Sophie runs her finger over the pencil lines, over the loose ponytail with the strands flying about her face, at the light eyes narrowed with laughter, at the rolled-up jeans and Florie’s too-large striped sweater, and the greyed shading on her fingers where the berry juice has seeped into her skin. ‘I don’t recognise myself.’
Ellie tears the drawing out of the pad and hands it to Sophie. ‘Well, you should. It’s you.’
Sophie stares at the drawing. This isn’t me. I don’t know this person.
‘Are you sure?’
Ellie laughs. ‘Of course I’m sure! One for each of us. My niece who dropped out of the sky.’
Chapter 16
Norwich, England – 14 February 1941
Ellie taps her pencil on the desk blotter. She watches the minute hand on the wall clock click to four-forty. Just one more hour before she signs off. Another Valentine’s on her own. Well, not exactly on her own. She’d be with her father and Dottie, but family wasn’t the same thing. George probably hadn’t even remembered it was Valentine’s. Romance wasn’t something he was terribly good at.
What did Valentine’s matter now, anyway? George was needed on the searchlights over at the castle tonight. Two more people killed over on Plumstead Road in last week’s raid, and more injured. Everything had settled down now, people going about their daily business, but it was a veneer of normality. She was on edge, just like everyone else. Plymouth had received a bashing just a month ago, and she’d listened to Churchill’s speech with her father and Dottie on the wireless just a few nights ago when he’d asked the Americans to ‘give us the tools’. That’ll fall on deaf ears, her father had said.
She gazes around the cluttered room. Manila files disgorging paper spill out of the wooden shelves, and a cricket bat sits across the one spare chair. Her attempts at order in the fire station’s Stores Department seem destined to failure in any office shared with Fire Officer Williams. She tucks the pencil behind her ear.
‘Would you like some tea, sir?’
Fire Officer Francis Williams peers at her over the top of the requisition list, twitching his broad nose over his grey moustache. ‘That’d do the trick, Burgess. Milk, two sugars.’
She pushes her wheeled office chair away from her desk and heads over to the hot plate. After picking up the kettle, she holds it under the cold-water tap in the tiny kitchen. Milk, two sugars. Every time. Yes, Burgess. Milk, two sugars.
‘Burgess, would you check the store and count how many oranges came in? This list says twenty-four, but I’m sure there were only meant to be eighteen.’
‘Some oranges came in, sir?’ Ellie sets the kettle onto the hot plate and switches the knob to high. She hadn’t seen an orange since last summer. Nor a banana since the war began. It was Poppy’s birthday next week and he was going to miss out on his favourite banana cake for a second year running.
‘Commander Barrett brought them in from Filby. One of the Newfoundlanders got hold of some. Don’t ask me how. Those chaps could find a diamond in a glass mountain. Barrett said the chap insisted he give them to us here in the fire station. Said they were a thank you for all the work we did. Very nice gesture, don’t you agree?’
‘Very nice, sir. Yes.’
Leaning over the hot plate, Ellie unhooks the clipboard from a hook on the wall. She tugs the pencil out from behind her ear as she enters the store room. Oranges for the Norwich Fire Station? From a Newfoundlander at Filby? She’d told Thomas at the New Year’s Eve dance at the Lido that the thing she missed most about Christmas was not getting the orange in the toe of her Christmas stocking. She shakes her head. She’s being silly. Thomas wouldn’t remember a thing like that.
She heads past the shelves of blankets and steel helmets to the shelves stacked with boxes of canned goods. She rummages through the canned evaporated milk, salmon, and baked beans, and is about to give up when she spots a net bag full of fat oranges on the floor, hidden behind a box of powdered eggs.
She sets the bag down on her desk with a loud thunk. ‘Found them!’
‘Good show, Burgess. Have a count.’
Ellie is halfway through her second count when the kettle whistles. She hurries over to the hot plate and pours the boiling water through the tea strainer into the fire officer’s china cup. She adds a dollop of evaporated milk and two meagre teaspoons of sugar to the cup.
She shifts aside a stack of papers and sets the china cup of steaming tea and its saucer onto a clear spot on the fire officer’s desk. ‘There are definitely twenty-four oranges, sir.’ Who’d ever told him there were eighteen was very much mistaken.
Fire Officer Williams looks up from the requisition order and frowns, his thick grey eyebrows drawing together like two fat slugs. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, Burgess. Commander Barrett told me very clearly there were eighteen.’
Ellie stifles a frustrated sigh. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll count them again.’
She begins counting them out on her desk again. One, two, three … She is about to reach for the nineteenth when Fire Officer Williams’s thick-fingered hand picks it up.
‘There, eighteen. Correct?’
‘But—’ Ellie stares up at the fire officer’s florid face. He reaches for three of the oranges and sets them on the desk in front of her, then he chooses three of the fattest oranges and scoops them into his large hands.
‘Eighteen. Correct, Burgess?’
Ellie eyes the three oranges lined up in a neat row on her green desk blotter.
‘Bake your father an orange cake. He’ll enjoy that.’
‘An orange cake, sir?’
‘For his birthday. You said it’s his birthday next week.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you very much, sir.’
The fire officer drops the oranges into his desk drawer. Closing the drawer, he peers over at Ellie. ‘You said you drove, I believe?’
It hadn’t entirely been a lie. Her father had let her practise on the farm lanes around Holkham Hall during their summer holiday. ‘Yes, sir.’
He gestures to the bag of eighteen oranges. ‘Take the staff car and share them around the chaps on the guns over at the castle. Can’t let them go to waste.’
She’d see George for Valentine’s after all! ‘Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.’ She grabs her coat and umbrella from the coat stand, and pulls her AFS satchel over her shoulder as she heads for the door.
‘Burgess!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You’ll be needing these.’ Fire Officer Williams tosses Ellie a set of keys. ‘I’ve not known an automobile to work without them.’
***
The fender of the staff car scrapes along the edge of the pavement stones as Ellie shifts gears and parks under the trees of Chapelfield Gardens. She scoops an orange out of the net bag and tucks it into her satchel. Across the street, the red-brick mass of Mcklintock’s Chocolates sprawls across the block. Opening the car door, she gets out and heads towards the entrance.
Ellie hurries down the green linoleum corridors and spies George, neat as always in a dark green V-necked jumper over his white shirt, at his desk behind the glass partition of the staff offices that overlook the production floor. His short, brilliantined black hair is carefully combed, and his tortoiseshell glasses perch on the end of his nose where his nostrils have arrested their downward slide. She taps on the window and waves at him when he looks up.
George meets her in the corridor and gives her hand a squeeze. ‘Ellie, what are you doing here?’
Ellie digs into her satchel and pulls out the orange. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, George.’
‘An orange?’ He stares at the fruit. ‘Where’d you get an orange?’ He frowns as he pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘You didn’t steal it, did you?’
‘Good grief, George. Don’t be silly. The Newfoundlanders sent them to the fire station. I’m to deliver them to the fellows on the guns by the castle. Since you’re one of the fellows, I thought I’d give you the pick of the bunch.’
George sniffs the orange. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. I’ve missed that smell.’ He gives Ellie a peck on her cheek. ‘Thanks for that, El.’
‘Don’t thank me. Thank the Newfoundlanders.’
George’s forehead wrinkles as his eyebrows draw together. ‘The Newfoundlanders or a Newfoundlander?’
Ellie laughs. ‘Do you mean Thomas Parsons? Honestly, George, you’re being beyond silly today. I doubt he even remembers my name. I haven’t seen him since the New Year’s dance.’
‘Right. Okay, then.’ He pockets the orange and holds up a finger. ‘Wait here. I’ve got something for you too.’
‘You do?’
‘Of course I do.’
Ellie watches him through the glass partition as he rifles through his desk drawers. He takes out something small, hiding it in his hand as he enters the corridor.
‘Oh, George. You remembered Valentine’s!’
‘I work in a chocolate factory. How can I possibly forget?’
‘If it’s a box of chocolates, it’s awfully small.’
‘It’s much better than that.’ He opens up his hand.
Ellie stares at the lump of pink, heart-shaped rubber. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a pencil rubber. It’s shaped like a heart. Isn’t that clever? I saw it the other day at Jarrolds and thought of you. You can use it at the fire station. Every time you use it you’ll think of me. If you don’t press too hard, it should last a year.’
‘A pencil rubber?’
George presses the pencil rubber into Ellie’s hand. ‘I’ve got to get back to work or I’ll get a ticking off. Meet you at eight tomorrow at the Samson?’
Ellie folds her fingers over the lump of rubber. ‘Sure. Fine. See you at the Samson.’
She walks down the green linoleum corridor towards the entrance doors. A metal bin is wedged beside a fire extinguisher in the corner of the entrance lobby. She tosses the pencil rubber into the bin and walks back to the car.
***
One week later
‘Poppy, I have a question for you.’
Henry Burgess looks up from the second slice he’s cutting from the orange cake. ‘What’s that, Ellie Mae?’
‘Is it really the thought that counts rather than the gift itself?’
‘I would say that’s right. Not everyone can afford expensive gifts. A thoughtful gift should be appreciated even if it’s something simple.’
Ellie screws up her lips. ‘I thought you’d say that.’
Dottie scrapes the icing off her plate with her fork and reaches over to pull the cake stand towards her. ‘Ellie’s cross with George.’
Ellie taps Dottie’s hand with the back of her fork. ‘You don’t need any more cake. You’ve already had two slices.’
‘Why’s Ellie cross with George, then?’
Dottie slouches back in her chair and crosses her arms. ‘He gave her a pencil rubber for Valentine’s and she threw it away.’
Henry Burgess’s eyebrows rise over the frames of his round glasses. ‘George gave you a pencil rubber?’
‘Yes. Honestly, Poppy, what kind of gift is that?’
‘You should’ve given it to me if you didn’t like it, Ellie.’ Dottie runs a finger over her plate, catching the last drops of icing. ‘I would’ve used it. I’d pretend George gave it to me.’
‘No one asked you, Dottie.’
Dottie licks her finger. ‘You’re just being selfish.’
‘Stop licking your finger – it’s rude.’
Henry clears his throat. ‘That’s enough, girls. Go practise your piano, Dottie. I want to hear Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ before you go to bed.’
Dottie groans. ‘Again? I played that yesterday, Poppy.’
‘Practise makes perfect, pet. Mrs Banister says that with a little effort you’ll be ready to sit your Grade Five exams this summer. The Easter recital is coming up soon. Don’t you want us to be proud?’
Dottie looks at Ellie. ‘Is George coming to the recital?’
‘I expect so.’
Dottie expels a sigh as heavy as a farm labourer’s. ‘All right, then.’ Pushing away from the table, she slumps towards the dining room door.
‘Dottie? You didn’t happen to borrow my lipstick, did you? I can’t find it anywhere. I’ve torn up my room looking for it. There was still a bit left in the bottom.’
Dottie shrugs. ‘Why would I have seen it? You never even let me try it.’
‘Oh, crumbs.’
‘Ellie Mae. Your language.’
‘Sorry, Poppy,’ Ellie apologises as she watches her sister slope off into the sitting room. ‘It’s just that they’re not selling lipsticks anywhere anymore. All the metal has to go to the war. How am I supposed to keep up my morale without lipstick?’
‘You don’t need it, pet.’
‘Poppy, every young woman needs lipstick. I just read in the paper last week that the Ministry of Supply says that make-up is as important for women and tobacco is for men. The British government, Poppy!’
‘Well, you have me there, pet.’
‘I’ll just have to pray that Jarrolds or Buntings gets a delivery of refills soon. Otherwise it’s beet juice until the end of this wretched war.’
Henry scoops up the last bite of his birthday cake. ‘That was a lovely treat, Ellie Mae. I must write a letter to the Newfoundland regiment to thank them for the oranges.’
‘Oh, no, don’t do that. I—I mean, I’ll do it. It was my surprise for you. I’ll send them a thank you note tomorrow.’ Her father must never know she’d nicked the oranges for the cake. She’d have to do at least fifty Hail Marys at confession if he ever found out.
‘Well done, then. Do tell them how much I enjoyed my birthday cake.’ Rolling up his napkin, he pokes it through his napkin ring. ‘Don’t be too hard on George, Ellie Mae. It was a very nice gesture. You should be grateful he remembered.’
‘I suppose so. I just wish it’d been more romantic.’
‘It’s wartime, pet. It’s not easy to buy gifts.’
‘Poppy, he works at a chocolate factory.’
Pushing out his chair, he nods. ‘That’s a good point. You might drop him a hint next year or you’re likely to receive a stapler. George is nothing if not practical.’
***
Five days later:
Thomas stops abruptly and turns in the direction of the woman’s voice.
‘Yes, I’ll take the navy fedora, one of the pheasant feathers, half a yard of the back grosgrain ribbon and half a yard of the black netting, please.’
The stout woman stallholder squints at the wide-brimmed fedora on display on a home-made mannequin’s head. ‘Are you sure about the hat, miss?’ she says in a broad Norfolk twang. ‘It’s a man’s hat.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that, Mrs Goodrum. I’m going to dress it up. I’ll come and show it to you when I’m done.’
Thomas edges past the noonday shoppers to the market stall. He points at the navy fedora. ‘Could I have a look at that hat, please?’
‘Thomas?’
Mrs Goodrum shifts her gaze between Thomas and Ellie. ‘I believe this young lady was ’bout to buy it.’
‘The young lady hasn’t bought it yet, has she?’
The woman shakes her head, setting her double chin waggling. ‘It’s twelve bob.’
Thomas lets out a whistle. ‘Twelve bob! That’s highway robbery.’
Mrs Goodrum purses her lips. ‘You’d pay over three quid for this brand new. Just have a feel of this. Best felt. Christy’s of London. The king has one just like it. He was in the papers wearing it just the other day.’
‘Ol’ George’s gots a hat like this, does he?’ Thomas says as he runs his fingers along the soft brim. ‘Then I’ve gots to try it—’ he grins at Ellie ‘—if it’s all the same to you.’
Ellie grabs Thomas’s arm. ‘Excuse me! That’s my hat. I was just about to pay for it.’
Thomas shoves his army beret into Ellie’s hand and sets t
he navy felt fedora on his head. ‘How’s it look?’
‘That was my hat. I’ve been saving for it for weeks.’ Ellie turns to the stallholder. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Goodrum, I have to cancel my order. I have no use for ribbon, feather and netting if I can’t have my hat.’ She thrusts Thomas’s beret at him. ‘Here, I’m not your coat hook.’
Thomas watches Ellie storm through the heaving waves of shoppers. He pulls out a crisp blue-orange one-pound note and presses it into Mrs Goodrum’s plump hand. ‘Don’t bother with the change, duck.’
Tucking the fedora under his arm, he elbows his way through the shoppers as he readjusts his beret. He follows Ellie thought the maze of market stalls to the corner of Exchange Street where he spies her disappearing though the white pillars of Jarrolds department store. Inside, he finds her in the cosmetics department, frowning as she reads a notice stuck to the front of the display case.
Taking a deep breath, he presents the fedora to Ellie with a flourish. ‘I thinks you might be needin’ this.’
She looks up at him, her blue-grey eyes startled. ‘You again?’
‘You’d freeze a swimmin’ cod with that welcome.’
‘Well, what do you expect after stealing my new hat? I wanted to have something nice for Easter Sunday.’
He waves the hat at Ellie. ‘Please, maid. Take the hat. Consider it an early Easter present. Spend the money on somethin’ nice for your mam. If she’s anythin’ like mine, she’ll dance a jig with a few extra bob in her pocket.’
‘My mother died in a car accident when I was ten.’
Thomas’s face falls. ‘I’m sorry. That’s a hard thing.’ He offers the hat to her again. ‘Please, the least you can do is take the hat. I bought it for you. I saw you in the market and I had to do something. It’s the first time I’ve seen you without your shadow.’
‘George is my boyfriend. Of course he’d be at the dances with me.’
‘Well, that’s just made my day.’
Ellie frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Last time I heard, he was your fiancé. Now that he’s been demoted, maybe I’ve gots half a chance.’
The English Wife Page 9