Where you at, Becca? Didn’t I tell you to watch out for those little people? They goes after children like you. They wants you as their own, you see. You wouldn’t’ve heard them singin’, so they must’a showed themselves to you. I told you not to follows them, didn’t I, Becca? Why’d you follow them? You didn’t even takes the bun with you to keep them away. You has to keep some bread on you, maid, or they’ll come after you.
Dropping to his knees, Emmett clasps his hands and looks up through the branches to the patch of blue sky above. Holy God, I knows the fairies are your angels fell from Heaven. Can you have a word in their ear, God? Tells the little people not to hurt Becca? Keep her safe, will you, God? Help us find her. Please, Holy God. Please.
***
When Sophie and Sam reach the clearing in the woods, they find Emmett sitting on a fallen log by the brook, his head in his hands, Rupert curled on the moss by his feet. Sam stomps through the long, dry grass towards him. Emmett looks up as they approach, his cheeks wet under his dishevelled grey hair. His faded blue gaberdine jacket is turned inside out and he holds one of Florie’s currant buns, the crumbs dusting the grass at his feet. The dog lumbers to its feet and saunters though the meadow grass towards Sam.
‘I’m so sorry, Sam, b’y.’ Emmett shakes his head. ‘I found me a good patch of partridgeberries over there.’ He points to a stand of bushes dotted with crimson berries. ‘I thought Becca was right behind me. Then Rupert starts barkin’ and fussin’, and then the next thing I knows she’s gone.’
Sam grasps the collar of Emmett’s jacket and hauls him to his feet. ‘Where was she the last time you saw her?’
Emmett points towards a clump of orange hawkweed near a stand of silver birches that border a dense wall of larches and thick-branched conifers. ‘Just there. She said she was pickin’ some flowers for her.’ Emmett jabs his finger at Sophie. ‘I’s looked everywhere, Sam. Been through the woods, alls the way down to Joe Gill’s field where he keeps that old horse.’
‘You couldn’t have looked everywhere or you’d have found her.’ Sam pulls his phone out of his back pocket and taps out a number. ‘Ace? Becca’s gone missing out by Pickersgill’s Woods. Get the boys together. Get here as soon as you can.’
‘It’s the fairies, Sam,’ Emmett says as he wipes at his wet face with his handkerchief. ‘The fairies musta taken her, just like they took that child down in Colinet all those years ago.’
***
Sophie picks her way through the bushes under the grasping branches of the larches. She calls out Becca’s name, even though she knows it’s fruitless. Becca could be just out of sight, around the next rock or fir tree, but she’d never hear the call.
Rupert lumbers past her, his muscular body and giant webbed feet smashing a path through the undergrowth. ‘Good boy, Rupert. Find Becca. You can do it.’
She follows Rupert through the scrub. How is it possible that she’s only been in Tippy’s Tickle for three days? The place has taken hold of her. She already feels closer to these islanders than any of the people she’s worked with for years. A fear grows inside of her. Bad things can’t possibly happen here. Not in this place. Not with these people. Her people.
‘Becca! Becca!’ she screams into the forest. She can’t stop herself.
After a few minutes the scrubby larches thin out and give way to a carpet of moss and green rootless liverworts where the branches of the firs and the spruce trees form an umbrella over the forest floor. A silence as thick as the moss engulfs her, broken only by the panting of the dog and the thud of its feet as it lopes deeper into the forest. The firs close around her like an enemy army. She squints into the shadows.
‘Rupert! Wait! Come back!’ She turns her ear in the direction Rupert has disappeared, but the forest has swallowed him just as it has swallowed Becca. ‘Rupert! Come here!’ But the dog is gone.
She stands on the moss, peering into the darkening forest. If she continues, she’ll get lost too. Becca. Becca. Where are you? She presses her hands to the top of her head and yells.
‘Becca! Rupert!’
The forest swallows her cries, smothering them in its velvet darkness. Her shoulders dropping in defeat, she turns and stumbles back to the clearing, following the path the dog’s huge paws have forged through the underbrush.
***
Florie enters the kitchen from the hall. ‘Any news yet?’
‘No, Florie,’ Ace says. ‘Sam’s still out with Zeb and Lloyd. Thor and I’s gotta get back to Wesleyville. We’ll come back tomorrow if we needs to. Just get Sam to call me.’ He pokes his brother on his shoulder. ‘C’mon, b’y. Sooner we go, sooner we can come back.’
Sophie watches the screen door slam behind them. Florie plods over to the coffee pot and pours herself a cup of coffee and joins Sophie at the kitchen table. Out by the tickle the motorcycles roar to life.
‘Finally gots Ellie asleep,’ Florie says as she yawns and rubs her eyes. ‘She’s right upset. Blames herself. Said it was a school day and she should never have let Emmy take Becca out.’
Sophie sets down her mug. ‘Emmett’s inconsolable. He’s locked himself in the store.’
‘That’s no place for him. He should be out there with the others lookin’ for her.’
Sophie sits back in her chair. She hadn’t wanted to say anything, but she couldn’t hold it any longer. The thought had been niggling at her all evening.
‘Florie, Emmett’s … okay, isn’t he?’
Florie jerks her head up. ‘What do you means by that?’
Sophie shifts in the chair. ‘I … I’m sorry, Florie. I just … He’d never do anything, would he?’
‘Are you saying he did something to Becca?’
‘No. Of course not. I just …’ Sophie presses her fingers against her temples. Bloody hell. Bloody hell. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was out of line. It’s just that—’
Florie pushes her chair away from the table with a loud scrape. She picks up four empty mugs and takes them over to the sink. ‘Those kinds of things might happen in the cities, but not out in these parts. Becca’s just wandered off, mark my words.’
Sophie nods. ‘Right. No doubt you’re absolutely right.’ Please God. Let her be right.
Chapter 26
Norwich, England – 14 March 1942
‘I hardly recognised you, maid. I was startin’ to think you slept in your uniform.’
Flashing Thomas a winning smile, Ellie brushes her hands against the full skirt of her jade-green tea dress. ‘I wasn’t working today, so I had a chance to wear something pretty for a change. Do you like it?’ She glances over at George, who is leaning against the bandstand beside her, rubbing his glasses with a handkerchief. ‘George hasn’t said a word.’
‘Well, then, George is blind as a bat.’ He holds out a hand. ‘You can’t pass up the chance of dance for St Patrick’s Day.’
‘I’m going to have a dance with Thomas, George.’
Thomas extends his hand. ‘Good to see you, b’y. Better put those glasses on before someone steals Ellie away while you’re not lookin’.’
George smiles lamely and shakes Thomas’s hand. ‘Hello, Tom. Ellie can dance with anyone she likes.’ He pats her clumsily on her shoulder. ‘She’s my girl.’
Charlie Murphy breaks through the crowd, ale sloshing over the tops of the two pint glasses he’s carrying. ‘Here you goes, b’y,’ he says as he thrusts a glass at Thomas.
‘Give it to George, b’y. I’m busy.’ He leads Ellie into the heaving sea of party-goers swinging to the band’s rendition of the latest Glenn Miller hit, ‘A String of Pearls’.
Charlie hands George the ale. ‘Down the hatch, b’y. Your shout next.’
George readjusts his glasses. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’ Taking a swig of the ale, he considers Ellie and Thomas swinging along to the bouncy tune. ‘Tom’s a good dancer.’
Charlie focuses on the laughing couple. ‘They gets on, those two.’ He gulps down half his beer and wi
pes his mouth with the back of his uniform sleeve. ‘You don’t suppose anythin’s goin’ on with them, does you?’
George’s head snaps around. ‘Why should I think that?’
Charlie pats the padded shoulder of George’s brown tweed jacket. ‘Calm down, b’y. You gots a face on you like a hen’s arse in the northwest winds. All’s I’m sayin’ is I’d keeps my eye on them, if I was in your shoes. I told you before that Tom’s a charmer.’ He leans closer to George. ‘He’s been comin’ up to Norwich every chance he gets. He’s got himself on the supply run with the QM every Thursday.’ Charlie takes another swig of beer. ‘He’s a sly one, is our Tommy. Gets him outta a day of trainin’ or diggin’ fortifications up on the coast. Since we got changed to the 166th Newfoundland Field Regiment in November, they’ve kept us as busy as a bayman with two chainsaws.’
George eyes Charlie’s flushed face. Come to think of it, Ellie had been a bit off this past month, he thinks. Even the chocolates he’d brought her for Valentine’s hadn’t done much to thaw out her mood. He’d put it down to her extra workload at the fire station. She was there all hours now, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what kept her so busy. There hadn’t been an air raid for months. They hadn’t been to their Friday night film in weeks except for once, and even then she’d wanted to get home early instead of stopping at the Coach and Horses for a glass.
Charlie downs the last of this beer. ‘G’wan, b’y. I’ll be three down before you finishes yours.’
George eyes Thomas and Ellie, bouncing amongst the GIs and local girls to ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’. He gulps the beer and hands the empty glass to Charlie. Fishing a handful of coins out of his pocket, he drops them into Charlie’s hand. ‘My shout.’
Charlie tips a salute and ducks into the crowd. George sweeps his eyes around the bobbing heads of the dancers, but Ellie’s shining blonde head and the tall Newfoundlander are nowhere to be seen.
***
George shoves his empty beer glass at Charlie.
‘Hold on, b’y,’ Charlie says. ‘Where you off to?’
‘I’m going to find Ellie.’
‘She’s probably just gone to the Ladies’.’
George squints at Charlie through his glasses. ‘With Tom?’
Charlie chuckles over the top of his beer glass. ‘I expect we would’a heard screams in that case.’
‘Where do you think he is, then?’ George’s tongue is thick in his mouth, and the words come out fat and slurred. ‘They’ve been gone for the past half hour.’ George taps on his watch. ‘Since ten twenty-three. I’ve been keeping an eye out, like you said.’
Charlie pats George on his shoulder. ‘Me and my big mouth. C’mon, b’y, They probably just went to get some air. It’s hotter’n the insides of a bibby in here. I’m used to choppin’ ice off the privy round St Paddy’s Day back home.’
George thrusts away Charlie’s hand. ‘I’m going to go and find them.’
Charlie watches George barrel through the jitterbugging dancers. ‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph.’ Gulping down his beer, he sets the glass down on the bandstand and heads after him.
***
‘I’ve missed you, Ellie Mae.’ Thomas wraps his arms around Ellie in the alley behind the Samson and Hercules.
‘It’s only been two days, Thomas.’
‘Half an hour in Plantation Garden is enough to be a torture, maid.’
Ellie loops her hand around his neck and pulls his mouth to her lips, pressing her body into his.
Sighing happily, she looks up at him, cupping his face with her hands. ‘Where did you come from, Thomas Parsons?’
‘From your dreams, Ellie Mae Burgess.’
‘I never imagined anyone like you in my wildest dreams.’
Thomas traces the contours of her face with his fingertip. ‘You never drew a picture of your true love? With lots of hearts and cupids, like I’ve seen the girls back home do? You’re an artist, aren’t you?’
‘I wasn’t a silly girl like that. But, Ruthie, now she was always in love with the latest movie star. Tyrone Power was her favourite. Anyway, I can’t draw from my imagination. I need to see what I’m drawing.’ She shrugs, her naked shoulders a soft white in the dull night light. ‘Sister Mary Geraldine told me once that I’m just a copyist. You never forget the people who tell you things like that.’
Thomas rubs his chin, drawing his eyebrows together in a frown.
‘Thomas? What’s the matter?’
‘You’re Catholic, Ellie Mae. Most everyone up on my part of the coast is Protestant. The Irish are all down around the south coast of Newfoundland, and from places like Ship Harbour where Charlie’s from and up on Fogo. My mam—’ Smiling, he pulls her closer. ‘My mam always warned me about Catholic girls.’
‘Your mother needs to broaden her point of view. Anyway, I’m just an adequate artist. I’m nothing special.’
Thomas’s eyes narrow. ‘Don’t you be talkin’ yourself down, Ellie Mae. You’ve got a fine talent. That Sister Mary Geraldine was full of baloney. Why haven’t I seen you draw anythin’ since we were at Holkham?’
Ellie rests her head against the khaki wool of Thomas’s uniform. His heart beats steadily under her ear. ‘It just seemed … frivolous, I suppose. Art was everything to me once. Then after Ruthie …’ She sighs, her breath puffing into the cool air like a small cloud.
Thomas rubs her back and whispers into her ear. ‘Promise me you’ll keep drawin’, m’ love. It’s part of you. Don’t you forget it.’
A clatter of tin as a rubbish bin crashes onto the cobbled alley. ‘Ellie!’ A slurred voice. ‘Ellie! What’s going on?’
Ellie and Thomas jolt apart. ‘George?’
‘You remember me, don’t you?’ George thumps his chest, throwing himself off balance. ‘I’m your fiancé.’
Charlie takes hold of George’s arm. ‘Steady on, b’y. Jaysus, you only had two beers. You definitely don’t have any Newfoundland blood in you.’
Shoving Charlie away, George walks unsteadily up the hill towards the couple. ‘Let’s go, Ellie. Charlie warned me about Tom. I won’t blame you.’
Ellie crosses her arms, shivering as the winter chill settles into her body. ‘Blame me for what, George? For wanting to be with someone who makes me feel special? Who treats me like a woman, instead of like some … some schoolmate? I’ll be twenty in September. I’m a woman, George, not that you’ve noticed.’
‘That’s not true, Ellie. I’ve noticed.’
‘You’ve a funny way of showing it.’
George flicks his gaze between Ellie and Thomas. ‘I gave you chocolates for Valentine’s. They were a week’s wages.’
‘Only after Dottie reminded you. And what about last year? You gave me a heart-shaped pencil rubber. What was I supposed to do with that?’
Charlie chuckles. ‘Oh, Georgie, b’y.’
George reaches out and tugs Ellie’s hand. ‘Come on, Ellie. I’ll bring you home. I’ve had enough of tonight.’
‘I’d let her go, if I were you, b’y.’ A nerve ticks in Thomas’s cheek.
George releases Ellie’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie,’ he says, pressing his fingertips against his forehead. ‘I love you. I’ve always loved you.’
‘You never said it, George. I waited for it. I waited for it for years. Now, it’s too late. Love is a hungry thing. If you don’t feed it, it withers and dies. Ours died.’
Chapter 27
Tippy’s Tickle – 15 September 2001
Sophie raises the collar of Florie’s yellow raincoat and pulls it close around her neck. The rain pelts steadily onto the umbrella she’s pulled out of Ellie’s umbrella stand, the printed scene of Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge a feeble barrier against the downpour. She strains to listen for voices, or footsteps, anything, from her vigil on Ellie’s porch.
Then, a dog’s bark, and Rupert’s dark bulk emerges from the black night. Then Sam, and, in his arms, Becca.
Sam climbs the steps with the sl
eeping girl, the dog pounding up the steps behind him. He stops before Sophie. ‘You waited.’
‘Yes, of course. Is she okay?’
‘She’s fine. I found her hiding under a rock outcrop at the bottom of the cliff. Rupert brought me to her. She was about a half mile away from the clearing.’
Sophie opens the screen door and follows Sam and the dog into the kitchen. ‘A half mile away? How did she get there?’
‘Fairies.’
‘What?’
‘She said she followed a beautiful fairy on a red pony.’
‘She has a lively imagination.’
Sam grunts. ‘Emmett’s been feeding her nonsense. I’m going to put a stop to it tomorrow.’
‘She’s okay otherwise?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. But all she could tell me about were fairies.’
‘Sam, it might be my fault.’
Sam stops in the doorway to the hall, Becca curled against his leather jacket. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I read her a fairy story from an old Enid Blyton book I found in the living room the other day. She … she seemed to love it. The Fairy Queen especially.’
Sam shakes his head and smiles. ‘Thanks for reading her the story, Princess Grace. You’re obviously a good storyteller. She said the fairy looked like you.’
Sophie grunts. ‘You said she followed a beautiful fairy.’
Sam grins, his dark eyes warm. ‘Like I said, Princess Grace. She said the fairy looked just like you.’
***
Sam brushes the hair from Becca’s forehead and leans over the bed to give the sleeping girl a kiss. So much like her mother. So much like Winny.
You gave me a real fright tonight, Becca-bug. There was a moment there when I thought … No, he isn’t going to go there. He can’t go there again.
He sits on the end of the bed and closes his eyes. Weariness drags at his body. Pressing his fingers against his eyes, he yawns. I wish you were here, Winny. This would never have happened if you’d been here.
The English Wife Page 14