‘George is my fiancé. I just don’t have a ring yet.’
‘He’s asked you, then? Got down on one knee and all that?’
‘No, not exactly. Not yet.’
‘He better get his skates on.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It means “all’s fair in love and war”.’ He holds out the fedora. ‘Please, take the hat. One of the other fellas will only steal it if I takes it back to the barracks.’
Ellie runs her fingers over the indent in the crown. ‘All right. But I must pay you back.’
‘Don’t be stunned. I won’t have a penny off you. I’d only go spend it on beer.’
Ellie smiles, and to Thomas it’s like the sun breaking through a storm cloud. ‘Well, then, thank you very much.’ She fixes her blue-grey eyes on him. ‘I was just about to post a thank you letter to your captain.’
‘What’s that for then?’
Ellie digs into her AFS satchel and pulls out an envelope. ‘For the oranges he sent over to the fire station with Commander Barrett. It was a real treat. Fire Officer Williams and I couldn’t for the life of us figure out how’d they’d got all the way to England. We haven’t seen an orange in a year.’
‘You told me at the New Year’s dance. You said you missed getting an orange in your Christmas stockin’.’
Ellie arches a fine eyebrow. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with the oranges, did you?’
Thomas sucks his breath in through his teeth. ‘You never asks a Newfoundlander where they gets things.’
‘Good grief, you didn’t steal them, did you?’
‘Now, where’d I find oranges to steal them?’
Ellie leans towards his ear. ‘Don’t tell anyone but I stole three to make an orange cake for my father’s birthday last week.’
Thomas grins. ‘Did you?’
‘Well, Dottie and I shared one while we were making the cake. We couldn’t resist.’
‘Then I’m pleased as punch.’
‘So it was you!’
‘That would be sayin’.’
Smiling, Ellie looks down at the fedora in her hands. ‘I haven’t seen you around since the New Year’s dance. I thought you might’ve been moved out.’
‘You’ve been lookin’ for me, then, maid?’
Ellie shakes her head, her blonde rolled hair bouncing on her shoulders. ‘No, no. I mean … well, you know.’
Thomas smiles. All this time he’d thought Ellie was off limits. It had been torture to watch her dancing with George. He’d drag poor Charlie off to one of the other dance halls if he spotted them. But no matter what pretty girl he danced with – and there had been plenty – the only girl who’d stayed in his mind was Ellie. All’s fair in love and war. It wasn’t his problem if George was slow off the mark.
‘See you at the Samson on Saturday? I’ll bring some stamps for your boyfriend.’
Ellie laughs, and to Thomas it’s like the sound of ice dripping off the stage roof after a long winter. It was the sound of hope.
She glances at her watch. ‘Oh, good grief. I must get back to the fire station. You’ve made me late.’
Thomas calls after her as she hurries towards the exit. ‘Was it worth it, Ellie Mae Burgess?’
Turning around, she waves the fedora at him. He watches her until she disappears through the glass doors.
Chapter 17
Tippy’s Tickle – 13 September 2001
Rod Fizzard’s boat shed – or ‘store’ as Florie had corrected her – perches on a base of stilts on the edge of the tickle, its red paint faded to a pinkish rust by the assault of the salty North Atlantic wind. ‘It’s what we calls a stage, duck. The shed’s the store, and the wharf and the shed together are the stage. You’ll has to get used to that. People here’ll think you’re some stunned if you calls it a shed.’
The frames of four small square windows – two facing the tickle and two facing the shore – gleam with a coat of fresh white paint, and a wharf, its wood as grey as a winter sky, and stacked with lobster traps and crab pots, leads down from the rocky shore and wraps around the side of the store. A small motorboat is moored to the wharf, and a larger boat – a shiny white streamlined cruiser – is beached on the shore, propped up by three-legged metal stands.
Sophie snaps several photos, then she slides her camera into the back pocket of Ellie’s borrowed jeans. She pushes the sleeves of Florie’s striped cotton sweater up her arms and heads down the hill. As she descends the wooden steps from Kittiwake, the sound of an electric tool filters over to her from the cruiser. ‘Hello?’ she calls out as she approaches the boat. She raises her voice. ‘Hello?’
Rounding the prow of the boat, she spots Emmett on his knees pressing a sander against the boat’s hull. She taps him on his shoulder and he jerks to his feet. Switching off the sander, he pushes his safety glasses up onto his forehead.
‘Hi, Emmett. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was wondering if Sam was here.’
Emmett points at the store. ‘He’s in there.’
‘Thanks very much.’
Nodding, Emmett slides the safety glasses over his eyes.
‘That’s a lovely boat,’ she says, but Emmett is back on his knees, her words swallowed by the whir of the sander.
She heads down the wharf and finds Sam inside the store, frowning over a piece of wood he’s turning on an old electric lathe. She knocks on the doorframe.
Sam looks up. He turns off the lathe and pushes his safety glasses to the top of his head. ‘Well, if it isn’t Princess Grace. I thought you were out picking berries.’
Sophie holds up her purple-stained fingers. ‘We’ve just got back. Becca’s helping Florie make a blueberry pie. You don’t have any white spirit, do you?’
‘You’re definitely a CFA, aren’t you? Just use some salt and lemon juice. That’ll get the stains off your skin.’
‘A what?’
‘A Come From Away. CFA for short. Not from around here.’
‘Well, that’s for sure,’ she says as she wanders into the room. ‘That’s quite a boat out there Emmett’s working on.’
‘We’re fixing it up for an American client over in Salvage. He hit a rock in the harbour and she sprung a leak.’
‘Emmett’s full on with the sanding. It’ll be smooth as a baby’s bottom when it’s done.’
‘You know what they say. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.’
Sophie strolls over to the lathe. ‘Did you find out anything about my flight?’
Sam shakes his head. ‘Nothing yet. The airspace reopened today, but Gander hasn’t been told when the planes can leave yet. Best guess is a couple of days, but it could be as long as a week, with the backlog. Don’t worry, I’ve got a fellow in air traffic control on speed dial.’
‘Thanks.’ She peers out a window to the view of the steeple of St Stephen’s Church glinting in the morning sunshine. ‘I can’t believe I’ll be in New York in a few days. I like the quiet out here. It makes for a change.’
‘It’d bore the socks off someone like you.’
Sophie grunts. Who’s he to judge me? He doesn’t even know me. But what do I care? I don’t care. I really don’t. I’ll be done soon and we’ll be out of each other’s hair.
‘What would I do without Harvey Nichols or Neiman Marcus, right?’ She runs her hand over the smooth curves and valleys of the wood on the lathe. ‘This doesn’t look like it’s for a boat.’
‘It’s not.’ Sam fills a mug with coffee from a coffee machine set up on a table under one of the windows. ‘Coffee? Only black here. No fridge.’
‘No arsenic in it?’
Sam grins. ‘No. It’s safe. Promise.’
He pours out a second mug and hands it to Sophie. She takes a sip, grimacing at its bitterness. She nods at the lathe. ‘What are you making?’
Setting down his mug, Sam strides over to a bulky mound covered by a large Hudson’s Bay point blanket. He pulls off the blanket. Undern
eath, two chairs, contemporary in design but with intricate turned-wood spindles supporting their fanned backs, sit on the battered, wooden-planked floor.
‘Oh, wow. They’re beautiful, Sam. Can I sit?’
‘That’s what they’re for.’
She sits on one of the chairs, tracing the subtle curves of the arms with her fingertips. ‘Aunt Ellie said you made furniture, but I had no idea. These are stunning.’
‘Emmett works on them too, sometimes. He’s the one who got me started.’
‘Where do you sell them?’
‘Tourists in from St John’s mostly. I’ve sent a few pieces off to Toronto and Montreal. Florie puts the pieces in her shop when they’re finished.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s just furniture.’
‘Are you kidding? You could sell pieces like these in New York. Boston. Anywhere. Interior designers and architects would go crazy for this kind of handmade quality.’
‘Sure.’
‘Yes, really, Sam. I’m an architect. I’d love to commission pieces like this for my projects.’
‘You’re an architect?’
‘It’s why I need to get to New York. I have an interview at Richard Niven Architects.’
Sam whistles. ‘Richard Niven? That’s a big name.’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
Sam laughs. ‘You know, we’ve even heard of this band from England called the Beatles out here.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I was a building contractor in Boston before I moved back here with Becca. I’ve heard of Richard Niven.’
Sophie looks over at Sam. ‘Ellie told me you’d been living in Boston. She told me about the accident. About Winny. I’m sorry, Sam. That must have been … that must have been awful.’
Sam rubs his forehead. ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘Yes, it was. I moved here for Becca. It seemed the right thing to do. She loves it here with her grandmother and Florie.’
‘How about you? It can’t be that easy after living in Boston.’
‘Away from the bright lights of the big city, you mean? It was tough at first, but this place … it grows on you. There’s nothing like living up here on the coast, by the sea. It’s, I don’t know, it’s pure. Unspoiled. You get to understand what nature’s all about up here.’
Sophie shrugs. ‘I guess. It seems pretty isolated to me. I mean, it’s a nice place to visit, but, you know, where am I going to get my grande skinny latte?’
Sam laughs. ‘I don’t think being away from a city is bad thing, Princess Grace. It gives a person space to think.’
‘Aunt Ellie said she thought you might be getting restless.’
‘Oh, she did, did she?’ He grunts. ‘Well, I’m not. It’s why I bought the bike. If I need to get away, I just get on it and go out for a ride with the other Chrome Warriors, or head out along the coast on my own.’ He looks at her for a long moment. Picking up the mug, he takes a sip of coffee. ‘You should come out with me. Before you go.’
What! Where did that come from? After the cold shoulder he’s been giving her?
Sophie’s mobile phone buzzes. Setting down her mug, she pulls the phone out of the back pocket of Ellie’s jeans. ‘Sorry, Sam. It’s New York. I’ll just be a minute.’
‘Sure.’
Turning her back on Sam, Sophie ambles over to the window, nodding as she listens to the caller.
‘Yes, fine. Yes, absolutely, Jackie. I understand. He’s leaving for Tokyo when? The nineteenth? Right. He can see me on the eighteenth. Okay. I’ll find a way. Put me in. Two o’clock is perfect. Yes, I understand. I’ll find a way. Thanks for calling.’
She slides the phone back into her pocket and looks at Sam. ‘That was Richard Niven’s office. I’ve got to get back for the interview on the eighteenth or I’m out of the running. I’ve got to get to New York, Sam. My future depends on it.’
Chapter 18
Holkham Beach, Norfolk – 21 June 1941
Setting down her sketchbook and charcoal pencil, Ellie leans back into the yielding warmth of the sand dune. She waves at Dottie who shouts at her as she splashes through the sea with George, Charlie and Thomas. If she tilts her head and squints, she can just manage to obscure the rolls of barbed wire massed along the sands of Holkham Beach.
She closes her eyes and raises her face to the sun. The unseasonal heat beats into her wet skin, evaporating the salty drops, and turns the blackness behind her eyelids a deep crimson with the heat. Somewhere in the tufts of marsh grass between the pine woods and the dunes, a cricket saws out a buzz into the still air.
A shower of droplets, cold like rain, jolts her from her drowsy torpor. Thomas flops onto the sand beside her and picks up the sketchbook.
She struggles to her elbows in the shifting sand and attempts to snatch the sketchbook as he flips through the pages.
‘Give that back.’
‘Hold on a minute. These are good.’
‘They’re nothing. Just some scribbles.’ She grasps the sketchbook, but he jerks it out of her reach.
‘Why can’t I have a look?’
‘I’m not an artist. I was at art school, but I quit after Ruthie … after Ruthie …’
Thomas closes the cover and hands back the sketchbook. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s none of my business. I wish it was.’
Ellie squints at Thomas through the sun’s glare and holds her hand up to shade her eyes. ‘Why do you wish that?’
He leans on his elbow in the dune, sand clinging to his wet arm like a sleeve. His grey eyes sweep over her face. His skin is tanned and his ash-blond hair has turned the colour of wheat from the long days in the sun he’s told her about, laying out barbed wire and wooden fortifications on the Norfolk beaches. Her fingers itch to touch that wheat hair. She folds her fingers into balls and buries them in the sand.
‘Draw me.’
She looks at him. ‘What?’
He picks up the charcoal pencil and holds it out to her. ‘Draw me. I want something of yours. Something just for me.’
‘Really?’
‘If I could draw, I’d draw a hundred pictures of you. But I’m just a fisherman with a rifle and a shovel.’
Opening the sketchbook to a blank page, Ellie takes the pencil from Thomas. Sucking in a deep breath, she wills her hand not to shake. She looks over at him.
‘The sun’s in my eyes.’
‘That’s no good.’ Thomas rises to his feet and holds out his hand. ‘Let’s go around to the shady side of the dune.’
Ellie looks at him. ‘All right.’ She slides her hand into his and he pulls her to her feet.
‘I don’t think the fellows have laid the mines there yet.’
Ellie pulls her hand away. ‘Mines?’ She gapes at the sand and lifts up a bare foot. ‘There are mines on the beach?’
Laughing, Thomas slaps his sand-covered leg. ‘I’m just teasing, maid. Not yet, anyway.’ He waves towards the east. ‘Further down. Near Cromer. There’s lots of beaches closer to Germany than Holkham.’ He grabs hold of Ellie’s hand. ‘C’mon.’
They plod through the soft sand and into the shade of the dune. Across the marsh grass, the towering pines line the shore like a dark green wall, and coils of barbed wire curl along the base of the green line.
Ellie lies against the cool dune and burrows her toes into the sand. ‘It’s a shame about the barbed wire. It’s easier to pretend that life is back to normal when you’re looking at the sea.’
Thomas flops into the sand beside her. ‘I likes it better here. I prefers the view.’
She runs her tongue over her dry lips as she feels the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘Right. So, sit back and just talk. You’re good at that.’
‘What do you want to know, Ellie Mae?’
Ellie raises her eyebrows. ‘My father calls me that. How did you know my middle name is Mary?’
‘You’re a good Catholic girl, aren’t you? I’ve never known a Catholic girl who didn’t have Mary in her name somewhere.’
‘I guess there’s som
e truth in that.’ Holding the pencil poised over the sketchpad, she peers at Thomas’s lean face and draws a line. Another glance and another line. ‘Tell me about Newfoundland. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘I had two brothers and a sister. They died from the Spanish flu the winter of 1918. One after the other. I got sick too, but God must’a taken one look at me and said, Not on your life. You’re not ready to come through the Pearly Gates yet.’
‘I’m sorry, Thomas.’
‘I was only three. I only knows about them because of the three little crosses with their names in St Stephen’s Cemetery and what my mam told me once when I asked her about them.’ He holds up three fingers and counts them off. ‘Elizabeth Mary, Ephraim Paul and Alphonsus William.’
Ellie flicks her eyes over Thomas’s face as he stares at the line of trees. A gust ruffles his hair.
‘What about your parents? How did they feel about you joining the army?’
‘They didn’t like it one bit, and that’s the truth.’ Thomas clears his throat. ‘Did you ever hear about the Battle of the Somme?’
‘Of course. It was a horrible battle in the last war. Thousands were killed.’
‘Seven hundred and eighty fellas from the Newfoundland Regiment went over the top at Beaumont Hamel on July 1st 1916. In the middle of No Man’s Land there was a burnt-out tree they called the Danger Tree. Most of the fellas fell at the tree.’
Thomas clears his throat and presses his fingers over his eyes. ‘Three of my uncles died there that day. The next day only sixty-eight men answered the roll call. Dad was one of them.’ Thomas looks over at Ellie. ‘Mam says he turned to drink after that.’
Ellie sets down her pencil and takes hold of Thomas’s hand.
He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘The king renamed the regiment the Royal Newfoundland Regiment after Beaumont Hamel.’ He shrugs. ‘I guess that’s supposed to be some kind of compensation.’
‘I’m so sorry, Thomas.’
‘When I signed up, Dad went out in his boat. Said he wouldn’t come back till I was gone.’
Ellie looks at Thomas, at his strong, angular profile outlined against the blue sky. ‘My father was in the Royal Horse Artillery. He was gassed somewhere. Mustard gas. He won’t talk about it. His lungs have never been the same.’
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