Dún Laoghaire port, Dublin
August 1940
Charlotte’s hand rested on her stomach. What future lay in there? When she returned, after this war was over, she and Tomas would find a place to live, somewhere they could be themselves. Shake off their class, start again.
As the boat pulled away from Dún Laoghaire, she fancied that the wind on her face felt fresher than anything she’d ever known before. Her small leather suitcase sat at her feet – everything she owned in the world inside – and one hand gripped the cool railing. The ocean ahead was aquamarine, and in the distance, there was only horizon.
Wind whipped a piece of her hair free, and she pulled out the butterfly comb, secured the wayward strands. The ruby ring on her finger had deterred questions, and already the name Tabby Deenihan rolled off her tongue with ease. She looked back at the harbour. A hundred yards now separated her from Ireland. Never before had she been so far from home, and the thought – rather than jolting her with fear – brought a smile to her face. It was quickly followed by a spontaneous laugh.
A man next to her turned, tossing the butt of his cigarette overboard. ‘First time I’ve heard a laugh like that in near twelve months,’ he said in a soft Liverpudlian accent. Charlotte suddenly felt a small measure of guilt. Europe was at war. People were dying. Lives scattering like leaves in the wind. He put a hand to the brim of his cap, tipped it. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for brightening my day.’
She turned back to the sea. There was something in her heart that had never been there before. A warmth. A glow. A lightness.
She was happier at this moment than she had ever been before.
And now, she was free.