The English Wife

by Adrienne Chinn

She joins him out on the deck of the cottage, sipping from a World’s Greatest Dad mug. ‘I made myself a cup of tea. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Sam chuckles. ‘Not at all. Mi casa es tu casa.’

  ‘I came to see how Becca is doing. I know she’s been very upset about Sophie and this hotel.’

  ‘Yes. She’s not the only one.’ He takes a drink from the bottle of Blue Star beer he’s holding. He looks over at his mother-in-law. The breeze catches her fine white hair and blows it around her face. She brushes it out of her eyes with a thin hand. She’d lost weight. She seemed … smaller. When had that happened?

  ‘She’s gone off with Toby again.’

  ‘Florie said he was a great help out there today.’

  Sam nods. ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘She said Sophie was too. She said that Sophie was even working with Becca to pull the whales out into the water.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s true, too.’

  ‘Sam, it’s none of my business …’

  He smiles. ‘But …’

  ‘You know, I remember when you arrived here with Becca thirteen years ago. It was a terrible time. Such a shock for all of us.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d spent days over in the cemetery, talking to Winny. Telling her not to be afraid. Telling her you and Becca ould be fine.’

  Sam sucks in a ragged breath. ‘I didn’t know that. I couldn’t— I couldn’t go there. I was a mess. I barely remember anything about that time. I’m glad you were there to pick up the pieces, Ellie.’

  ‘For years I’d visit Winny every day. Every day, Sam. Without fail.’

  Sam nods.

  ‘Then, three years ago, on her birthday, I went to the cemetery, and, instead of walking to her grave, I sat on the bench. You know the one. Near the gate. With the view over the ocean.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I sat there and I said goodbye to my precious girl. I told her she’d always be in my heart. And anytime I wanted to see her, I’d just close my eyes and she’d be there. Laughing. Happy. My lovely Winny.’ Ellie takes a sip of the tea and cups the mug in her hands. ‘I didn’t visit her grave that day. I just sat on the bench and listened to the birds and the waves. I felt a release. She was with Thomas and it was … okay.

  ‘I only go twice a year now. On her birthday and on Thomas’s. And, it’s okay. They understand, Sam. They’re in us. They’ll always be a part of us. But it’s right to say goodbye. Otherwise, we lose ourselves. Unable to move forward, nor step backward. We’re here to move forward, Sam. Believe me, Winny understands. Winny wants you to.’

  ***

  He finds her standing by the tickle, her slight figure wrapped up in several of Florie’s jumpers. He watches her as she looks up at the waning moon revealing itself from behind a bank of thick grey clouds.

  ‘Sophie.’ I know what it feels like, Princess Grace. To be ostracised. To be reviled. To be misunderstood.

  Sophie turns. ‘Sam?’

  He walks towards her.

  ‘What are you doing here, Sam? I thought—’

  Then she is in his arms, and it is like all their differences melt away in the rightness of it.

  Chapter 66

  Norwich – 2 August 1953

  Dottie slides Ellie’s card with the birth announcement back into the envelope and sets it down on the green leather blotter on George’s desk where he’d left it that morning. Winnifred Agnes Mary Parsons. She purses her red lipsticked lips. Quite the mouthful for a baby. Still, their mother would be pleased to have a namesake, though why Ellie had thought Agnes was a good choice for a name was beyond her. She wrinkles her nose. The girl will end up being called Winny or Aggy. She wouldn’t make that mistake with her babies.

  She runs her hand over the round bump under her navy and white polka-dot maternity smock. So much for her career as a concert pianist. Those tedious hours of lessons and practice, the auditions and the recitals. She’d wanted fame and success. She’d been well on her way, too. Now, look at the state of her. She didn’t even have a baby grand to play, let alone the Steinway grand piano she’d become so used to in the London practice rooms and the concert halls. All she had was her mother’s old upright. Right back where she started.

  She’d almost got away from Norwich. From provincial life. A European tour with the London Philharmonic had been booked for the autumn. But she’d had to go and sleep with George, hadn’t she? He’d resisted at first, of course. He still seemed to nurse some misplaced affection for Ellie. George was really quite wet sometimes.

  She’d had to make him want her. If she were honest with herself, it was possibly because he was the only man she’d met who hadn’t fallen at her feet. She’d learned a lot of things in London. How to wind a man around her finger was one of them. She’d had to pull out all the stops with George, but she’d got him in the end.

  Dottie flicks her swollen belly with a sharp, red-painted fingernail. Now I’m stuck, aren’t I? I’m a good little Catholic so I’ve got to have you. Of course, George insisted on the marriage as soon as he knew. Good old reliable George. Boring, earnest, dull George. What choice did I have? None, that’s what. She wished Ellie could have been there. She would have loved to have seen Ellie’s face when George placed the wedding ring on her finger.

  She takes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the pocket of her maternity top. Sticking a cigarette between her lips she lights it and inhales deeply, blowing out the smoke in a long stream. She peers down at her belly, already swollen so large that the women at the hospital auxiliary have been telling her how lucky she is to be having summer babies.

  Ha! Summer babies my arse! I’ve got three more months of swollen feet and an aching back and breasts that hang like two balloons from my chest. You two are going to make it to the top of Norwich society, if it kills me. If I couldn’t get there myself, I’ll make sure you get there and pull me up with you. And I’ll kiss every girdle-constrained backside of every Norwich grand dame to help George become the husband I deserve. Then, I’ll swan over to Newfoundland and rub Ellie’s nose in our success. With George on my arm.

  Serves her right for abandoning me and Poppy, and dumping poor, love-sodden George for that Newfoundlander with his ridiculous accent. Running off to be a free spirit with not a care in the world. Leaving me all on my own. Everybody leaves, eventually, don’t they? Mummy, then you, Ellie, then Poppy. You’re not dead, Ellie, but you may as well be to me. Well, I hope for your sake leaving us all behind was worth it. At least you got to make a choice.

  Stabbing out the cigarette on George’s green blotter, she grabs the card off the desk. She tears it and lets the pieces fall until they litter George’s desk like white confetti.

  Chapter 67

  Tippy’s Tickle – 16 September 2011

  A door slams. Sophie opens her eyes and turns over in the bed. The white curtain flutters in front of the window, settling back into stillness before it is caught again in a gust of wind. Outside the window, a veil of fog obscures the sky, though a soft light glows behind it, promising a sunny day.

  ‘Good morning.’

  She looks over her shoulder. ‘Good morning to you, too. I heard a door slam.’

  Sam smiles back at her, his dark eyes shining with warmth. ‘Becca. She likes to go for a run first thing.’

  ‘She’s not going to be happy if she finds me here. You’d better hide anything breakable.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her later.’ He reaches across Sophie’s body and pulls her against him, trapping her with his leg. ‘I hope you’re not intending to go anywhere this morning.’

  ‘Hardly. I think I’ll hide out here for the day. I don’t think anyone in Tippy’s Tickle’s speaking to me since the vote yesterday.’

  Sam kisses her neck, trailing soft kisses along Sophie’s nape. ‘I have absolutely no objection to that, Princess Grace.’

  Sophie reaches behind her head and brushes her hand over Sam’s cropped hair. ‘Come here. I want to see you.’

/>   He rolls on top of her. ‘Hmm, you’re comfy.’

  Sophie pokes at his shoulder. ‘You’re crushing me, you big oaf.’

  He props himself onto his elbows and examines her face. ‘Your eyes are the same colour as a stormy sea. The same as Winny’s.’

  Sophie’s smile fades. My divine, beautiful cousin Winny. Is Sam only interested in me because I connect him to Winny?

  She squirms out from underneath him. ‘Look, Sam, I actually should go. I’ve got to email Richard my report before his meeting this afternoon. He’s been hounding me for it. He’s not going to like what I’m going to tell him.’

  ‘Hold on, Sophie. Just a minute ago, you were saying you’d like to hide out here all day.’

  ‘I know.’ She pulls her T-shirt over her head. ‘That was just … you know. Early morning chit-chat.’

  Sam laughs, his voice husky with sleep. ‘Chit-chat? Do people still say that?’

  Sophie pulls on her jeans and zips the zipper. ‘Well, I do.’ She glances at her watch. ‘Oh, God. It’s nine already. The consortium’s meeting in New York at two.’

  Sam takes hold of Sophie’s wrist, covering the watch with his hand. ‘Hold on. Sit down. Please.’

  Sophie sits on the bundled sheets with a huff. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve got plenty of time. We’re an hour and a half ahead of New York, remember?’ Sam turns over her hand in his. He traces his finger along her palm. Sophie swallows, willing the shocks snapping in her body to stop.

  ‘It’s Winny, isn’t it?’ he says.

  Sophie’s shoulders slump. How can he read me so well?

  ‘I’m not Winny, Sam.’

  His finger runs up the side of her ring finger, cresting the tip, sliding down the other side like a skier on a steep slope. ‘I never said you were.’

  ‘You did. You just said my eyes were like Winny’s.’

  ‘Well, they are. And they’re like Ellie’s too. And Becca’s.’ The swooping finger, sliding up her index finger and down to the base of her thumb.

  ‘I’m not Winny.’

  ‘I know. Believe me, I know. You’re Sophie and you’re …’ he chuckles ‘… you’re impossible.’

  Sophie tugs to free her hand but he holds fast. ‘I’m impossible? What about you? Stomping around the place like some … like some bloody biker in the middle of nowhere? You had a successful business in Boston. Why are you even here?’

  ‘I like it here.’ He shakes his head. ‘Impossible.’ He takes her ring finger into his mouth.

  Sophie closes her eyes. ‘Oh, God.’

  ***

  ‘Stay here as long as you like. I’ve set up my laptop for you and lit the fire.’

  Sophie slides onto the bench. ‘Are you sure? You know you’re sleeping with the enemy?’

  ‘Can’t be the first time that’s happened in the history of the world. And I’m still not going to sell. Even if you do that thing you did last night again.’

  ‘Sam!’

  Sam ducks as Tigger shoots across the room into the kitchen. He takes a quick sip of coffee from the World’s Greatest Dad mug and sets it on the kitchen counter as Bear lumbers across the living room rug to join him. ‘I’ll pick up something for dinner. Try to pull Becca away from Toby to join us. I’ll tell Ellie you’re eating here tonight.’

  ‘No, it’s Aunt Ellie’s birthday. Florie’s throwing a surprise party, remember?’ Sophie drops her head into her hands. ‘I probably shouldn’t go. Everybody in Tippy’s Tickle hates me.’

  ‘That’s no reason not to go.’

  Sophie jerks her head up. ‘You agree with me?’

  Sam shrugs. ‘I’ve got to agree with you sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, but not when I don’t want you to.’

  ‘I’ll come by before the party,’ he says, grinning. ‘We can go over together. That’ll give them all something to talk about.’ He grabs his jean jacket off a peg and heads towards the porch.

  ‘I’ll need to go over earlier to change and spruce myself up. I’ll see you there later.’

  Spinning around, Sam strides back to Sophie and plants a kiss on her lips.

  ‘I don’t think you need any sprucing up.’

  Sophie smiles. ‘Oh, do you have phone charger I could borrow? I’ve got an iPhone like yours and my battery’s run out.’

  ‘Sure. In the drawer by the sink. You’ll find one in there.’

  Sophie watches him as he walks towards the porch, the dog at his heels. She is still smiling when the door slams.

  ***

  Sophie rubs her bare arms and snuggles deeper into the sofa cushions. She glances over at the wood burner, but there’s no sign of the fire Sam had set that morning. She sniffs; the acrid, smoky smell of something burning hangs in the air.

  Setting Sam’s laptop on the coffee table, she pads across the braided rug to the kitchen and pulls open the cupboard doors. She checks the plugs and the appliances, but there’s no sign of anything burning. Probably just some lingering smoke from the morning’s fire.

  She heats up a mug of coffee in the microwave and meanders back into the living room. The picture of Sam, Winny and Becca catches her eye and she walks over to the table and picks it up. She’s nothing like Winny, with her slim, blonde beauty. She’d inherited her father’s brown hair and modest stature. But she did have the Burgess blue-grey eyes. They’re your best feature, her mother used to say. In fact, your only good feature, Sophie. Otherwise, you’re fairly ordinary, but beauty isn’t everything. It didn’t do your aunt any good. Look at the trouble she caused your grandfather.

  Settling back on the sofa, she sets the laptop on her lap and rereads the document she’s been working on for Richard. In response to her morning email about the villagers’ unanimous vote not to sell, Richard had emailed her back to say the consortium were determined to “plough forward”. It’s nothing that adding a few more zeros won’t solve, he’d said. Everybody’s got their price. Everybody.

  She glances at her watch, which is still on New York time. One fifty-five. Just in time for Richard’s two o’clock meeting with the consortium. He’s probably flapping around his office like the buzzard he’s starting to look like, cursing her for taking so long to send him her report. But it’s a delicate situation, what with her aunt and Sam being involved, and she’d wanted to get it right.

  Taking a deep breath, she presses Send.

  Chapter 68

  Norwich – 3 September 1953

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  George turns over in the bed. ‘What? What is it, darling?’

  Groaning, Dottie throws off the bedcovers and clutches her belly. ‘Something’s wrong.’ She turns on her side and curls into a foetal position, panting between whimpers.

  George tries to speak, but his eyes are locked on to the spreading red stain on the bed where Dottie has been lying. He stumbles out of the bed, knocking over the table lamp, which crashes to the floor, exploding into shards of pink glass.

  ‘You’re bleeding, Dottie.’

  Another groan. ‘I can’t be.’

  ‘I’ll call the doctor.’

  ‘The babies are coming, George. They’re coming.’

  ‘No, Dottie. Not yet. I’ll call the midwife.’

  ‘The doctor, George. Call the doctor. I need to get to the hospital.’ Dottie begins to pant, and her red face drips with rivulets of sweat. ‘Promise me they’ll be okay, George.’ She reaches out and clasps George’s arm. ‘Promise me.’

  ‘I promise, Dottie.’

  Dottie smiles weakly and sinks back on the bed. ‘Hurry George. Save the babies. Please, save them.’

  ‘I will. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to the babies or to you. Everything will be fine, Dottie. I promise.’

  ***

  The doctor turns away from the sleeping woman and nods at George to follow him into the corridor. Outside the ward, the fluorescent lighting throws a garish shine over the worn blue linoleum floor.

  ‘Mr Parry, I’m afraid you
r wife has had a very bad time of it. She was quite far along in her term. There was … I’m very sorry. There was considerable damage. We’ve had to perform a hysterectomy.’

  ‘A hysterectomy?’ George stares at the doctor. The man’s dark hair has threads of silver running through its careful combing, and there’s a smudge of grease – a thumbprint – on his round glasses. A pin on the white lapel of his lab coat. Dr F.J. Fry ‘You mean …?’

  Dr Fry shakes his head. ‘She won’t be able to have any more children.’ He reaches out and pats George’s shoulder. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  George’s eyes widen. ‘What will I tell my wife?’

  ‘You’ll find a way. She’ll come to accept it eventually. You’ll just need to give her time.’

  George rubs his forehead. ‘You don’t know my wife. I promised, you see. I promised the babies would be fine.’

  ‘Of course you did. Any husband would have done the same.’

  George draws his eyebrows together in a frown above the rim of his glasses. ‘You don’t understand. I promised her. She’ll never forgive me. She’ll never forgive me for stealing her life from her, not just once, but twice.’

  Chapter 69

  Tippy’s Tickle – 16 September 2011

  She wakes with a start, pulled out of a dream where she’s drifting on a boat with Sam, black-eyed whales swimming and breaching around them in a steel-blue sea. She opens her eyes. Blue smoke hangs in the air like fog. She coughs, but every intake of breath draws the smoke deeper into her lungs. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she leaps off the sofa and stumbles to the bedroom where she’d left her phone charging on the bed.

  She pushes open the bedroom door. Hot air and smoke blast from the room, sending her staggering back as she throws up her arm to shield her face. The bed is ablaze and yellow flames crawl up the curtains and eat at the wooden panelling.

  She makes it as far as the kitchen before the smoke brings her to her knees. Gasping for breath, she claws at the floorboards as she crawls towards the porch. She pushes her body against the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks from the heat and smoke. The thick fog of smoke presses on her back like a boulder, squeezing the breath out of her lungs. Reaching through the smoke, she grasps the leg of a wicker chair in the porch.