The English Wife

by Adrienne Chinn

  Dottie bolts upright in her bed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Get out of bed, Dottie. Hurry. They’re bombing. We’ve got to get to the cellar.’

  Throwing back the covers, Dottie jumps out of bed. Ellie tosses her the dressing gown her sister had left in a heap on the old Persian rug and shrugs into her own. She grabs Dottie’s hand and pulls her sister towards the bedroom door.

  ‘Ellie, wait! I can’t find one of my slippers.’

  Another crash, near the city centre.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Come on.’

  Ellie flings open the bedroom door. Their father is on the landing, his thin brown hair dishevelled, his round glasses sitting crookedly on his face. He has pulled on his white cricket jumper over his striped pyjamas and stuffed his feet into green wellies.

  ‘Hurry up, girls, hup hup.’

  Dottie runs over and clings to her father. ‘Poppy. We didn’t hear a siren.’

  ‘No, dove. There wasn’t one.’

  Ellie hurries down the stairs after her father and sister. ‘I saw a bomb come down. It looked like it was near Ruthie’s house.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Ellie Mae. They’ve got the Anderson shelter. They’ll be fine.’

  ***

  Ellie runs past the red-brick church at the bottom of the road and rushes around the thick hornbeam hedge into Victoria Terrace. The cobbled street and neat rows of terraced Victorian cottages she knows so well are coated in a thick sheet of grey dust. A smoking mountain of rafters, smashed roofing slates and charred furniture sits in the space where Numbers 43 to 51 once stood. The once proud oak trees behind the cottages are nothing but skeletons, their leaves blasted off by the force of the bomb. The acrid smell of burning sap seeps up her nose and scrapes against her throat as she swallows.

  She hurries towards the empty space where Ruthie’s cottage should have been, her feet crunching on broken glass hidden by the dust. She coughs as the brick dust settles in her throat. A team of men in the tin helmets and navy overalls of the Auxiliary Fire Service sift through the debris, pulling at pieces of rubble as they lean into the pile, listening. A frazzled-looking young woman in a navy AFS uniform is unloading a tea urn from the back of a staff car by the kerb.

  Ellie stumbles over to her, leaving a trail in the grey dust. ‘Excuse me. Do you know where the people living here are? I’m looking for my friend Ruthie. She lives here with her brother and her parents. They have an Anderson shelter.’

  The young woman’s pale blue eyes sweep over Ellie. She has a round, friendly face under her tin helmet. She shifts her gaze back to the tea urn and shakes her head. ‘They didn’t find anyone in the shelter.’

  ‘But if they weren’t in the shelter …’

  The young woman looks back at Ellie. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She reaches out and squeezes Ellie’s arm. ‘They wouldn’t have known what was happening.’

  Ellie’s heart jumps in her chest. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She can hear her voice rise. ‘What do you mean? Maybe they went to a neighbour’s—’

  ‘There wasn’t any siren. There was only one plane. It took everyone off guard. They would have been sleeping. I’m so very sorry.’

  Chapter 11

  Tippy’s Tickle, Newfoundland – 12 September 2001

  The motorcycle bumps down a potholed road running alongside a narrow inlet, which pokes into the rocky landscape like a giant finger. On a spit of rocky land to the left, a white clapboard church with an aluminium steeple sits with its back to the churning ocean. They round a hill and pass the chain-link fence and steel gates of a cemetery. St Stephen’s is spelled out in black letters across the two curved gates, and a wooden bench, bleached grey, sits just inside the gate, with a view over the weather-battered headstones to the puffing ocean.

  ‘What are those?’ Sophie shouts into Sam’s ear, pointing at the water spouts.

  ‘Whales.’

  ‘Whales?’

  ‘Humpbacks. Minkes. Finbacks – they’re the second largest after the blue whale. We’ve got those too, down off the southwest coast. Sperm whales, of course. Orcas. Lots of dolphins. It’s whale paradise around here.’

  Sam steers the bike through a village with box-like houses painted white, dark red and vivid blue. Ropes of bright orange buoys the size of bowling balls hang over peeling picket fences like necklaces. As they approach a small general store, a long-haired black dog the size of a small bear rushes out the door and down the white wooden steps, barking huskily.

  ‘Good grief!’ Sophie pulls her elbows into her body and huddles against Sam’s back.

  Sam slows the bike to a stop and reaches out to the panting dog. ‘Hey there, Rupert. Did you miss me? Where’s Becca? Come on, let’s go find her and Ellie.’ He undoes the chinstrap of his helmet and winches it off his head. ‘Welcome to Tippy’s Tickle.’

  Sophie takes off her helmet and slides her leg over the seat, her velvet skirt riding up her thighs despite her best efforts. Stumbling onto the gravel drive, she thrusts the helmet at Sam. ‘Why on earth is it called that?’

  ‘Tippy’s Tickle? Well, legend has it an old fisherman named Tippy saw a mermaid in the tickle here years ago.’

  ‘What’s a tickle?’

  Sam points to the narrow inlet. ‘That is. Narrow inlets. We call them tickles here. They’re like fingers of water tickling the rock. Usually between islands or an island and the mainland. The church isn’t on an island, but the spit it’s on is close enough to an island. The church gets cut off sometimes in the spring. Then it really is an island and the only way to Sunday Mass is by boat.’

  She tugs her skirt back into place. She looks up to catch Sam grinning at her. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think Tippy’s Tickle has seen quite the likes of you since old Tippy saw that mermaid.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She squints at the single-storey wooden building perching on a raised concrete foundation. Two large white-framed sash windows frame the white-screened door, and an odd octagonal bay clings onto the left side of the modest dark red clapboard building like the afterthought of a builder harbouring delusions of grandeur. A sign above the door reads F. Quick and E. Parsons, Props. in bright yellow letters.

  ‘What’s this place?’

  ‘It’s your aunt’s store.’ Sam dismounts and adjusts the bike’s kickstand. ‘It’s the heart and soul of the town. Ellie prints her art over in the room with the bay window when she’s not schooling Becca, and Florie sells it to any tourists who manage to find their way here, along with basic provisions. We get the tourists here for the icebergs in the spring and the whales in the summer. Ellie’ll probably be at the printing press with Becca this time of day.’

  ‘Who’s Florie?’

  ‘Ellie’s partner.’

  ‘Her partner?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve been together for years.’

  ‘Florie’s a …?’

  ‘Woman. Yes.’

  Sam climbs the steps, Rupert at his heels, and calls out to the screen door. ‘Ellie! Florie! Becca! Roll out the red carpet. We’ve got company.’

  Sophie follows Sam up the steps, clutching at the white-painted railing as the steps judder under his footsteps. ‘Who’s Becca?’

  ‘She’s my daughter.’

  The door swings open and a small girl of about eight, her blonde hair tied into a messy braid and her face painted with bright pink and green dots and hearts, throws herself into Sam’s arms, gesticulating wildly with her fingers.

  ‘Florie painted your face? Yes, I can see that, Becca. What? She did? Let’s go see.’

  Becca catches Sophie’s eye and pokes Sam on his shoulder, opening her hands in a question.

  Sam glances at Sophie. ‘That’s Sophie. She’s come all the way from England. Remember that poem about the cat who went to London to visit the Queen? That’s where Sophie’s from.’

  Sophie follows Sam and Becca through the screen door. Inside, long white-painted wooden counters stacked with boxes of art cards, ho
memade jams, rolls of colourful ribbon, plates of fat muffins, tempting cookies and red paper bags of something labelled hard tack flank the narrow walls in front of the sage green shelves displaying handmade glazed pottery and framed art prints.

  Four lively dachshunds clatter through the doorway from a back room, followed by a sturdily built woman of about fifty, in paint-spattered jeans and a Joni Mitchell T-shirt.

  ‘C’mon in, c’mon in. You wants a cup of tea? I’ll get that sorted. How was it down in Gander, Sam? We’ve been watching the news and listening to the radio all day. Planes have been landing in St John’s and Stephenville too.’

  Sam sets Becca down amongst the excited dogs. ‘It’s a bit crazy down there, Florie, but lots of people have been showing up to help. I was down there with the Warriors.’

  Florie nods at Sophie. ‘Who’s this waif and stray, then?’

  Sophie reaches out her hand. ‘Sophie Parry. I’m Ellie’s niece from London.’

  ‘You’re Dottie’s daughter, then? Thought you’d all forgotten about us out here. Wonders will never cease. You sounds right like the Queen.’ Florie pushes past Sam and gives Sophie a hearty hug. ‘Ellie said you’d be coming. I gots a good old Jiggs dinner cooking up for supper. We’ll feed you up some good here.’

  Standing back, she sweeps her eyes over Sophie’s wrinkled velvet suit, dusty shoes and dishevelled hair. ‘I gots to say, girl, you looks like something the cat dragged in. We’ll get you in a shower so you can feel human again.’

  ‘Florie, are you giving our guest a hard time?’

  Sophie glances towards the back room. A slender woman in her seventies, wearing a green bibbed apron over rolled-up jeans and a pink T-shirt, stands in the doorway. Her white hair is cut into a neat bob, and the toenails on her bare feet are polished bright pink. A pair of turquoise cat’s-eye glasses hangs from a cord around the woman’s neck. She smiles, and a web of fine lines fan out from her blue-grey eyes. ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Aunt Ellie?’

  ‘Well, I never thought I’d live to see the day.’ Holding out her arms, she pads across the polished wooden floor, enfolding Sophie in a hug and kissing her robustly on the cheeks.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Ellie,’ Florie says as she winks at Sophie. ‘Your aunt’s an artsy-fartsy type.’ Florie regards Sophie with a critical eye. ‘You must takes after the other side of the family.’

  ‘How are your parents?’ Ellie asks as she stands back and surveys her niece.

  She doesn’t know! Mum didn’t even bother to write Ellie to let her know that George had died. And now I have to tell her they’re both dead.

  Sophie swallows and runs her tongue over her dry lips. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Ellie. Dad … he passed away. Ten … no eleven years ago now. He had a heart attack at work. Mum didn’t write to you?’

  Ellie presses her hand to her mouth. Sophie notices her aunt’s fingers trembling against her lips.

  Ellie takes a deep breath and shakes her head. ‘No. No, she didn’t. Poor George. I’m so sorry, Sophie. He was a lovely man. I knew him since I was six – did you know that? We were at school together. Right from kindergarten. Dottie must miss him terribly. How is she?’

  Sophie bites her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Ellie. Mum’s gone too. Last year. Lung cancer. She was a smoker.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie.’ Ellie reaches out and pulls Sophie to her in a hug. ‘I’m so sorry. Your poor mother.’

  Sophie leans awkwardly into the embrace as her aunt’s warm, bird-like body presses against her. Weren’t Ellie and Mum sworn enemies? Mum was never able to mention Ellie’s name without getting into a rant about her sister’s selfishness and cold-heartedness. This woman doesn’t seem anything like that.

  Ellie steps back and shakes her head, her fine white hair swinging against her cheeks. ‘Poor Dottie. I’d always hoped to see her again. To see them both. She was so upset with me, and I never really understood why. Everything was fine until I met Thomas. Then she changed.’ She sighs. ‘I wanted to work things out with her. Florie and I were just talking about a trip to England next year, weren’t we, honey?’

  Florie wipes a cookie crumb from her lip. ‘God’s truth. Got the travel brochures in the desk up in the house.’

  ‘I’m sorry that didn’t happen, Aunt Ellie. Mum would have loved that.’ She wouldn’t have. Not at all. Mum wouldn’t have opened the door to Ellie. And Ellie and Florie would have been too much for her to handle. It’s a good thing they never made it to England.

  ‘Well, you’re with family here, Sophie. There’ll always be room for you at Kittiwake. Oh, it’ll be so lovely having you here, won’t it, Florie?’

  ‘Oh, Lord, yes, duck,’ Florie says as she hands Sophie a mug of steaming chocolate. ‘We’s got more rooms in that big old house than I can find. We’ll set you up right good. Stay as long as you likes.’

  Sam waves his hand at Becca, who is on the floor, giggling soundlessly as the dogs jump over her. ‘Come on, Becca-bug,’ he says as he signs to her. ‘Time to go. Let’s get some supper.’

  Becca springs to her feet and signs something back. Sam glances over at Sophie. ‘Becca wants to teach you something.’

  ‘Teach me something? I’m … I’m not sure …’

  ‘Just watch her and do what she does.’

  Becca takes Sophie’s hand and tugs her towards a battered wooden table in front of the bay window. She pulls out a wooden chair and gestures for Sophie to sit.

  Sam drags a chair from under the table and straddles it like a bike. ‘Do you know the old nursery rhyme about the cat who visits the Queen?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sophie says as she sets her mug of hot chocolate on the table. ‘I think I can remember it.’

  ‘Just say it, and Becca will sign. Then do what she does.’

  Sophie glances over at Ellie and Florie who are standing beside a counter, Florie’s arm draped casually across Ellie’s shoulders. Ellie nods encouragingly. ‘Go on, Sophie. It’s easy.’

  Sophie takes a breath. ‘Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?’ She watches Becca’s hands closely as she clumsily mirrors the signs.

  ‘I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.’ She glances at Sam. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.’

  Ellie sits down in a chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘Nonsense. You’re doing very well. Go on.’

  ‘Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?’ Sophie continues, copying Becca’s finger movements as Ellie and Florie join in.

  ‘I frightened a little mouse under her chair.’

  Beaming brightly at Sophie, Becca wraps her arms around her in a hug. Ellie smiles at them across the table. ‘It looks like you’ve made a friend.’

  Sam rises abruptly and frowns at Sophie. He pushes his chair under the table. ‘Becca has plenty of friends.’ He taps Becca on nose. ‘C’mon, Becca-bug. Supper time,’ he signs.

  Becca kisses Sophie on her cheek and takes hold of Sam’s hand. Sophie watches them walk towards the screen door, spying Sam sneak a chocolate chip cookie from a plate on the counter to give his daughter, as Rupert drools.

  ‘It’ll ruin her supper,’ Florie calls after them as the screen door slams shut.

  Sophie picks up the mug of hot chocolate and takes a sip. ‘What happened there?’

  ‘Don’t mind him, duck,’ Florie says. ‘He’s all right. He’s just overprotective of Becca since Winny passed.’

  ‘Winny?’

  ‘My daughter.’ Ellie rises from the table and walks over to the bay window, folding her arms as she looks out to the inlet beyond. ‘She died three years ago.’ Turning back to Sophie, she smiles sadly. ‘She would have been your cousin. It’s such a shame you never had a chance to meet.’

  ‘She was a beauty, was Winny,’ Florie says as she heads towards the back room. ‘Blonde like Ellie. You don’t look much like her. C’mon, let’s go have a scoff. I’m gut-foundered.’

  Chapter 12

  Norwich, England – 7 August 1940

&nb
sp; Ellie walks over to a wooden bench under an overgrown cedar and sits down, the tree’s branches sweeping out above her like the wings of a giant crow. She crosses her ankles and tucks her feet under the bench, steadying herself by pressing her hands into the rough grey wood. The mourners melt away, slipping back to their lives, far away from the eerie quiet of the cemetery.

  Beside the graves, George talks to the priest. Ruthie, Richie, and their parents, Bryan and Peggy – the whole Huggins family – never waking up to see these trees and the sky, or eat fish and chips on the pier in Yarmouth on a hot August day. The raider had been back the next day, bombing Boulton and Paul’s Riverside Works and machine-gunning King Street on his way home. More deaths. More freshly dug graves under the leafy canopy of elms and oaks in the cemetery. And more to come – she is sure of that now.

  George shakes the priest’s hand. Ellie watches him stride towards her, the vibrancy of the green grass under his feet somehow at odds with the mood that has settled over the ancient city. He’s lost weight; his dark grey suit hangs loosely on his body. He sits beside her and places his hand over hers. His is warm, reassuring, and she feels the tension in her fingers slowly dissolve.

  ‘Are you okay, Ellie?’

  She bites her lip and looks at him, willing the tears not to come. Amazed that there are any tears left inside her.

  ‘No. No, I’m not.’ She dabs at her eyes with a white handkerchief. ‘I remember when I met Ruthie on our first day in Brownies, in the basement hall at St George’s. She’d tied her tie all wrong. I showed her how to do it. Pops had taught me. She shared some rock candy she’d saved from her summer holiday in Yarmouth. It was fuzzy from her pocket, but I didn’t mind.’ She blinks hard, balling her hands into fists. ‘It’s not fair.’

  George squeezes her hand. ‘No, it’s not fair. But there’s nothing for it but to keep on going. Ruthie would want that.’

  Ellie nods. ‘I know.’ She smiles sadly. ‘She knew every dance hall and picture house show going on in Norwich. She wasn’t one to sit at home waiting for things to happen.’