The English Wife

by Adrienne Chinn

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

  She gasps as the smoke burns into her lungs, choking her. Then nothing.

  ***

  A tongue laps at her face. Something pushes at her chest. She chokes and coughs, gasping for air. Cool air. A drop of water on her face. Then another. A dog barks.

  ‘Oh, my Jaysus God! She’s okay, Ellie! Get away, Bear. Let the maid breathe.’ Florie’s voice.

  Sophie opens her eyes. Above her the sky is white like a blank page. A face looms into view, the blue-grey eyes hooded with worry. ‘Are you all right, darling?’ Ellie brushes a hand along Sophie’s cheek.

  Sophie moves to sit up, but coughs rack her body. Someone shoves a water bottle into her hand. ‘Drink this.’

  She raises her eyebrows as she takes the bottle. ‘Thank you, Emmett.’ She drinks the water, the coolness lubricating her dry throat.

  ‘Jaysus God, duck,’ Florie says as she and Emmett help Sophie to her feet. ‘You gave us some fright. I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind when Bear started barkin’ to beat the band.’ She rubs the dog’s huge head and kisses its forehead. ‘If it wasn’t for him, you’d be cooked to a crisp.’

  Sophie looks around the clearing beside Sam’s cottage. ‘Where’s Sam?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Sophie turns her head. He is standing in the doorway of the cottage, his relieved face streaked with soot. But there was something else. Something about the way he looked at her. Shock? Panic? Fear?

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sam. The phone charger must have overheated on the bedcovers.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m just glad you’re safe.’

  ‘Is the damage bad?’

  ‘Just the bedroom and smoke damage in the rest. I’ll manage.’

  ‘It’s my fault. I should never have left the phone charging on the bed.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It was an accident.’

  ‘Accidents seems to follow you around, Sam.’

  Sophie jerks her head around to Emmett.

  Ellie squeezes Sophie’s arm. ‘Are you all right for walking back to the house, sweetheart? Let’s get you back and get you some tea. Florie’s cooking roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for my birthday dinner, just like I used to eat in England.’

  Florie takes hold of Sophie’s arm. ‘Tea’s your ruddy answer for everything, Ellie. The poor maid needs a shower and a lie-down.’

  ‘The war in England was won on tea, Florie. Don’t underestimate it.’

  Sophie looks back at the cottage, but Sam and the dog are nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 70

  Tippy’s Tickle – 19 June 1954

  ‘Oh, look, Winny!’ Ellie points across the kitchen table to Emmett who balances the plate with the birthday cake in his hands as he shuffles across the green linoleum floor. ‘Nanny and Emmy have made you a cake.’

  Emmett lays it gingerly on Agnes’s best linen tablecloth. ‘It’s chocolate.’

  Ellie buries her nose into Winny’s soft blonde hair and jiggles the baby’s chubby feet, which are clad in the pink booties Agnes has knitted as a birthday present. ‘Oooh, chocolate, Winnybel! Your favourite.’

  ‘Chocolate’s your favourite, Mam,’ Emmett says as he slides onto a wooden chair. ‘Winny never had cake before, so she can’t have a favourite.’

  Thomas sets down his beer beside the other empty bottles and, picking up a knife, winks at his son as he leans over to cut the cake. ‘He’s got you there, Ellie Mae.’

  Agnes sets a stack of her late mother-in-law’s best Royal Winton dessert plates on the table with several silver forks. ‘And what do you think you’re doing, Thomas? We haven’t sung ‘Happy Birthday’ yet.’

  Staring at his mother, he places a hand on her forehead. Agnes pushes his hand away. ‘What in the name of all that’s holy do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘You don’t have a fever, so it’s not that. Did you fall, Mam? A cake and ‘Happy Birthday’? You never made me a cake, nor even Emmy here. Ellie always has to go over to Martha Fizzard’s to bake Emmy’s cake ’cause you hide the cake tins on her.’

  Agnes glares at Ellie. ‘She said that, did she? She couldn’t find a fly if it was on her nose. I never hid anything.’

  ‘You gots more lip than a coal bucket, b’y,’ Ephraim says as he twists the top off his fourth bottle of Agnes’s beer. ‘You’re goin’ to make her right binicky.’

  ‘Boys don’t needs cake. Spoils them for no reason.’ Agnes leans over and chucks Winny under her chin. ‘Little girls is different, isn’t that right, Winny?’

  ‘I knows the words to ‘Happy Birthday’,’ Emmett says as he hands the forks out to the others. ‘Mrs Perkins taught us. She makes marshmallow squares when it’s someone’s birthday at school. She lets us choose the colour. I always chooses blue ’cause no one else’ll eats them ’cept me.’ Emmett eyes the double-height cake with its glistening icing and licks his lips. ‘Mam, I has a present for Winny.’

  ‘Do you, Emmy?’

  Emmett roots around in his trouser pocket and pulls out a wood carving of a long-coated dog the size of his hand. He pushes it along the table to his mother. ‘It’s a Newfoundland dog. Like Mr Boyd’s.’

  Ellie picks up the wooden dog. ‘That’s really an excellent carving, Emmy. It looks just like Thumper.’ She holds it out to Thomas. ‘Doesn’t it, Thomas? Look like Jim Boyd’s dog?’

  Thomas takes the carving and squints as he inspects it. ‘Where’d you learn to do this, son?’

  The boy shrugs. ‘Dunno. I just does it.’

  Thomas whistles. ‘Well, aren’t you the clever clogs.’

  ‘Don’t you be fillin’ his head with slop, Thomas,’ Agnes says as she fishes the stub of a pink candle out of her apron pocket. ‘Put that on the cake, Emmy, then we’ll all sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and you can cuts the cake. You can pretends it’s your birthday cake, too.’

  ***

  Thomas pulls on his yellow oilskin jacket, grabs his crutch and heads for the screen door.

  Ellie sets the dirty dishes in the soapy sink water. ‘Where are you going? It’s getting late.’

  ‘Just going down to the store to check the boat. She had a slow leak the other day that I fixed up with some pitch.’

  ‘You’re not taking her out now, are you?’

  ‘Just for a quick run down to the lighthouse to check she’s tight. We’ve gots to get out early tomorrow before the big factory trawlers turns up. They sucks up more fish in a day then all of us b’ys here does in a month. Sun won’t be down till close to ten. There’s a good couple of hours yet.’

  Emmett takes his yellow rain jacket off the coat hook by the door. ‘Can I come too, Da’?’

  ‘Sure, son. High time you learned about boats.’

  ‘But Thomas, it’s almost his bedtime. He’s only nine.

  ‘I was on the boat with my dad when I was eight. Time for him to learn the family business.’ Thomas grabs a couple of beer bottles out of the new refrigerator, and stuffs them into his jacket pockets.

  ‘My son isn’t going to be a fisherman.’

  ‘Something wrong with being a fisherman, maid? Maybe you wished you’d married a chocolate salesman instead?’

  ‘Thomas!’

  ‘It’s the truth, isn’t it, Ellie Mae? Don’t I knows you fell in love with a solider in a sharp uniform, and ended up the wife of a piss-poor fisherman at the back of beyond? Don’t I knows you should have had better? Don’t you knows I’ve been tryin’ to make it better for you?’

  ‘Thomas? What’s got into you?’

  He taps his forehead with his hand. ‘I’m up to here in debt to Jim Boyd and Rod Fizzard. How’d you think you gots the fridge? And all the paint in from St John’s so I could paint you the colourful house you wanted? We has to get out fishin’ longer hours, and Dad’s not so young anymore. It’s all I can thinks to do is to get Emmy helpin’.’

  ‘Thomas—’

  Thomas gestures to Emmett. ‘C’mon, son.’<
br />
  ‘Our son’s not going to be a fisherman, Thomas.’

  The screen door slams, bouncing on its sprung hinges until it slowly settles back into its frame.

  ***

  Thomas peers through the window of the bridge of the small boat and steers through the water towards the silhouette of the lighthouse on the cliff. The darkening sky is shot with streaks of yellow, red and orange, which reflect off the tops of the waves. Just like Ellie’s bakeapple and partridgeberry cobbler when she pulls it steaming hot from the oven, Thomas thinks.

  He twists the cap off the second beer and takes a long gulp. He shouldn’t have set on to Ellie like that. He was lucky to have a woman like her. A lot of women would have hightailed it back to England before they learned what a scrunchion was. Jim Boyd’s cousin up in Baie Verte had just that happen to him. His Bristol bride had refused to get off the boat in Halifax when she saw the sight of it and headed straight back to England.

  Still, when he looked at Ellie, in her plain dresses and her sturdy brown shoes, and her blueberry-stained aprons that never came clean no matter how much he saw her scrub at them in the sink, she was as lovely as he remembered that first time he’d laid eyes on her at the Samson and Hercules. More lovely, if that were possible. Her figure fuller, but firmed by the physical life on The Rock. Her face slimmer, her hair a deeper blonde that spun threads of gold in the summer months. Her beautiful eyes, as stormy and blue as the north Atlantic. How did he deserve this woman? How could he show her how much he loved her? How much he hated himself for giving her such a hard life, so far away from her family.

  He shakes his head. One day he’d get her a proper diamond ring. He would have done, if he could have. But, the diamond rings he could afford had been so small. Not right at all for Ellie. He was lucky to have found that old pawn shop down on Elm Hill. Maybe it was only a cheap zircon, but it had the right look. One of these days, he’d get her a proper diamond ring, that’s for sure. She’d like that. He’d put her through a lot; it was the least he could do.

  His mother had never taken to her, no matter how much he’d seen Ellie try with her. ‘That English wife of yours,’ Agnes would call her, not to Ellie’s face, of course. ‘Fancies herself an artist, like that’ll do a fat lot of good gettin’ food on the table out here.’ The two of them existed in an uneasy truce, he could see that, like two prisoners forced to share a cell. His mam was a hard case. He knew it’d been hard for Ellie, all these years.

  Still, he’d given Ellie two beautiful children. Well, Winny, at least. But Emmy was his son, no matter how he’d come into the world. Even if George was Emmy’s real father, no matter what Ellie said. He had to let go of his jealousy. It was a small man who’d take such a thing out on a child. The war was a different world. Who was he to judge Ellie, when she hadn’t heard from him in months. When she’d thought he’d been killed in North Africa?

  The boat lurches over a large swell and Thomas staggers against the wheel. His crutch and the beer bottle crash to the floor. Thomas grabs for the wheel, blinking hard as the cabin spins.

  ‘What was that, Da’?’

  ‘Nothing, son,’ Thomas calls over his shoulder. ‘How’s it holding out back there, Emmy? Any leaks?’

  ‘Nothing inside.’

  ‘That’s good. We’ll turn back at the lighthouse. We’ll be home before the sun sets. That’ll please your mam.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Thomas picks up his crutch and secures it under his armpit as he steadies himself in front of the wheel. Focusing on the horizon, the spinning eases. He begins humming, and the random notes form into an old song he’d learned as a boy.

  ‘Jack was every inch a sailor,

  Five and twenty years a whaler,

  Jack was every inch a sailor,

  He was born upon the bright blue sea.’

  He shouts over his shoulder. ‘How was that, Emmy? Shall I teach you the words? Emmy?’

  ‘I’m checkin’ the outside for leaks, Da’.’

  Thomas glances to the stern, his heart leaping into his throat. The boy teeters on his stomach over the side of the boat. Forward and back with each dip and swell of the sea. Forward and back. Forward and back.

  ‘Emmy! Get off there, b’y! My God! Get your life jacket back on!’

  A large wave slams the boat. The boy teeters forward, hovering like a baby bird on the edge of a nest.

  ‘Emmy!’ Thomas lurches towards his son, hobbling over the fishing net and coiled ropes with his crutch.

  Too late.

  The next minutes last hours, days, years. The sea, which had looked so benign in its bakeapple colours just moments before, has turned black, its glistening inkiness broken only by the whitecaps of the swelling waves and the small dark head bobbing in the water.

  Thomas staggers back into the bridge and shuts off the ignition. Grabbing the life preserver, he heads starboard and launches the orange ring out to the flailing boy. ‘Grab it, Emmy! Swim to it son. It’s just a stroke away.’ Thomas gathers up the fishing net and throws it over the side so that it hangs from its fastenings down the side of the boat.

  ‘Da’!’ Emmett takes a mouthful of water. ‘Da’!’ He coughs just as another wave splashes over his head.

  Throwing the crutch aside, Thomas plunges into the water. It sucks him down into a deathly quiet until he can no longer sense where the surface is. A large dark body slides past him, its belly gleaming white, and the barnacles on its huge mouth glowing an iridescent green in the murky water. The creature’s black eye watches him as it glides past. Its body rises in a graceful arc to the surface to breathe through its blowhole.

  Following the humpback’s lead, Thomas musters every iota of strength as he breaks through the surface and crashes through the water towards his son.

  Emmett raises his hand out towards his father. Then he’s hit by another wave, and he’s gone.

  Thomas dives into the freezing black water. His hand brushes the hood of Emmett’s yellow jacket. Grabbing it, he twists the fabric into his grasp and pulls his son up to the surface. Emmett gasps and grapples for Thomas’s arm.

  ‘Calm down, Emmy. Breathe, son. Just calm down.’ He reaches around Emmett’s shoulders and swims towards the orange life preserver, thrusting it over his son’s head. ‘Grab hold of this, son. You won’t goes anywhere. You’re fine now.’

  The fishing boat is about sixty feet away, bobbing like a dull white cork on the black ocean, the fishing net draped like a web over the side. The lighthouse has awakened, and the white light flashes from the top of the cliff about a mile away. Thomas reaches through the water and takes hold of the rope connecting the life preserver to the boat. He sidestrokes awkwardly towards the boat, cursing the German grenade for stealing his leg as he pulls Emmett and the life preserver along behind him.

  The cold Atlantic tugs at Thomas’s body. He can no longer feel his hands, and his boot drags at his foot as he splashes towards the boat. His mind, fuzzy at the edges from the many beers, focuses on the boat. There is nothing but the boat. You must get to the boat.

  After an eternity, his hand brushes the wooden hull. ‘We’re here, Emmy.’

  ‘Don’t go, Da’.’

  ‘I’m not goin’ anywhere. Now, you has to be brave, son. Grab hold of the net. You knows how you liked to climb the riggin’ when that American fella’s schooner came into Rod Fizzard’s last summer? It’s just like that. Pretends the net’s the riggin’ on that schooner.’

  Emmett grabs hold of the net. ‘I gots it, Da’.’

  ‘Good fella. Now, I’ll lifts off this life preserver so you can scamper up the riggin’, just like last summer.’

  Emmett slowly climbs up the net. When he reaches the top he turns around, his face lit by a bright smile. ‘I did it, Da’!’

  Thomas smiles up at his son. ‘Good boy, Emmy. Be careful now. Just gets in the boat and I’ll be right up after you.’

  A thud as Emmett slips and falls into the boat.

  ‘Emmy?’ Thomas
thrusts the life preserver away and swims to the net. ‘Emmy!’

  The net swirls around Thomas as he grapples for a hold. Twisting around his leg, it tangles through his boot and around his body, dragging him down into the sea.

  The large grey body with its white belly slides by, the barnacles that ghostly green. The black eye watches him as the creature glides past. The whale rises in a graceful arc to the surface, where all that exists is light and the memory of Ellie’s smile.

  ***

  Emmett reaches for the side of the boat and pulls himself to his feet, his head throbbing. He peers out into the inky blackness.

  ‘Da’! Where you at, Da’?’ He scans the surface of the water. Fear stabs at his belly.

  ‘Da’! Da’!’

  His voice breaks into a sob as he slides to the floor of the boat. ‘I’m sorry, Da’. I’m sorry. I didn’t wear my jacket inside out. The fairies gots you, Da’. I’m sorry.’

  Chapter 71

  Tippy’s Tickle – 16 September 2011

  Ace levers himself onto one of the long counters in Florie’s store, and jabs an Ugly Stick against the wooden countertop, setting the bottle tops jingling as he pounds at the tin can head with a drumstick.

  ‘Here ye, here ye, we is gathered here tonight to celebrate two …’ he holds up two fingers ‘… what’s that, Thor? Three, not two …’ he holds up three chunky fingers ‘… three important events in the life of this hidden paradise of Tippy’s Tickle.’

  ‘Get on with it, b’y! The cod’s thawin’!’

  Ace winks at Thor who is holding a glistening frozen codfish above his head. ‘Right you are, b’y.’ Ace bangs the tin can head. ‘Firstly, we gots to pay homage to the Queen of Tippy’s Tickle, who’s all of eighty-nine years on this earth today. Now, I’s been told she landed on this here rock back in nineteen forty-six, which actually makes her …’ he screws up his face as he counts on his fingers ‘… a young maid of sixty-five ’cause your life starts when you comes to The Rock. Florie, take some candles off the cake, girl!’