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A Novel
by Laura Spence-Ash
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In the dream he has again and again, he walks into the ocean, fully dressed, the wet fabric a weight. He pushes the waves aside as he goes deeper and finds himself back in that ballroom, leaving as others are arriving, his shoulders brushing against them, trying not to stare at the faces of the incoming parents, knowing that his eyes must mirror theirs, shocked to find themselves in this place, having made this decision, to send their children far away. Alone, across the sea. Only outside, on the street by the Grosvenor, the air thick, the gray clouds pushing down, did Millie begin to cry, pleading with him to go back and get their girl. He'd held her hand and pulled her away. In the dream he holds out his hands, reaching, wishing he could pick up the ship she's now on and turn it around. Wishing he could reverse its course. He extends his arms again, trying to touch the land where she will now live.
But the story that he tells the boys is only half the truth. Beatrix was crying, holding on to him, her arms wrapped around his waist. She blamed Millie for sending her away, and she refused to say goodbye to her, was angry with her for the twenty-four hours between the time they told her and the moment she left. Reginald, in fact, was the one to insist she leave, knowing that the bombs were coming closer and closer, that there was no possible way to keep her, or any of them, safe. His older brother fought in the last war, and so he knew what was coming. That war cast a long shadow over his childhood. It was how he had learned the edges of fear. He and Millie were faced with an impossible choice. Better that she go to America, he thought, where the fingers of war were less likely to touch her. But he never told her that he'd forced Millie's hand. He let her believe it was Millie's choice.
Millie
Millie can't rid herself of the fury. There was Beatrix's anger at her, for forcing her to go, and Millie's own at Reg, for not wavering when she pleaded. Let me go with her, she said. And then, later, in the middle of the night, neither of them sleeping, nor touching, staring up at the dark ceiling: Let's just keep her here. We've got the shelter and the Underground. We can go to my parents in the country. I can keep her safe, she whispered again and again. I will keep her safe. But Reg's mind was made up.
She has never thought of herself as an angry person. Emotional, yes. Stubborn, absolutely. But now she is overflowing with sorrow and rage. She can't imagine a time when she will forgive Reg. She knows she will never forgive herself. Over and over she revisits the ballroom, the final moments, the warmth of her daughter's cheek.
She pinned the label the man handed her onto Beatrix's chest. It was a hot day but Millie's hands were icy cold and so she rubbed them together, again and again, before tucking one inside the top of Beatrix's dress to guide the pin in and out. The label had a long number on it, in addition to the name, and Millie memorized the number, thinking she would need to know it forever. She thought that it might be the only way she could locate her girl. On the way home from the ballroom, she became frantic when she could no longer be sure whether the final number was a three or a six.
The night before, Millie had washed and cut Beatrix's hair in the small kitchen, a towel underfoot. Beatrix was in her underwear. Millie brushed the wet hair out before cutting, marveling that the thick strands almost reached Beatrix's waist. It was then, when Millie turned Beatrix around to comb out the front, that she realized that her breasts were beginning to bud and that when she saw her again, she would have changed. She would no longer be a girl. And there was that fury again, but it was in her hands now, so without thinking, she chopped off her daughter's hair, cutting it just below the chin, locks of hair falling to the floor, the scissors slicing, the white towel turning brown, Beatrix crying. She cut the thick, dark bangs in a severe line across the middle of her forehead. It was the haircut she had given her, every three weeks, when she was a little girl.
Beyond That, the Sea Copyright © 2023 by Laura Spence-Ash. All rights reserved. For information, address Celadon Books, a division of Macmillan Publishers, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
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