Ellie nods. ‘Marriage isn’t for everyone, I suppose. With Thomas there was never any question, once I’d got my head around leaving Britain. He proposed to me in a medieval tower in Norwich, did you know that? He gave me a lovely Art Deco ring. I don’t know whatever happened to it. I lost it years ago with my wedding band.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Yes. I would have loved to have given them to Becca.’ Ellie flips over the page in her drawing pad and begins on a view out to sea. ‘You could have made an art career, Sophie. Many people do.’
Sophie shrugs. ‘Maybe. The idea just faded away. I didn’t want to be a doctor or a solicitor, but since I could draw, Mum and I agreed on architecture. The only problem was that I was terrible at calculus, and I needed it to study architecture. Poor Dad. I think I drained his bank account with all the summer calculus courses and tutors Mum made him pay for. I finally scraped through and got accepted to the University of Manchester to study architecture.’
‘Did that work for you? Did you enjoy it?’
‘It was fine. I worked hard and I did like parts of it quite a lot. The more creative elements. I graduated with first-class honours, found a good entry-level job in London and made my way up to senior architect at the firm. I went out on my own when I turned thirty. Six years ago I won the tender to design the Millennium Pavilion. It received a lot of publicity, and I had a call from a headhunting firm about a position at a leading architecture practice in New York. That’s where I was headed for an interview when my plane was diverted to Gander.’ She opens up her arms. ‘And, now, here I am.’
‘My heavens, Sophie! You’ve been busy. And you’re happy?’
‘I can’t complain.’
Ellie raises an eyebrow. ‘You can’t complain?’
‘No, I mean. Yes. I’m happy.’
Ellie nods. ‘Good. It’s important to be happy. Or, content, at least. I’m not sure I ever found out what happiness is.’
‘But weren’t you happy when you came to Newfoundland? Mum seemed to think you’d run off to dance through daisy fields here with your husband and your baby.’
Ellie laughs, the sound warm and husky. ‘Dancing through daisy fields? I certainly can’t imagine Emmy doing that!’
‘I heard her say that to Dad once when she was having a turn.’
Ellie sighs as she tucks a strand of hair the wind has caught behind her ear. ‘If Dottie only knew. It was very hard. There were times when I wanted to run away and take the first boat back home with Emmy. Thomas’s mother and I didn’t get on. She made my life a misery. But, I had no money to return to England even if I’d wanted to. And I loved Thomas. He was a good man.’
Ellie turns over another page and shifts on the bench to face a view of the village houses clustered along the coast. ‘I fell pregnant with Winny, and I knew then that I’d never leave. After Thomas died …’ She looks out to the sea and sighs. ‘After Thomas died, life just went on. One day after another, one year after another. And, me, always wishing I could go home. Then, when I was forty-four, Florie careered into my life, and I realised that this place, this rock of an island, is my home. And I’ve been content.’
She smiles at Sophie, her blue-grey eyes the colour of the ocean beyond her. ‘Now that you’re here, Sophie, my family’s complete. I might even say I’m happy.’
***
‘There, Becca, duckie,’ Florie says as she sets a loaf of bread and a grater on the wooden table, ‘climb on a chair and start grating some breadcrumbs for the meatballs.’
‘What are you making?’ Sophie asks as she pockets her mobile phone. ‘Can I help?’
‘Sure, thing, duck. Spaghetti and meatballs tonight. Meat’s in the fridge. Everythin’ else’s in the pantry.’
‘Righto’ Sophie heads through the door into the small pantry. Spaghetti and meatballs. How hard can it be? Boil up some spaghetti, heat up some sauce and fry up some meatballs.
She returns to the kitchen with a package of spaghetti. ‘I’ve found the spaghetti but there doesn’t seem to be any sauce.’
Florie laughs as she spoons blueberry pudding batter into a ceramic pudding bowl. ‘There won’t be, maid. We makes it from scratch here.’
Sophie’s face falls. ‘From scratch?’
Florie peers over at Sophie and grins. ‘Don’t get in a hobble about it, duck.’
The screen door swings open and Sam strolls into the kitchen, Rupert at his heels. He heads over to Becca and kisses her on her head. ‘What’s Princess Grace in a hobble about?’
‘I’m supposed to make spaghetti and meatballs and I haven’t got a clue how.’
Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘You don’t know how to make spaghetti and meatballs?’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t cook. I usually pick up something at Marks and Spencer or grab a pizza at Pizza Express.’
‘Did you hear that, Becca-bug?’ Sam signs. ‘I think we need to teach Sophie how to make spaghetti and meatballs, don’t you think?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
Florie secures a piece of wax paper over the pudding bowl with a large elastic band and sets the bowl in a pot of boiling water. ‘Right. Hopes you like blueberry duff, Sophie. Was my Auntie Gladys’s recipe from down on the Burin Peninsula.’ She wipes her hands on a tea towel and heads to the door. ‘Ellie’s havin’ her nap, Sam. I’m off to feed the dogs. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll call by Emmy on the way back, tell him supper’s ready.’
Sam hangs his jean jacket over the back of a chair and rubs his hands. ‘Right, Princess Grace. Come with me.’
She follows him into the pantry. ‘I didn’t even know people still made their own spaghetti sauce. Why would you want to do that when you can just buy it in a jar and heat it up?’
‘Once you taste Becca’s and mine, you’ll never buy store-bought again.’
‘I never actually buy store-bought sauce. There’s a brilliant little Italian place on the King’s Road where I can call in an order from work and pick it up on the way home.’
Sam tosses a large onion and a head of garlic at Sophie. ‘I’m warning you, Princess Grace. Once you eat ours, you’ll never want to eat anyone else’s spaghetti and meatballs.’ He grabs a punnet of tomatoes off the shelf and several jars of dried herbs. ‘Grab that olive oil, will you?’
Sophie takes a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil off the shelf and follows Sam back into the kitchen. ‘What now?’
Sam hands her a wooden cutting board. ‘Chop up the onion and three cloves of garlic nice and fine. I’ll get the ground meat and an egg and we’ll mix it all together with Becca’s breadcrumbs.’ He pats Becca’s head. ‘That’s enough breadcrumbs, honey,’ he signs. ‘We’ll soon have enough to stuff the Thanksgiving turkey. Find Florie’s big bowl and dump them in there.’
Sophie looks up from the lumpy bits of chopped onion and wipes at the tears welling up in her eyes. She watches Sam boil an electric kettle and pour the boiling water into a large pot on the stove with a handful of salt, then move around the kitchen and Rupert’s panting body, gathering, mixing and chopping ingredients for the spaghetti sauce with his daughter. She’s never had a boyfriend who’d cooked. She’s never had a boyfriend who’d had a child, either. She likes it.
Hold on, Sophie. Why are you thinking about boyfriends? You don’t even like this guy. He’s bloody irritating.
Sam sets a plate down on the table. ‘Right, Princess Grace. Meatball time. Let’s show her how it’s done, Becca.’
Becca pushes the large bowl into the centre of the table and dumps the breadcrumbs over the ground meat. She holds up an egg to Sophie and cracks it perfectly in two on the rim of the bowl.
‘Add the garlic and the onion,’ Sam instructs Sophie, gesturing to the bowl. He sprinkles in dried sage, basil, thyme and marjoram. ‘Salt and pepper, Becca.’ She grinds in the pepper and salt from two shakers shaped like sailors.
‘What next, Becca-bug?’
Becca holds up a spoon and, scooping out a spoonful of meatball
mix, she rolls it into a perfect ball and drops it onto the plate.
Sophie smiles. ‘Well, Bob’s your uncle, Becca!’
Becca looks up at her father and signs, ‘What?’
‘She wants to know what Bob’s your uncle means,’ Sam says.
‘Oh, right. Uh. It means, “There you go”.’
Sam nods. ‘Bob’s your uncle. You learn something every day. Wait till I tell Florie that one.’ He hands Sophie a spoon. ‘I need two dozen perfect meatballs. Bob’s your uncle.’
Sophie watches Sam skirt around Rupert and head back to the stove.
Yes, she likes it. She likes it a lot.
Chapter 22
Norwich, England – 7 December 1941
‘Come in here, George. Ellie’s still getting ready.’
George shucks off his shoe rubbers and hangs his coat and scarf on the hallway coat stand. A melody of something vaguely familiar tinkles from the piano in the drawing room. Entering the room, he heads over to Dottie, who is frowning over the piano keyboard as her fingers fly over the keys. She shifts over on the bench without looking up and he sits down beside her, turning the pages of the sheet music when she nods at it with her chin.
Dottie taps out the final notes, as pure as crystal, and sits back on the bench.
‘That was lovely, Dottie,’ George says. ‘What was that?’
Dottie rolls her eyes. ‘Debussy, of course. ‘Clair de Lune’. I’m practising it for my Grade 6 piano exam. I’m going to be a concert pianist.’
‘I thought you were going to be an actress? You told me you wanted to be the next Gene Tierney just this summer.’
Dottie shakes her head impatiently, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. ‘That was ages ago. I mean, I still like acting. I’m auditioning for the role of Cecily in The Importance of Being Earnest for the Easter play at school. Did Ellie tell you? I’m up against Beatrice McCormack.’ She makes a face. ‘I’m sure I’ll get it. I’m much more talented than she is.’
A cough and a clearing of a throat. ‘That’s not a very charitable attitude, Dottie.’ Picking up the Eastern Evening News, Henry Burgess settles into his favourite overstuffed armchair with a sigh and rests his feet on the matching ottoman.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy.’ Dottie shrugs, the lace collar of her blouse rising and falling. ‘But it’s true.’ She looks sideways at George and smiles. ‘You think I’m a good actress, George, don’t you?’
‘You are indeed, Dottie. Your Viola was the best I’ve ever seen.’
A slender tortoiseshell cat pads into the room and leaps onto Henry’s corduroy-clad legs, settling in the groove between his knees. ‘I hadn’t taken you for an expert on Twelfth Night, George.’
‘No, sir. I’m not. I’ve only seen it the once at the school.’
‘Flattery corrupts both the receiver and the giver, George.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘That wasn’t me, by the way. That was Edmund Burke.’
‘Edmund Burke, sir?’
Henry coughs. ‘Never mind, George.’
George turns back to Dottie. ‘I’m sorry, Dottie. I shouldn’t have flattered you. Though your Viola was really very good.’
‘I know I was very good.’ Dottie spins around and wiggles her fingers in the air over the piano keys. ‘What would you like me to play? Ellie told me you like ‘Tangerine’. I’ve been practising. I found the sheet music at Bonds.’
The newspaper rustles. ‘Thank you for the shilling, Poppy,’ Henry says behind the paper.
Dottie looks at George and rolls her eyes again. ‘Thank you for the shilling, Poppy.’
Henry surveys his daughter over the top of his glasses. ‘Don’t play it just now, Dottie. I’m late for the news. Turn on the wireless, will you?’
Dottie expels a dramatic sigh as she slumps off the bench. She fiddles with the wireless knob until Alvar Liddell’s authoritative voice transmits into the room.
‘… with air attacks on United States naval bases in the Pacific. Fresh reports are coming in every minute.’
Ellie flies into the room, shrugging into her tweed winter coat. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, George. There wasn’t much hot water—’
‘Sssh.’ Henry holds up his hand.
‘What is it?’
He points to the wireless.
‘… Japan has announced a formal declaration of war against both the United States and Britain.’
Ellie stares at the wireless as the newsreader reports on the bombing in the Hawaiian Islands. When the announcement is over, Ellie looks at her father. ‘What’s going to happen now, Poppy?’
‘The Americans are going to join in.’ Henry grunts as he rustles his newspaper. ‘About time.’
‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it, sir?’
‘It’s a very good thing, George.’ Henry clears his throat and suppresses a cough. ‘I only wish they’d offered the hand of help two years ago. Then this bloody war might be over by now.’
‘Poppy!’ Dottie and Ellie look at each other wide-eyed at their father’s uncharacteristic expletive.
‘Sorry, girls.’ Henry buries himself behind the paper. ‘If they’d joined in earlier, this blasted war might be over by now.’
***
Ellie wipes at the foggy window of the bus with her gloved hand. Outside, rain spatters the window with a persistent drizzle as the bus rumbles past the Victorian mass of Mcklintock’s Chocolates and the air raid shelter that has been dug into the lawn of Chapelfield Gardens. As the bus sweeps around the roundabout, the black bulk of St John’s Cathedral rises into the lowering grey night sky, not a chink of light seeping from the stained-glass windows.
‘Do you think Americans will be stationed in Norfolk, George?’
‘No doubt, Ellie. We have a lot of air bases here.’
‘When do you think they’ll be over?’
‘I expect they’ll start coming over in a couple of months.’
The bus turns right, through the ruins of the medieval city wall, onto St Benedict’s Street. ‘We’ll probably get bombed more once they’re here,’ Ellie says.
‘Possibly.’
‘It’s been awfully quiet since the summer. It’s eerie. It’s like waiting for a storm to hit.’
George rests his hand over hers. ‘Don’t worry, Ellie. The sirens are working properly now, and there are plenty of shelters around the city.’ He shifts in his seat, frowning at her behind his tortoiseshell glasses. ‘You really must speak to your father about building an Anderson shelter behind the headmaster’s house. I don’t like that you have to run across the quad to get to the shelter with all the boys.’
‘I have, George.’ She slides her gloved hand out from underneath George’s. The window has fogged up again, and Ellie idly draws a heart in the film. ‘He feels it’s his duty to be with the boys when there’s a raid. Most of the time Dottie and I go down to the cellar. I’ve set us up some cots down there.’ She draws an arrow through the heart and an ‘E +’, hovering over the empty space where she should write ‘G’. She wipes her hand through the heart.
‘I haven’t seen Thomas or Charlie at Samson’s or the Lido for a while.’
‘I bumped into Charlie at the Coach and Horses at lunchtime the other day,’ George says. ‘He was having a pint with a few of his mates. They were in town picking up some supplies.’
‘Was Thomas with them?’ Ellie asks, trying to sound casual.
‘No, now that you mention it.’ George grins and nudges Ellie’s shoulder. ‘You’re not soft on him are you?’
Ellie looks sharply at George. ‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly.’
‘Don’t be cross, Ellie. I’m only teasing. I know you’re my girl.’
Ellie sweeps her eyes over George’s benign face, the warm brown eyes like those of a faithful dog, the round cheeks and neatly combed black hair slick with brilliantine. Not handsome exactly, but presentable. He’d make any girl a perfectly fine husband.
�
�When are we going to get married, George?’
George’s eyebrows shoot up above his glasses. ‘What?’
Ellie drums her wool-clad fingers on the window. ‘When are we going to get married? I don’t see why we need to wait.’
‘After the war is over. That’s what we’ve always said. When things are back to normal.’ George squints at Ellie through his glasses. ‘Why do you want to get married all of a sudden?’
Ellie fiddles with a loose thread of wool on her glove. ‘This war could go on for years. And who’s to say we’re going to win?’
George sits back against the seat. ‘Of course we’re going to win.’
A silence descends between them, broken only by the thrum of the bus’s engine and the murmuring of the other passengers.
Ellie reaches across George and pulls the cord. The bell dings. George rises and stomps down the aisle to the exit. Ellie hurries after him as he steps off the bus.
‘Aren’t you going to wait for me?’
Pausing on the pavement, he offers his arm to Ellie. She loops her hand around his elbow, quickening her pace to keep up with him as he strides towards the Electric Cinema. They join the queue for tickets for That Hamilton Woman.
‘I’m sorry, George. I shouldn’t have said that. It was silly. Of course we’re going to win.’
Chapter 23
Tippy’s Tickle – 15 September 2001
Sophie sets down the jug of maple syrup and slices into the stack of blueberry pancakes. She takes a bite and nods appreciatively at Florie, who is busy stacking several pancakes onto Becca’s plate.
‘These are amazing, Florie. I’ve never tasted anything like them. And those blueberries—’ she licks a drop of maple syrup off her lip ‘—I never knew blueberries tasted like purple heaven until I came here. If I stay much longer, I’ll be as fat as a house.’
‘Newfoundland blueberries is the best in the world, duck. We gots chefs all the way from Toronto sendin’ folks up here for blueberries for their fancy restaurants. They gots to buy them from middlemen in St John’s. No one’ll tell them where to find them. Everyone here’s got their secret places.’
The English Wife Page 12