The English Wife

by Adrienne Chinn

  ‘Good show. Nil illegitimi carborundum. We’ll speak after class on Monday.’

  ***

  Ellie spins out the door of the imposing Victorian red-brick edifice of the Norwich School of Art and Design, her heart beating so fast that she’s sure it will fly out of her chest. This is the day her life starts. She’ll be an artist, just like the wonderful Dame Edith. No, no, that’s not quite right. I AM an artist. I AM an artist. Dame Edith has chosen her over everyone else in the class. Over that swot Graham Simmons and his aggressive Cubism, over Grace Adamson and her neo-Impressionist dots and splashes, over even Susan Perry-Gore and her precise Constable landscapes.

  She hurries up the road, skirting around the cobbles filled with muddy water from the morning showers, past the knapped flint walls of the medieval Halls, and up St Andrews Hill towards the shops in London Street. She glances at her watch as she rushes past the outdoor market and weaves her way through the busy shopping streets to All Saints Green. When she reaches the soaring Art Deco exterior of the Carlton Cinema, she stops under the canopy and leans her flushed face into the cool, light breeze.

  She can’t wait to tell Ruthie the news. And George too, of course. She’ll ring him tomorrow before he heads off to work at the chocolate factory, though she already knows what her fiancé will say: ‘Well done, old girl. I always knew you had it in you. You’re as good as that French fellow, Money, in my eyes, you know that.’

  Sweet, faithful, reliable George, who’d once got Picasso confused with a piccolo. He was nothing like Tyrone Power, but maybe that was all for the best.

  ***

  A poke in the ribs. ‘C’mon, Sleepy. We’re home.’

  Ellie blinks and rubs her eyes with her gloved fingers. The bus lurches to a stop. She yawns and rises from her seat.

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t snoring, was I?’

  ‘Fit to beat the band. You must’ve been dreaming about divine Tyrone. He’s absolutely gravy, don’t you think? I just love his little moustache.’

  Ellie looks over at her friend’s broad, friendly face, the cheeks flushed bright pink from the warm summer air. Under her navy felt beret, Ruthie’s carefully rolled brown hair sits unravelling on the collar of the summer dress she’s remade out of her mother’s old floral dressing gown.

  ‘Last week it was all about Clark Gable. You’re as fickle as they come, Ruthie.’

  Ruthie Huggins prods Ellie down the bus’ stairs. ‘Hurry up, Ellie. It’s late and I’m starving. Mum said she’d save me some shepherd’s pie.’

  ‘Shepherd’s pie? Where’d she get the lamb?’

  ‘Uncle Jack’s old ewe kicked the bucket last week. He’s been divvying it up. Dad’s taking the train up to Fakenham tomorrow to get some more.’ She presses her forefinger against her lips. ‘All strictly hush-hush.’

  They jump off the platform onto the pavement. Ruthie grabs Ellie’s arm and pulls her back sharply as a bicycle whips by in front of them.

  ‘Crumbs!’ Ellie exclaims. ‘That was close.’

  Ruthie tucks her hand into the crook of Ellie’s arm. ‘You’d think they’d be more careful in this blackout. Margery Roberts’s cousin got run over by a bicycle in London last week.’ She reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a white handkerchief, waving it into the inky night as they pick their way across the road.

  They hurry past the boarded-up windows of Mr Pilch’s greengrocer’s and down the road, stopping at an iron gate in the cobbled flint wall of St Bartholomew’s Catholic School for Boys. Ellie jangles her key in the lock. The gate swings open, screeching like a gull. Ruthie reaches over and gives Ellie a hug. Their arms intertwined, the girls gaze up at the sliver of moon in the sky. A lone cricket chirps from somewhere in the school’s new vegetable garden.

  ‘Do you suppose they’ll come back, Ellie?’

  ‘I hope not. But they probably will.’

  ‘It’s been quiet since the nineteenth. And that was only one plane. They’ll probably go after London before us. There’s nothing much here but mustard and chocolate.’

  ‘There’s the munitions works down by the riverside, Ruthie. They shot that up the other day.’

  ‘I know.’ Ruthie sighs and leans her head on Ellie’s shoulder. ‘I like to think they’d ignore us. I don’t want things to change.’

  Ellie brushes her hand against Ruthie’s soft hair. ‘Everything changes.’ The night air, humid with the promise of rain, is like a velvet cloak around them.

  ‘That’s such great news about working for Dame Edith, Ellie. Your dad’s going to be so chuffed.’

  ‘I’m over the moon. But it’ll probably mean I won’t see much of George.’

  ‘You barely see much of him now!’

  ‘I know. The Home Guard takes up all his time when he’s not at Mcklintock’s. He takes it very seriously. I think he feels bad about being rejected because of his eye.’

  ‘No one wants a half-blind pilot.’

  ‘No one wants a half-blind anything. He’s not even allowed to man the ack-ack guns by the castle. He keeps the shells stacked and ready for the gunners.’

  ‘At least he’ll be safe in Norwich, Ellie. I doubt they’ll target Mcklintock’s any time soon. I don’t expect chocolate factories are high on their list. Why don’t you just get married? Then you’d see plenty of him.’ Ruthie giggles and pokes Ellie in the ribs. ‘At least at night.’

  ‘Ruthie! Honestly! I think Tyrone Power has addled your brain. Anyway, George is meeting me at the dance at the Samson tomorrow night. You’re coming, aren’t you? You know he hates to jitterbug and you’re the best.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for a handsome Newfoundlander. My cousin Sheila in Yarmouth said she’s seen Newfoundlanders all around town. They’ve just been stationed somewhere near Filby.’

  ‘To protect the coast, I imagine. Pops says the Germans would have a clean sweep into England if they landed up on Holkham Beach. It’s as flat as a pancake up there for miles.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they start showing up in Norwich. Filby’s not far.’

  ‘Well, I hope they can dance.’ Ellie disentangles herself from their embrace. ‘George stomps about like an ox.’

  ‘George is solid. When you’re married you won’t have to worry about him running off with a barmaid.’

  Ellie gives her friend a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’m only turning eighteen in September. I’m in no rush to marry. Besides, I’m too busy. I’ve got art classes and the painting to work on for the summer exhibition next month, and now I’ve got the job with Dame Edith. George’ll just have to wait.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll wait. George adores you. The way he looks at you … it makes me jealous.’

  Ellie shuts the gate behind her and wraps her fingers around two of the black iron rails. ‘Don’t be silly, Ruthie. He’s just a boy. You’re my best friend.’ She slides her hand through the gate and extends her little finger. ‘Friends forever?’

  Ruthie slides her little finger around Ellie’s, then grasps Ellie’s hand. ‘Friends forever, Ellie.’

  Chapter 5

  En Route to New York From London – 11 September 2001

  Sophie ducks under a luggage strap hanging like a noose from an overhead storage compartment and dodges an elbow as she inches her way past the other passengers. She eyes her window seat and spots two barrel-chested men in crumpled navy suits in her row. Their faces are flushed a sticky red and their voices cut through the din of the embarking passengers.

  ‘Gary’s gotta do something about the way he holds his club. We lost it on the eleventh hole, I tell you. Downhill from there.’

  ‘Yeah. ’Least the boss was happy. You don’t wanna be too good, if you know what I mean. Gotta keep the main man and his clients happy. We got a good deal outta that day.’

  Sophie shifts her Longchamp shoulder bag to her opposite shoulder, careful not to dent the thick pad of her new green Escada crushed-velvet jacket, and rests her new carry-on case on
the aisle. Checking her ticket, she groans inwardly. Fabulous. Eight bloody hours on the London flight to New York beside an overweight, drunken salesman who’ll hog the armrest and manspread into my leg space.

  Shifting aside her new digital camera, she tugs a stack of blueprints out of a pocket of her case. Someone behind her pokes her in her shoulder. She turns around and smiles apologetically at the impatient woman. Tucking the drawings under her armpit, she wedges her case into the overhead locker and shuffles past the two salesmen. As she slumps into her seat, several blueprints fall into her neighbour’s broad lap.

  ‘Here you go, hon,’ the man says as he hands her the drawings, his fingers like stout red sausages.

  Sophie smiles politely. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem, sweetheart. You don’t wanna get your boss’s drawings messed up.’

  Her smile stiffens. ‘They’re my drawings.’

  The man jabs his colleague with his elbow. ‘Hear that, Bob? You never would’a thought that, would you?’ He thrusts out his meaty hand to Sophie. ‘Mike O’Brien.’ He jabs a thumb at his companion. ‘This is Bob Roberts.’ He digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. ‘We’re in garbage. Biggest garbage contractors in Queens. Been talking to London. They like our methods.’ He rubs his sausage fingers together. ‘Very lucrative. Let me tell you, everybody makes garbage. The twenty-first century is gonna be the garbage century.’

  ***

  Sophie hands the flight attendant her breakfast tray across Mike O’Brien’s head and rolls out a blueprint across the flip-down table. She scans the plans of London’s Millennium Pavilion, remembering inking every line, every vertical, diagonal and horizontal. A Point One pen for the glass and the finer details, Point Three for the interior structure, and the heftier Point Five for the concrete exterior structure.

  She has to get this job. The teenage summers given up to advanced calculus courses at the expense of the art courses she’d preferred, the seven years of study and internships, the slog jobs making coffees and photocopies, then the better jobs, then winning the commission to design the Millennium Pavilion, and – she still can’t believe it’d actually happened – the call from Richard Niven’s New York office to come for an interview. Everything she’d ever done had led to this moment. Her life was about to change. She could feel it. All she had to do was ace the interview and the presentation. No pressure.

  The plane drops suddenly and veers sharply to the right before levelling out. Sophie looks out the window. Blue sky, clouds and miles of white-tipped water. Just another ordinary day.

  The intercom bell dings.

  ‘This is your captain. Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen. An, um, an instrument problem has arisen and I’m afraid we need to divert to the nearest airport, in Gander, Newfoundland, to have it checked. It’s nothing serious, but regulations state we must have it looked at before continuing on our onward journey. We’ll give you more information once we land. The seatbelt signs have been switched on, so please buckle up. Apologies for the inconvenience. We’ll have you on your way as quickly as possible.’

  An instrument problem? Seriously? Sophie glances at her watch. Nine forty-five. The interview wasn’t until tomorrow, but still. She’d planned everything so carefully to get there early so she’d have time to practise her presentation and get a good sleep.

  ‘Don’t worry, hon,’ Mike says, patting her on her knee. ‘These kinda things happen all the time. Nothin’ to worry about.’

  ‘It’s not that. I have an important meeting to get to.’

  Bob leans across Mike’s girth. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll make it. We’ll be outta here in a shot. Like Mikey here says, nothin’ to worry about. We’ll be in New York by lunch, you can bet on it.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ She shuts her eyes, willing the butterflies bashing around her stomach to settle. Just a minor hiccup, Soph. Nothing to worry about. Take a chill pill.

  Half an hour later the aeroplane begins its descent. Sophie peers out the window. The flat, grey roof of an airport building a fraction of the size of Heathrow comes into view below, a grey island in an ocean of trees. About twenty aeroplanes, parked in an orderly row, gleam like silver arrows on the tarmac.

  The plane bounces onto the runway and breaks to a gradual stop. Sophie watches out the window as it taxis towards the queue of aeroplanes. Her eyes travel over the bright logos. British Airways, Alitalia, Delta, Virgin, United, Northwest, and others she can’t identify. Another plane, a Lufthansa, glides in to land, while far above, the sun glints on the silver wings of an airliner circling in the September sky.

  She glances at Mike who is straining to look over her shoulder. ‘There are over twenty planes out there.’

  The intercom bell dings again.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you must be wondering if all these aeroplanes around us have the same instrument problem as we have. The reality is that we’re here for another reason. We have received a report through our communication lines that there is an armed threat at the World Trade Center in New York. We’ve been advised that international airspace over North America has been shut down and all flights diverted to the nearest airports. We’re to stay on the plane until further notice.’

  The World Trade Center? Richard Niven’s office was only a few blocks away. Sophie pulls her phone out of her bag and taps out the number for the office. Nothing. She tries again. Not even a dial tone. She looks out the window. A faint breeze rustles through the green-black evergreens in the distance. The metallic aeroplanes waver under the bright sun like a mirage in a desert oasis. A blackbird lands on an aeroplane wing. It opens its beak, but the song is silent through the thick glass.

  Chapter 6

  Norwich, England – 27 July 1940

  Dottie Burgess leans her elbows on the vanity table, watching her sister pucker her lips into the mirror and slick on red lipstick.

  ‘Can I try?’

  Ellie laughs at the reflection of her sister’s inquisitive face in the mirror. Sharp-chinned and curious, just like their cat, Berkeley Square. ‘You’re not even twelve yet.’

  Dottie reaches out for the lipstick. ‘Please?’

  Ellie twists the tube closed and slides on the brass cap. ‘No. It’s my last lipstick and Buntings hasn’t got any more in stock right now.’ She waves the brass tube at her sister. ‘This might have to last me till the end of the war.’

  ‘Milly’s mum’s started using beet juice. Her fingers are all stained red from it.’

  ‘Well, that’s just silly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Milly’s mum says “Needs must”.’

  Ellie taps Dottie on her nose with her powder puff. ‘Here, have a go with this. Powder your nose.’

  Dottie leans into the mirror and dabs the powder puff over the three freckles on her nose. ‘I thought that meant you had to go to the loo.’

  ‘It does. It’s a euphemism.’

  ‘A eupha—eupha—’

  ‘Euphemism. You say it so you don’t have to say “toilet” or “loo”. It’s more polite.’

  ‘But it’s a fib. Father McAuley says fibs are a sin.’

  ‘Well, it’s only a little sin. Say two Hail Marys and you’ll be fine.’

  Dottie hands back the powder puff and picks up the large white-bristled brush with its gleaming mother-of-pearl handle. Edging onto the stool beside Ellie, she unclips her pink plastic hair buckle and drags the brush through her long brown hair.

  Ellie watches her sister in the mirror. Dark hair and eyes. So like their mother. Wilful like their mother too. Ellie had loved watching their mother, Winnifred, brush her long, chestnut-coloured hair with the same brush in the evenings. One hundred strokes. Always one hundred exactly. They’d count together.

  ‘Here, Dottie. Let me do it.’ She stands behind Dottie and runs the brush through the fine brown strands until her sister’s hair gleams.

  ‘Is George picking you up?’

  ‘If he’s finished his shift at the ack-ack gun
s in time. Otherwise I’ll meet him and Ruthie at the hall.’

  Dottie frowns into the mirror. ‘I don’t like this war.’

  ‘Nobody does, honey.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about George being by the guns? He’s awfully brave, isn’t he?’

  ‘George is very brave indeed. There’s no need to worry about him. He’s very careful. He’s lucky he didn’t have to go over to Europe with the others. I feel much safer knowing he’s here, don’t you?’

  ‘I always feel safe if George is around. He’s my guardian angel.’

  Ellie chuckles as she snaps the pink hair buckle back into Dottie’s hair. ‘Is he now? How’s that?’

  ‘Well, Sister Marguerite Mercy said we all have guardian angels who’ve been sent to protect us. Nothing bad will ever happen when your guardian angel is nearby.’ She shrugs. ‘So, George is my guardian angel. I decided.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell him. He’ll get a kick out of that.’

  Dottie spins around on the stool and grabs the sleeve of Ellie’s pastel blue dress. ‘No! Please, don’t! It’s a secret.’

  ‘How can he be your guardian angel if it’s a secret?’

  ‘Oh, he knows it in his heart. He just doesn’t know it in his head.’ Dottie yanks on the thin blue cotton. ‘Please don’t say anything, Ellie. Promise.’

  Ellie kisses the locket around her neck and holds it in the air. ‘On Mummy’s locket, I promise I won’t tell George. My lips are sealed.’

  Dottie’s face breaks into a beaming smile. ‘Now can I try some lipstick?’

  ***

  ‘Ellie! Over here!’

  Ellie cranes her neck over the heads of the dancers shuffling around the glossy wooden floor of the Samson and Hercules dance hall. She spies Ruthie waving at her from in front of the stage, where a band of men in white dinner jackets plays a seductive version of ‘Begin the Beguine’. A short, ginger-haired man in a khaki green uniform stands next to Ruthie, clutching a glass of beer in one hand and flapping the other around like a broken sail as he yells into Ruthie’s ear. Ellie dodges past the dancers’ thrusting elbows and squeezes through a bottleneck of sweaty bodies.