’t—’
‘It’s alright.’ Evie pressed her back into the wall behind her. ‘Were we …’ She had to clear her throat to return her voice to its normal pitch. ‘Were we being followed?’
‘Hard to say. We usually aren’t, but sometimes locals don’t take well to foreigners upsetting the peace. You can’t be too careful. At least, that’s what Humphrey tells us, and what the boss says goes.’
‘Causing such upset is supposed to bring people to the show?’
‘Once the initial shock wears off, people get gossiping and it becomes the most exciting thing that’s happened to them in weeks. Those who were there want more, and those who weren’t want a taste of it.’
Evie nodded. Even with the hats still piled on his head, Flynn didn’t look ridiculous. She forced her gaze down and gave herself a stern but silent talking-to: just because she hadn’t been so close to a man in some years didn’t mean she needed to go giddy with desire over the first one that came along.
‘Would you look at that,’ she said, lifting up her little mesh purse which was caught in the bundle of coats. ‘I managed to hold on to it.’
Flynn stared at her. His eyes were almost black in the blue light of night, and she couldn’t help thinking how thick and dark his lashes were. She thought he might be tilting towards her, just a touch, and she parted her lips.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking the coats out of her arms and turning away from her. ‘Let’s get these back to their owners.’
Evie’s disappointment was followed by a sharp internal rebuke. She had drunk too much wine and was letting the magic of a new place and exciting events carry her away. It was lucky Flynn wasn’t as foolish as she, or who knew what might have happened.