The English Wife

by Adrienne Chinn

  ‘Then the best thing you can do for Ruthie is live your life, Ellie. Become an artist. I’ll always support you in that – you know that. I’m awfully proud of you, you know. You’re talented. Dame Edith wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t.’

  Ellie sighs, the air rushing out of her lungs like bellows deflating. ‘That’s the thing, George. I’ve been standing at the easel in art class painting oranges and apples, and running all over Norwich searching for Prussian Blue, or Cobalt Violet or whatever tube of oil paint Dame Edith’s decided she needs urgently, and it just seems so pointless.’

  She looks at George’s kind face, at his concerned brown-eyed gaze behind his glasses. ‘I couldn’t find the Cobalt Violet paint anywhere. I’d been to Buntings and I was on my way to Jarrolds, but when I got to Bethel Street my stomach was growling so I thought I’d nip into a tea shop to pick up a sandwich. There was a sign outside the fire station asking for women to join the Auxiliary Fire Service. I went in and I signed up.’

  ‘You signed up? In the fire service? Are you sure, Ellie?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. I have my uniform and I’m to work as a clerk in a room above the fire engines. I start on Thursday.’

  ‘But what about your art classes? And Dame Edith?’

  ‘I’m cutting down the classes and I’m afraid I’m just going to have to tell Dame Edith I can’t help her anymore. It’s fine, George. I’ve decided. Susan Perry-Gore will be over the moon for a chance to work with Dame Edith.’

  ‘It’s dangerous work, Ellie.’

  ‘No more dangerous than sleeping in your bed when the air raid siren doesn’t go off.’

  ‘What did your father say?’

  Ellie grimaces. ‘I haven’t told him yet. But, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind. We’re in the war now, George. The Germans are flying over here more regularly. And the War Office has the Newfoundlanders building pillboxes and fortifications all along the coast. Ruthie’s Uncle Jack in Fakenham heard some of them talking about it at the Limes. Swanning around being an art student is just selfish right now. I have to do something real. I have to do it for Ruthie. And for me.’

  Chapter 13

  Tippy’s Tickle – 12 September 2001

  ‘Emmy! There you are.’

  A warm, yeasty fragrance fills the room, and Ellie pushes a plate of freshly baked tea-buns and the butter dish across the mahogany dining table. ‘Sit down and have a bun. We’ve got your dinner heating in the oven. Florie’ll get it for you.’

  Florie raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh, she will, will she?’

  ‘Yes, please, Florie. I have to make the introductions.’

  Dropping her napkin beside her plate, Florie pushes her chair away from the table. ‘Florie do this, and Florie do that. I only stays with you because of your blueberry pudding, Ellie, you gots to know that.’

  ‘Just the blueberry pudding?’

  ‘Well, I’ll gives you your Yorkshire pudding too,’ Florie says as she pushes through the swing door to the kitchen.

  Emmett Parsons slides his tall, thin frame onto the chair and lays a napkin neatly over his lap. His greying hair springs from his head in unruly waves, but otherwise his appearance is neat and orderly; his checked flannel shirt buttoned to the neck, his grey trousers neatly ironed, his brown shoes polished to a high gleam. Bowing his head, he presses his hands together and mumbles a prayer of thanksgiving.

  ‘Emmy, this is your cousin, Sophie. She’s come from England, where I was born.’

  Emmett looks over at Sophie. He nods. ‘Pleased to meet you. Pass the jam, please.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Sophie says, momentarily disarmed by his unusual eyes, one the same blue-grey as Ellie’s, the other as brown as the mahogany table. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you too. You know, you’re my only cousin. My father didn’t have any brothers or sisters.’

  Emmett scrapes butter and a dollop of blueberry jam onto a tea bun and takes a bite. ‘Pass the water, please.’

  Sophie pushes the water jug over to him. ‘What do you do, Emmett?’

  ‘I builds boats. I fixes them too.’

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. That’s very good.’

  Ellie pours out a cup of steaming tea. ‘Emmy works with Sam down by the tickle.’

  ‘Sam works for me.’

  ‘Yes, of course, darling. Emmy’s got Rod Fizzard’s old store – that’s a shed they used to gut the fish in – down on a wharf by the shore. What are you working on now, Emmy?’

  ‘Boat from Salvage.’ Emmett reaches for another tea bun. ‘A 1996 Sea Ray 330 Sundancer. Hull’s leaking.’

  The door from the kitchen swings open and Florie ploughs into the dining room, her hand encased in a thick oven glove, carrying a plate of pink corned beef, cabbage and boiled vegetables swimming in gravy. She sets it down in front of Emmett. ‘There you goes, Emmy, b’y. Jiggs dinner, just how you likes.’

  Emmett regards the steaming plate of food. Picking up his fork and knife, he addresses no one in particular.

  ‘Mustard, please.’

  ***

  Sophie pushes the curtain – a cotton chintz printed with blue roses and pink ribbons, the colours long since softened by bleach and laundering – to one side, and raises the sash window. Leaning her elbows on the sill, she gazes across the edge of the stony cliff to the ocean beyond. The waning crescent of the moon throws a faint silver glow over the black landscape, its pale light catching the waves as they crest. As Sophie’s eyes adjust to the darkness, the sky comes alive with thousands of stars, shining like diamonds someone has scattered across a swathe of black velvet.

  She’d expected to be in New York tonight. Eating a room service dinner as she flipped through the TV channels, the interview behind her. Debating with herself whether to spend money for the porn channel, but deciding against it when the last vestiges of Catholic guilt would prick her conscience. She might have ordered a small bottle of champagne, if the interview and her presentation had gone well. Picked up her mobile phone, and thumbed through the contacts, looking for someone to call, to let them know her good news. But there wouldn’t be anyone to tell. Not anyone who’d care.

  She surveys the glittering sky and thinks of the thousands of people who’d been lost in the attacks in the United States the day before. Seeing the stars they would never again see, hearing the waves crash against the rocks below the cliff. Closing her eyes, Sophie sends them the sight of the stars and the sounds of the waves and the feeling of the cool breeze on her skin.

  She doesn’t know what she is doing here, in this odd little place called Tippy’s Tickle. And why had her mother hated Ellie so much, Ellie who seems so perfectly lovely? And then there’s Florie. She’s what Poppy would’ve called a “character”. Emmett is a strange one. He doesn’t seem all that bothered about her, but, then, why should he be? She might share DNA with Ellie and Emmett and Becca, too, but they are all still strangers. Then there is Winny, the cousin she’s never heard of; Sam Byrne’s dead wife and Becca’s mother. What were the chances that she’d meet her late cousin’s widower in Gander Airport? How small is this place? And why is Sam working for Emmett? That seems like an odd set-up.

  Didn’t Mavis at the airport say Sam had spent time in Boston? That’s why he sounded so different from the others, though she’d noticed the Newfoundland lilt slip in when he spoke to Wince at the garage. Such an irritating man. Calling her Princess Grace. What did he mean by that? Winny must’ve had the patience of a saint.

  Why on earth had she thought seeking Ellie out was a good idea? Was it because, after years of devoting herself to her work at the expense of relationships, she was feeling … lonely? Sophie grunts. That’s ridiculous. She’s surrounded by people; her colleagues at the London practice, clients, builders, engineers, quantity surveyors, suppliers. There are a lot of people around her life, just no one in it.

  She’d been curious to meet Ellie, that’s all. What’s wrong with tha
t? Her parents were dead, and, as far as she’d been aware when she stepped off the plane, Ellie had been her only living relative. Now there were three: Ellie, Emmett and Becca.

  Fate had conspired to put her down in Newfoundland. The least she could do was follow the thread, and find the answer to the question she’d wondered about all her life. What had happened between her mother and her aunt all those years ago, before Ellie left for Newfoundland? What did Ellie do to make Dottie hate her so much?

  Chapter 14

  Norwich, England – 21 December 1940

  Ellie jumps off the bus in front of the portico of the Samson and Hercules dance hall, where two chunky white-painted statues of the mythical figures hold up the porch roof. George waves at her from the top step, and she runs up to meet him and gives him a quick kiss on his cheek.

  ‘You look like a soldier in that outfit, Ellie.’

  Ellie glances down at her navy uniform. ‘I’m sorry, George. It was busy over at the station. Fire over in Pegg’s Opening. It doesn’t take much for those old cottages to go up. It was just a cigarette this time that did it. I hope you don’t mind dancing with a girl in uniform.’

  ‘No, it’s nice. I just wish I’d known. I would have put on mine. It would have evened the balance.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, George. You look just fine.’ She smooths the white handkerchief that he’s tucked into the breast pocket of his brown wool suit jacket. ‘I can’t believe you managed to get us tickets. Everyone in town wanted to come to see The Squadronaires.’

  ‘Just lucky, Ellie. My boss was sent some tickets and his wife didn’t want to come.’

  They push through the doors and through the crowd into the ballroom, the party dresses and suits of the recent past outnumbered by the khaki, Air Force blue and navy of uniforms. Paper-loop streamers hang from the ceiling and the Air Force dance band, The Squadronaires, handsome in their Air Force uniforms, are in full swing on the stage.

  George squints at the room through his glasses. ‘Looks like all the tables are taken. We should’ve arrived before the interval.’

  ‘Oh, George, no one gets here before the interval,’ Ellie says as she bounces to the music. ‘Girls need time to get ready. Anyway, I’ve been at my desk all day. I want to dance, not sit.’

  ‘Fine, but I need a beer first. I’ll meet up with you over there by the stage. What would you like?’

  ‘Beer, please. Just a half.’ Ellie makes her way around the perimeter of the dancers until her way is blocked by the backs of a group of tall Newfoundlanders. ‘Excuse me.’ She clears her throat and shouts. ‘Excuse me!’ She pokes a broad shoulder.

  The man turns around. ‘Well, there she is, after all this time.’ The smile lighting up his grey eyes. The long, handsome face. The name slips out of Ellie’s mouth before she has a chance to think. ‘Thomas Parsons.’

  The smile turns into a grin. ‘You and my mam. The only two people who calls me Thomas.’ He hands his beer to one of his friends. ‘C’mon, maid. Let’s have a dance.’

  ***

  George sweeps his gaze around the crowded dance floor and spies Ellie’s blonde head, topped by the neat navy AFS cap, bouncing to the rhythm of the swing band with a tall Newfoundlander. The soldier looks vaguely familiar, and George rakes through his brain to remember where he’s seen him before.

  ‘Well, what do you figure?’ A hand pats George’s shoulder. A soldier’s moon-shaped face, with a dusting of freckles across his nose, grins at him. ‘Charlie Murphy from the 57th Newfoundlanders over in Filby. You remember? I met you here with my friend Tom back in the summer. He spilt Coke all over your girlfriend’s dress. Oh, she was some vexed, wasn’t she? Could have frozen the North Atlantic with that face. I’ve been lookin’ out for you lot. Where’ve you been?’ He scans the crowd past George’s shoulder. ‘Is Ruthie with you? I’d be up for a dance or twenty with her.’

  George looks at the boyish face and shakes his head. ‘Ruthie … Ruthie’s not here.’

  Charlie’s face falls. ‘Don’t tell me another fella’s cut in?’

  ‘No. I’m terribly sorry, Charlie. There was a bomb. Her whole family … they were sleeping. They didn’t make it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, Jaysus.’ Charlie rubs his fingers over his eyes. ‘You knows, b’y, when you joins up you knows there’s a chance … there’s a chance you might not come back. But you never figure a pretty girl you meet at a dance, in her own home …’

  George looks at the young soldier. It’s like all the joy stored in Charlie’s compact, exuberant body has melted away, like the ice lolly from Mr Suckling’s newsagent’s that he’d once left out on the garden table. He pats Charlie’s shoulder. ‘How about I get us a couple of beers?’

  ‘Nah, b’y. If it’s all the same to you, I’m gonna call it a night.’ Charlie nods towards the dance floor. ‘I sees Tommy’s off dancin’ with your girlfriend. Let him know I’ve caught the early train back to Great Yarmouth. I’ll gets myself a lift to Filby from there. I don’t much feels in the mood anymore.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Charlie gives George a thumbs up. He nods in Thomas’s direction. His friend is swinging Ellie around the floor in an energetic jitterbug. ‘I’d be watching out for old Tommy, there. All the girls loves him back home. He’s as smooth as the ice on an inland pond, that one.’

  George looks over at the two dancers. Ellie throws back her head and giggles as she loops under Thomas’s arms.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t need to worry. Ellie’s my girl. We’re getting married as soon as the war’s over.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then. Nothin’ to worry about.’ Charlie adjusts his beret. ‘All the same, I’d keep my eyes peeled, if I was you. There’s nothin’ on earth like the charm of a Newfoundlander. And, I knows what I’m sayin’ ’cause I am one.’

  ***

  The music segues into a leisurely foxtrot. Thomas draws Ellie closer and she smiles at him nervously, though she’s in no particular rush to leave the dance floor. ‘I’m getting rather thirsty after all that jitterbugging, Thomas. George was getting us some beer. He’ll wonder what’s happened to me.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he knows where you’re at.’ Thomas nods towards the stage, where George leans against a pillar sipping a beer as he watches the dance floor. ‘Can’t say as I blame him.’

  Ellie glances over at the stage and gives her fiancé a wave. ‘George has nothing to worry about. We’ve been engaged for ages.’

  Thomas taps Ellie’s ring finger. ‘Why haven’t you got an engagement ring on your finger, then, maid?’

  ‘Oh, well, you know, the war and all that. He needs to save up some money. He works over at Mcklintock’s Chocolates. He’s in administration. He’s making his way up the ladder.’

  ‘Sounds like a clever fella.’

  ‘Oh, he is.’

  ‘I’ve saved up some stamps for him. Why anyone’d want to collect stamps is a mystery to me. Just pieces of paper as far as I can tell. My mam writes to beat the band. Every week I gets seven letters from her. She must be usin’ up all the ink in Newfoundland. I’ll bring the stamps next week.’

  ‘Next week?’ Was he expecting to see her next week?

  ‘Sure thing. We all wants to get away from barracks come Saturday. They’re puttin’ on trucks to bring us into town from next week. We won’t need to squeeze onto the two carriages on the train. Some fellas always get left behind. They were goin’ to have a riot on their hands if they didn’t sort it out.’

  ‘Well, George will appreciate that. The stamps, I mean.’

  Thomas raises an ash-blond eyebrow. ‘How about you? Would you be happy to have a go on the dance floor again with a fella with two left feet?’

  ‘Two left feet?’ Ellie laughs. ‘You must be joking. You jitterbug better than any of the boys around here.’

  ‘That’s because a lot of us have family down in Boston. They brings us American records when they visits. Newfoundland’s a right crossroads of the world. Al
l the aeroplanes heading to Europe has to refuel in Gander. They’d drop like a brick into the ocean on their way over if they didn’t. We had Carole Lombard over there in St John’s just before I signed up. The girls were all out in force hopin’ to see Clark Gable, but he didn’t show up. That’s her husband, you know. I read it in the Telegram.’

  ‘Ruthie would have loved to see Clark Gable.’

  ‘You never knows. Maybe she’ll see him here in Norwich some day.’

  Ellie shakes her head. ‘Ruthie … Ruthie’s gone. Her house was hit by a bomb in July.’

  Thomas squeezes Ellie’s hand. ‘I’m sorry. That’s hard.’

  ‘Thanks. Yes. It’s very hard.’ Ellie leans her head against the rough khaki wool of Thomas’s uniform. ‘It doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘No, it’s not. We just has to keep going. That’s the choice we got.’

  ‘It’s why I decided to join the fire service. I couldn’t not do something.’ Ellie sighs against the khaki wool and looks up at Thomas. ‘I was studying art. I had a job helping a famous artist.’ She shrugs. ‘I gave it up. I still take an art class a couple of times a week, but it’s getting busier at the fire station. The Germans have already been over twice this month. One just missed bombing the Cathedral by a whisker.’

  ‘He must have been blind. A boy with a slingshot could hit that with his eyes closed.’

  Ellie laughs and looks at Thomas. Ruthie was right. He has the same sandy blond hair and strong-boned face as Gary Cooper. The nose a little too long but fitting just right in his angular face. Not that it mattered, of course. It was just nice to dance with someone who knew how to, for a change. What was wrong with that?

  A crash outside the building thunders through the music and the chatter, setting the paper streamers swaying. The band judders to a stop and a silence as thick as a winter quilt falls over the room. Then, a crush as the crowd suddenly surges towards the exit. Another crash outside, further up the road, followed by the whine of the air raid sirens.