‘Don’t be silly, Sam,’ Ellie says as she pours out several cups of tea. ‘It’s not that late. We’ll put her in the attic room. She loves it up there.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Yes, don’t be silly.’ Ellie looks over at Emmett who is tightening the guitar strings. ‘Emmy, play the ‘St John’s Waltz’. I love that one.’
Emmett nods and, strumming out the first lilting chords, begins to sing the ballad in a strong, melodic voice.
Sam holds out his hand to Sophie. ‘Let’s have a go, then, maid.’
Sophie stares at his hand. Nodding, she slips her hand into his. ‘All right.’
He leads her onto the floor and takes her into his embrace. She closes her eyes and leans into him, letting the warmth of his body and the lilting song dissolve her hesitation.
‘Are you having a good time, Princess Grace?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. I’m having a wonderful time.’
‘Best kind.’ Pulling her closer, he leans his cheek against hers as they dance to Emmett’s warm tenor singing out the words of the waltz.
Chapter 42
London, England – 28 December 1943
The thunder of the ack-ack guns on Clapham Common fills the night air, like the harbinger of a storm encroaching on the city. Ellie and Thomas turn left under the rail bridge and head down Balham High Road. At the greengrocer’s they dodge across the street and hurry between the tall brick pillars flanking the driveway into Du Cane Court. The hulking shape of the Art Deco building obliterates the sky, its presence only hinted at by the clouds reflected in the moonlit windows.
Ellie follows Thomas through the revolving doors into an elegant marble-tiled lobby. They skirt around the fat black columns uplighting the white ceiling and head towards the lift. The building manager, looking dapper in a brown double-breasted suit, lurks behind the sweeping black lacquered reception desk. A microphone is in his left hand and his face is puckered with annoyance.
‘Excuse me?’ he says, covering the microphone with his hand. ‘May I help you?’
Thomas heads over to the desk and extends his hand. ‘Hello, there. Is Reg off tonight, then?’
The building manager raises an arched eyebrow. ‘Am I meant to know who you are?’ He sweeps his eyes over Ellie’s feathered fedora and the tweed coat she has obviously remade from a man’s overcoat.
‘I’m Frank Edwards’s cousin. Twice removed, or somethin’ like that. Over from Newfoundland.’ Thomas holds up a key. ‘He’s lettin’ us use his flat for a couple of days while I’m on leave.’
Ellie peels off a leather glove and holds up her left hand. A thin gold band shines on her ring finger on top of her engagement ring. ‘It’s our honeymoon.’
The manager holds up a slender finger and leans into the microphone, which is connected by a thin wire cord to the building’s integrated wireless system. ‘Du Cane Court calling! Du Cane Court calling! A flat on the second floor in H block has the light on, and the blackout curtains are not drawn.’
The lift dings and the door slides open. A young, dark-haired woman in a black raincoat and a headscarf tied under her chin steps out into the lobby.
‘Good evening, Miss Freeman,’ the manager says as the young woman walks by, her shoes clicking on the terrazzo floor. ‘Isn’t it rather late to be going out?’
‘Good evening, Mr Jackson,’ she calls over her shoulder as she heads out the revolving door. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
The manager clears his throat and looks at Thomas. ‘You have a marriage licence, I assume?’
‘Why’s it I knew you’d ask me that?’ Thomas unzips his leather satchel and removes a folded piece of paper. ‘Here you goes. Signed, sealed and delivered, fresh from Wandsworth Registry Office.’
The man scans the document and sniffs. ‘Indeed,’ he says, handing back the document. He waves Thomas and Ellie to the lift and leans into the microphone. ‘A reminder that Mrs Waring will be reading from her new book of poetry, Tea Leaves Tell the Tale, tomorrow night at eight o’clock in the dining room. Please be prompt as latecomers will not be accommodated.’
***
Thomas unlocks the door and Ellie follows him into the dark apartment. He feels his way around the sofa and pulls the blackout curtains across the large window. Ellie switches on the ceiling light and removes her hat, throwing her coat over the fat arm of a salmon-coloured velvet sofa. She watches Thomas fiddle between the two wireless stations until the strains of ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’ filter out of the wooden box.
She stands on the blue carpet, twisting her wedding band and engagement ring around her finger. ‘Tea?’
Walking over to her, Thomas takes her in his arms, leading her in a slow foxtrot. ‘I’m not thirsty.’ He leans his cheek against her hair. ‘I’ve dreamed about this moment. I’d lie awake in the tent in the desert, freezin’—’
‘You said in one of your letters it’s freezing in the desert at night. It’s hard to imagine.’
‘As cold as the North Atlantic in December.’
‘Oh, Thomas, you’re exaggerating.’
Thomas laughs. ‘Maybe a little. But I needs to paint you a picture. I was lyin’ there in the tent in the desert, listenin’ to Charlie snorin’ to beat the band. Night after night. Chasin’ the Germans about durin’ the day, freezin’ at night. So, I’d close my eyes and draw the picture of your face in my mind.’ He runs his fingers over a blonde curl. The corner of his mouth lifts in his crooked smile.
‘You kept me goin’, Ellie Mae. When we shipped out to Italy in October I was like a flea in a dog’s ear till they gave me leave. They let me come back with some of the poor fellas who’d been shot up so I could get as many as I could onto a hospital ship back to Halifax once they got patched up in London. They knew if anyone could swing it, I could.’
Ellie frowns. ‘Those poor men. What have we done with this world?’ She looks at Thomas. ‘I’m so glad you came back, Thomas.’
‘I had to. I told them I had a beautiful maid to marry.’ Thomas grabs her in a bear hug, lifting her up as he kisses her. ‘I missed you, m’darling.’ Setting her down, his eyes cloud over. ‘I’ve gots to get back on the hospital ship in Southampton day after tomorrow. Headin’ back to Italy, but don’t tell anyone. It’s top secret, but I trusts you.’
‘So soon? When will I see you again?’
‘As soon as I can, Ellie Mae.’ Thomas presses his cheek against hers as they sway to the music. ‘Did you miss me, just a mite?’
‘Nothing was the same in Norwich when I knew I wouldn’t bump into you somewhere. I’d go to Plantation Garden or Cow Tower, even in the market where you stole the hat from me, and I’d imagine you there. I’d imagine us there, together.’
‘And at the dances?’
‘At the dances, too.’
Thomas laughs. ‘So, you went out to all the dances, did you? While I was freezin’ my arse off in the desert! There’s love for you!’
‘It was just George.’
‘Poor old George. I swears if I’d been gone longer he would have gotten that ring on your finger. They say it’s those quiet ones you’ve gotta watch.’ Thomas taps his eyebrow. ‘George gots his eye on you, even if it’s a blind one.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
A deep laugh rumbles from Thomas’s throat. ‘Oh, no? He was down on one knee the other night.’
Ellie expels an exaggerated sigh. ‘He had a ring and everything. I feel quite bad about it, actually.’
‘All’s fair in love and war.’ Thomas slips his hand under Ellie’s knees and lifts her into his arms. Laughing, she wraps her hands around his neck.
‘What do think you’re doing, Mr Parsons?’
‘Carryin’ you over the threshold, Mrs Parsons.’
‘But we’re already inside.’
Thomas crosses to the door and pulls it open. He steps into the hallway. Ellie squeals as he adjusts his grip on her.
The door to Number 23 across the hall jerks ope
n and a stout woman in her fifties, in a flowered housecoat and a hairnet, glares at the giggling pair.
Thomas reaches up to tip his beret, prompting another squeal from Ellie.
‘Don’t mind us, Missus. It’s our honeymoon. We’ll be quiet as mice.’
Chapter 43
Tippy’s Tickle – 16 September 2001
Sophie follows Sam and Rupert down a path winding between the spruce trees swaying wildly in the wind being blown across the island by tropical storm Maria. Nestled in a clearing at the bottom of the path, the white clapboard siding of the cottage is a soft grey in the night light, and its angled roof, split to accommodate clerestory windows, juts into the dark sky like a tectonic plate pushing its way skywards.
Pausing on a slate stepping stone, Sophie examines the building as the wind plasters Florie’s jumper against her body. ‘This looks a lot different from the other houses around here.’
Sam comes up behind her and leans his chin on her shoulder. ‘That’s because I built it.’
Sophie’s heart thrums in her chest. ‘You built it?’
‘Welcome to Bufflehead Cottage.’
‘Bufflehead?’
‘It’s a small sea duck that puffs out the feathers on its head to make it look bigger. Becca chose the name from a picture book of Newfoundland birds.’ Taking hold of Sophie’s hand, Sam leads her down the final steps to the front door. He twists the doorknob and then pushes the door open.
‘You don’t lock your door?’
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Ellie doesn’t lock hers either.’
‘Welcome to Tippy’s Tickle. Come on, I’ll show you around.’
They walk through the enclosed porch and under an archway, Rupert lumbering on ahead, into a large open-plan room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides and a wall with four green doors on the fourth. Sam flicks on a switch and light washes over the room from fixtures hidden amongst the exposed beams. A small hand-built kitchen with cupboards painted bright yellow nestles in a corner of the room, separated from the living area by a large fishing net draped from the ceiling, hung with a collection of seashells and driftwood.
Rupert flops onto a large braided rug as Sam strides over to a black wood-burning stove in a corner of the living room. After stuffing in logs and kindling, he lights the wood with a match. He gestures to the room. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’
Sophie surveys the wood-clad walls and the soaring angled ceiling with its row of high-level windows. The furniture is an eclectic mix of comfortable sofas, old antiques and Sam’s hand-made furniture pieces: a long dining table with edges following the tree’s natural contours; benches almost austere in their simplicity; a rocking chair with slender rockers like curved skis; an armchair with wide flat armrests and a frame similar to a barrel with seat cushions in woven wool; a chair like a large basket hanging from a beam in the corner. She walks over to the windows facing the seaside, but the night is moonless and the sky heavy with cloud, although the sweep and wash of the waves hums through an open window. She notices a framed photograph on a table near the window; Sam, beardless and younger, with an attractive, long-haired blonde woman who is cradling a baby.
‘Would you like some wine?’ Sam says as he heads into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got some white. Or a beer? I think there’s some cranberry juice there too.’
‘Wine’s good.’ She glances over at Sam as he grabs a bottle of Blue Star lager from the fridge and a bottle of white wine. His dark hair is tousled by the wind, and he brushes it back with an unconscious gesture. It’s been a long time since she’s been in this kind of situation: alone with a man on a night like this. When the warm wind and the humidity thickens blood to a lazy torpidity. When a veil lifts and guards fall.
What are you doing here, Sophie? You know you’re playing with fire. That kiss at the lighthouse was a silly mistake. What on earth came over you? Acting like a bloody teenager. Don’t be an idiot. Go! Go, now!
She’s been so careful. All those years in Manchester and London. Careful not to get side-tracked. Careful to keep her eye on the prize: a position at the pinnacle of her profession. She has no room for a man in her life. Certainly not a man like Sam, stuck in a backwater in Newfoundland. He’s sacrificed everything for Becca. She could never do that. Not for anyone. But then, she has no one to sacrifice everything for.
Maybe she wants that. Maybe she wants someone to care about. Someone to care about her.
Stop it, Sophie! Pull yourself together. You don’t need anyone. Say your goodbyes.
She sits on the thick white cotton cushion of the hanging chair and leans back against its curved woven-cane back. The chair swings gently, and she tucks her feet up underneath her.
No, Mum. I’m not going anywhere.
‘Here you go,’ Sam says as he offers her the wine glass. ‘Pinot Grigio. Hope that’s okay. We eat a lot of Italian food in this house when we’re not up at Ellie’s. Becca loves pasta. She doesn’t drink the wine, though. That’s just me.’
He sets down the beer bottle on the coffee table, and, grasping the sides of the hanging chair, gives it a gentle push. ‘You found the chair.’
‘I did indeed. I’ve always wanted to sit in a hanging chair.’
Sam gives it another push. ‘I put it in for Becca. I used to sit in it when she was smaller and rock her to sleep in it. Now, she calls it her chair. She reads in it for hours with Tigger and Barbie.’
Sophie shifts in the chair. Reaching under the cushion, she pulls out a striped stuffed toy. ‘I think I found Tigger.’
Sam laughs and takes the toy. He sits down on the sofa, propping Tigger against a pillow beside him.
‘What’s all that stuff in the net over there?’
Sam looks over at the net with its tangle of objects. ‘That’s our Net of Diverse Objects. Ellie named it. Just things Becca and I pick up on the beach. Mostly shells and driftwood, a couple of squid jigs. No plastic yet. They get that down on the south coast. More each year.’
Sophie unfolds one of her legs and pushes at the floor with the toe of Florie’s borrowed socks, sending the chair into a gentle swing. ‘Sam? You know with all the music tonight … Can Becca hear it? She seemed to be able to keep the beat.’
‘No, she can’t hear it, but she’s told me she feels the vibrations in the air and coming from the floor. That’s why she took off her shoes. So she could feel the vibrations better. She says they’re buzzy.’
‘Ellie told me Becca can read lips.’
‘Yes. Winny thought it would be good for Becca to learn to read lips. Not many people sign, especially hearing people. She thought it would help Becca in school. Life. She’s pretty good at it.’ Picking up his beer, he takes a drink. ‘So, why don’t you tell me all about the Millennium Pavilion?’
Sophie’s eyes widen. ‘You know about that?’
‘The internet can be quite useful.’
‘You searched my name?’
‘You were easy to find. There were—’ he counts silently on his fingers ‘—about twenty pages referencing you. Congratulations. That’s quite an achievement.’
Sophie rests a foot on the wooden floor and gives the chair a spin. ‘It was. I hired on some fantastic graduates and we pulled out all the stops developing the proposal. It was a long shot for a small practice like mine, but we got it. Then we had to do it. That was terrifying. It’s been my life for the past few years.’
‘And what about New York?’
‘Yes. New York. Well, I was headhunted. I’ve already had a phone interview. Now I have a second interview and a presentation to do. I’m up against two other candidates. Richard Niven is going to Japan on the nineteenth for two weeks. If I don’t make it there by Tuesday, I miss my chance. The other two have already been interviewed.’
‘What are you going to do? That’s the day after tomorrow.’
What is she going to do? Four days ago all she wanted was to get to New York for the interview. Now, part of her wants nothing mor
e than to stay in Tippy’s Tickle and start over. Reboot. She likes herself better here. She laughs more. Feels more. She’s picked up Ellie’s charcoal drawing pencils and rediscovered something that she’d thought she’d lost. And there’s Sam and sweet Becca. Maybe she could care about them and they could care about her. But … part of her still wants the big job in the big city. It’s everything she’s ever worked for. It’s so close. A hand’s reach away. All she needs to do is decide.
‘You’re not tempted to stay here in beautiful Tippy’s Tickle?’
She shoots a look at Sam. Can he read her mind?
She laughs, though it sounds more nervous than she intends. ‘What? No, no. Of course not. I’m going to Gander tomorrow. I’ll call a taxi. If my plane isn’t leaving, I’ll find another way. There’s a plane leaving from St John’s tomorrow night. I’ll catch that if I have to.’
Sam’s looks at her, his eyes clouding over, and her skin prickles under his gaze. Setting down his beer, he gets up and walks over to the hanging chair. Grabbing hold of the chair frame, he kisses her.
He steps back, his hands on the chair frame. ‘I’ve been wanting to kiss you since last night, when you waited for me and Becca in the rain.’
‘Sam, I—’
He kisses her again; long, and slow, taking his time. Taking all the time in the world. He stands back and gives the chair a gentle push.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Sophie clears her throat, her mind full of the feel of Sam’s lips on hers. ‘Anybody would have done that.’
‘Anybody didn’t do that. You did that. The princess with the heart of ice.’
Sophie rubs her lips with her fingers. ‘Sam, I shouldn’t have kissed you at the lighthouse. I’m going tomorrow … Our lives are too different—’
‘Did anyone ever teach you how to play cribbage?’
‘What?’
Sam walks over to a Victorian sidetable and pulls out a drawer. ‘Cribbage. I warn you, I take no prisoners.’
‘You want me to play cribbage with you?’
‘It’s either that or Settlers of Catan, but we’re missing some pieces. I think Rupert ate them.’
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