Florie gives Ace a thumbs up. ‘Right you are, b’y!’
‘I thought you didn’t approve of all this tourist stuff, Florie,’ Ellie says.
‘Well, if you can’t beat them, you joins them, right? And we could all use a knees up.’
‘The cod’s startin’ to whiff, son!’
‘Holy God, he’s not jokin’!’
Ace thumps the Ugly Stick. ‘Hold your horses, I’m just about there, b’ys.’ He motions to Thor who is wiping a hand on his Rush T-shirt. ‘Bring up the fish, b’y. We’re gonna need her in a minute.’ Ace surveys the room. ‘Now, I hears we gots some Come From Aways here today.’
‘Gotta change that, son! Can’t have CFAs here!’
‘Screech ‘em in, b’y!’
Holding the dripping cod above his head, Thor weaves his way through the throng towards the counter. Ace bangs the Ugly Stick until the crowd quietens. ‘Now, we’s got to fix this situation ‘cause we all knows what happens to CFAs if they’d don’t gets Screeched in, don’t we?’
Emmett cups his hands around his mouth. ‘They stays CFAs!’
‘Right you are, Emmett Parsons! We can’t have that happen. So, will the followin’ CFAs approach the Ugly Stick – Miss Becca Byrne, Miss Sophie Parry and Miss Ellie Parsons!’
‘That’s three Screech-ins and the birthday, Ace! That’s four events, not three!’
Ace’s thick grey eyebrows draw together. ‘You gots more tongue than a logan, Toby Molloy!’
Sophie glances at Sam in panic. ‘What do they want me to do?’
He prods her forward. ‘There’s no getting out of this one, Princess Grace. Just do what he says.’
Becca walks over to Sophie. Smiling shyly, she grabs Sophie’s hand and pulls her to the front as Florie pushes Ellie forward.
‘Right you are, ladies! Give us the Screech bottle, Toby, and three glasses. What am I sayin’? Glasses all round!’
The room erupts in a cheer.
Ace splashes the dark rum into three shot glasses for the women and one for himself and hands the bottle to Toby. ‘Pass it around, b’y. We’re all gonna Screech them in. But first we needs some ceremony.’ He clears his throat and stamps the Ugly Stick.
‘Here’s to your health, and here’s to your gullet,
Drinks up the Screech, b’y; hangs on to your wallet.
Then when you’re done, don’t goes, m’ duck,
The cod’s here to kiss, and we all gives a—’ he waggles his bushy eyebrows ‘—buck.’
He waves at Emmett. ‘Emmett, b’y! Pass the hat. Pops your loonies and your toonies in the hat, b’ys and maids. We’re collectin’ for the cancer charity today.’ He taps Sophie on her shoulder with the stick. ‘Now, m’dear, you gots to kiss the cod.’
‘I have to what?’
‘Kiss the cod, girl. G’wan. Best to do it before she thaws out all the way. Give her a right smack on the kisser.’
Thor holds the dripping fish up to Sophie. Screwing up her nose, she puckers up and gives the mouth a quick peck. The crowd erupts with whoops.
‘There you goes, maid. That’s how it’s done.’ Thor moves along to Becca who pinches her nose and kisses the fish. Ellie pushes the sleeves of her pink turtleneck sweater up her arms and plants a kiss smack on its mouth. The room thunders with cheers.
Ace holds up his shot glass of rum. ‘Now, they says that one day a fella gave an American GI here a glass of Newfoundland rum back in the war. The GI gulped it down and let out an almighty screech. And that, so they say, is how Screech gots its name. Up to the lips and over the gums, watch out gullet, here she comes!’
An accordion wheezes into a lively tune. Sophie sets her empty glass on the counter and holds her hand up to Ace. ‘Pull me up.’
‘What’s that, maid?’
Sophie steps onto a chair. ‘Pull me up.’
Ace grabs her hand and hauls Sophie onto the wooden counter. She takes the Ugly Stick and pounds it on the countertop. ‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’
Sam stands on a chair and whistles. ‘Oi! Quiet!’ The room settles into a low buzz.
Sophie licks her lips and glances at Ellie. ‘I’ve got news about the hotel and the golf course.’
The room hums with boos.
‘They turfin’ us out, maid?’
‘They’ll have to drag me out by my boots!’
She clears her throat. ‘As you know, the consortium for the hotel development met with Richard Niven Architects in New York this afternoon. I’d advised Richard this morning of your unanimous decision not to sell, but the consortium didn’t consider that an impediment to pursuing the project. They felt,’ she clears her throat, ‘they felt they could, well, they could pay you more money.’ She glances at Ellie. ‘A lot more money.’
‘Ten million, you gots yourself a deal!’
‘Start practisin’ your golf swings, b’ys!’
Sophie glances at Sam. ‘I know the golf course is controversial, but the consortium believes that the development would benefit Tippy’s Tickle by bringing employment into the area and by rebranding the town with a new name.’
‘A new name? What’s wrong with Tippy’s Tickle?’
‘Old Tippy’s turnin’ down in Davy Jones’ Locker, b’y!’
She raises her voice. ‘They’ve decided on … They’ve decided on Walrus Heights for the new name.’
‘Walruses? There’s no walruses in Tippy’s Tickle!’
‘’Cept for old Thor, there! He’s the spit of a walrus!’
Sophie clears her throat again. ‘Anyway, this was the state of play until—’ she takes a deep breath ‘—I’m afraid I accidentally attached the video I took of the whales beaching themselves to my feasibility report for the consortium.’ She glances at Sam. A smile slowly forms on his face.
‘I’ve been informed that the investors found it most distressing – which, of course, it was for all of us. They feel, very strongly, that they can’t risk any incidents like this happening to the Walrus Heights Golf Resort and Spa. Consequently, they’ve decided not to proceed further with this project in Tippy’s Tickle.’
The room thunders into cheers. Sophie stamps the Ugly Stick, setting the bottle caps jingling. ‘I also want to say that I’ve tendered my resignation from Richard Niven Architects effective—’ she looks at her watch ‘—effective today at two o’clock New York time. Three-thirty Newfoundland time.’
‘You go there, Sophie, girl!’
‘She’s a right Newfoundlander now!’
Becca climbs onto the counter beside Sophie. ‘I have something to say,’ she signs to the crowd. Toby Molloy steps onto a chair to translate her signs, his clear green eyes exposed by a recent haircut. Becca looks over at Toby, her face luminous. She holds up her hand, a gold band circling her ring finger. ‘Toby and I are married!’ She pats her flat stomach. ‘And we’re expecting a baby!’
Chapter 72
Norwich – 1 December 1961
Dottie leans over to air kiss Marion Humphrey’s jowly, over-powdered face. A whiff of musky perfume assaults her nose, and she pushes her tongue against her teeth to suppress a sneeze.
‘That was a lovely luncheon, Marion. It looks like everything is on course for the hospital auxiliary Christmas Fair. Your husband has been so generous sponsoring the event.’
‘Oh, heavens, Dorothy. He’s happy to do it. He says it’s good advertising for Firman’s Mustard. Community spirit and all that.’ The older woman grasps Dottie’s gloved hand through the window of the Wolseley. ‘Do try to persuade your husband to come to our New Year’s Eve do this year. Walter has some business he wants to discuss with him. We’ve all been so impressed with what George has achieved at Mcklintock’s since he became manager. Walter said he was on the train out of Liverpool Street just last week, and the first thing he saw was a huge billboard for the new Space Bubble chocolate bars.’
Dottie smiles. If Walter only knew how many of the new ideas came from her. ‘Don’t worry, Marion. I’ll do my best to pul
l George away from his desk, though it won’t be easy. He’s so committed to Mcklintock’s, as you know.’
‘Oh, yes, dear. We all know.’ Marion Humphrey adjusts the mink stole around her bulky shoulders. She leans closer to the window. ‘You don’t suppose George can send me over a few boxes of Mckintock’s Dark Chocolate Fantasy Selection? For guests, you understand.’
‘Of course. Consider it done.’
Marion Humphrey smiles, revealing a streak of fuchsia pink lipstick across her teeth. ‘Lovely. I’ll see you on Saturday at the fair.’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
Dottie watches the polished navy Wolseley glide down Newmarket Road past the handsome Victorian and Georgian homes until it disappears from sight. She breathes out an exhausted sigh and heads through the gate and up the paved footpath to the white-painted porch of the modest yellow-brick Georgian house. She frowns as she sweeps her eyes over the large sash windows and elegant proportions. They’ll be out of here by the summer, if her plan comes off. If it weren’t for her, they’d still be living in George’s flat above the fish shop on Duke Street. The manager of Mcklintock’s Chocolates had to live in a house equal to his status. She had her eye set on a perfect pink-brick Queen Anne house hidden behind a gated wall further down Newmarket Road away from the city. Not for sale yet, but soon. She had her sources.
In the hallway, she unpins her hat and tosses it on the telephone table on top of her handbag and white kid gloves. Reaching into her handbag, she takes out the cigarette packet, grimacing when she finds it empty. She leans into the mirror and examines her face, pursing her lipsticked lips and pressing at the fine lines that have begun to form at the corners of her eyes. Thirty-three and still in Norwich. Aside from one disastrous April holiday in Paris five years ago, when George had taken a resolute dislike to French food and the Impressionists, and it had rained for four days, she’s never set foot outside of Britain. This wasn’t the life she’d planned.
She reaches down and rests her hands on her girdled stomach. No babies. She hadn’t wanted any, not when she was younger. Certainly not when she’d fallen pregnant with the twins. She’d hated them for snatching her dreams away, for forcing her into this life of torpid provincialism. But then, as the pregnancy had lumbered on, she’d come to see their usefulness. How they could be the key to the closed doors of Norfolk society. She’d get the twins into the best schools – Church of England if she had to; the best clubs; they’d play cricket with the Earl of Leicester’s team at Holkham; learn to ride and shoot. They’d be her golden ticket to a better life.
Then they’d died. Two little boys. She hadn’t let George touch her after that. What was the point? Her womb had been stripped out of her. Why put up with George’s inept fumblings?
He’d suggested adoption. After her initial tantrums, she’d even become excited about the possibility. She could steer the child through the same course she’d planned for her twins. Another chance at the golden ticket. But then, George’s age and his blind eye had scuppered that idea. NOT SUITABLE FOR ADOPTION. The red stamp across their adoption application. It was George’s fault. Again. Her miserable life of pushing and grappling for the wealth and status, and, yes, the freedom, she deserved was all George’s fault.
George was like a distant and irritating brother to her now. She had her room and he had his. He’d buried himself in his work, and she’d negotiated her way onto the boards of the Women’s Institute, the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital Auxiliary, the Norwich Philharmonic Society where she was now Vice President, and slowly and tactically climbed the social ladder. She and George had reached an accord. He was useful to her in his position at Mcklintock’s, but she wasn’t satisfied with that. Oh no. George was going to buy the business, but for that he needed a partner with money. This is where Norwich’s wealthiest industrialist, Walter Humphrey, owner of Firman’s Mustard, came in. How her arduously cultivated friendship with his wife, Marion, would finally bear fruit. Walter wanted to talk business with George. Finally, she was on her way.
Dottie wanders into George’s study. The panelled shutters are drawn closed. She walks over to the tall sash windows and throws them open. The dull grey light of the December day filters into the wood-panelled room. She sits in the antique green leather chair and sifts through the stack of documents under the Maltese glass paperweight she’d found in a Holt flea market. The envelope has been torn open with George’s brass letter-opener. She’d recognise the handwriting anywhere. She slips the letter out of the envelope and reads.
***
Dottie sits in the large brown leather wingback chair in the shadows in front of the book-lined walls. She has closed the shutters. She wants to take him by surprise.
She hears the key in the front door, the squeak as the heavy panelled door swings open, the soft thunk as it closes. The keys rattling onto the telephone table. The pause as George hangs up his hat and bends down to remove the rubber covers of his Church’s shoes.
The study door opens. A pause. A hesitation. The flick of the light switch.
‘Dottie?’
Dottie holds out Ellie’s letter. ‘You’ve been sending her money? Our money?’
George’s cheeks, flushed from walking home from the factory in the chilly winter – a habit she was going to have to put a stop to as soon as he finished his driving lessons – drain of colour. He pushes up the bridge of his glasses in the habit she finds so irritating.
‘You found the letter.’
‘Of course I found the letter. It was on your desk, for all the world to see.’
‘It was under my work pile.’
Dottie raises a finely pencilled eyebrow. ‘How long has this been going on? How much of our money …’ she stabs a finger against her chest ‘… how much of my money have you sent her?’
George crosses over to the desk and slumps into the chair. He rubs his forehead and sighs. ‘I had to, Dottie. After Thomas died, Ellie was in a bad way. She has two children to support. Her mother-in-law was threatening to throw them out. She’s your sister, Dottie. I had to do something. She has no one else to turn to. She’s family.’
‘Emmett’s your son, isn’t he?’
‘Dottie!’
‘I’m not an idiot, George. I’ve done the maths. Ellie and Thomas married at Christmas. Emmett should have been born in September, not August. I saw you and Ellie in the Cow Tower that night in November. I saw everything. I followed you.’
George stares over at his wife, at her carefully made-up face stiff with rage. ‘You saw us?’
‘Don’t be such a dolt. I knew you loved Ellie. She told me she thought Thomas might be dead. She hadn’t heard from him in months. Trust a man to go in for the kill.’ Dottie glares at George, spitting out the words like a snake spitting venom. ‘You still love her, don’t you, George?’
George shakes his head. ‘Dottie, you’re my wife. I love you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, George. You’ve never loved me. I was always the amusing little sister, wasn’t I? The little sister with the enormous crush on her older sister’s boyfriend. Or should I say fiancé? Then he came along. Tell me, George. Did you and Ellie laugh at me behind my back? Did you think I was a silly little girl with my first crush?’
‘Of course not, Dottie. I’ve always been extremely fond of you.’
‘Fond of me? Isn’t that lovely. You’re fond of me. Your wife. Aren’t I lucky?’ Dottie leaps from her chair and crosses to the desk, throwing the letter at George. ‘You have to stop it. No more money to Ellie. Do you understand me? I honestly don’t care if you are Emmett’s father. You’re not to say a word about that to anyone. He’s Ellie’s problem. She made her bed and now she’s got to lie in it. And if you ever, ever cross me again, I’ll tell everyone you’re an adulterer. I’ll take you for every penny, and your career and your status as a fine, upstanding Catholic pillar of the community here in Norwich will be ruined.’
George sits back in the chair. A silence, as heavy as a theatre curtain, s
ettles over the room. ‘You’re right. You’re right, Dottie. I still love Ellie. I’ve always loved Ellie.’
‘I knew it! I knew it!’
‘I’ve tried to be a good husband to you, Dottie. I’ve done everything you’ve wanted me to do. Given you everything you’ve asked for.’
Dottie spins around and sweeps the papers off George’s desk. ‘I never wanted this! None of it, don’t you understand, George? I wanted freedom. I wanted what Ellie had. I wanted to choose my life. Instead, I’m dead. Dead! Condemned to life in this dull, boring, mediocre backwater!’
‘I see.’ George adjusts his glasses on his nose. ‘I can see why you’ve taken against me. But why do you hate Ellie so much? That’s always been a mystery to me.’
Dottie straightens up, and George sees her beautiful face harden, as if she is Galatea returning to stone. ‘Because she had a chance at the life she wanted, and I didn’t. And that’s just not fair. I worked hard practising on that blasted piano night and day while she doodled around with her art and went out dancing even when the bombs were being dropped on us. Then she had to go and run off with some foreigner.’ Dottie slaps her chest. ‘She abandoned me, George! Just like Mummy did!’
‘Your mother didn’t abandon you, Dottie. She was killed in a car accident.’
‘It was my fault, George! My fault Mummy was hit by that car. She’d told me not to ride my tricycle into the road.’
‘You were only four years old. You’re not to blame.’
‘I knew better, George. I did. I wanted her attention. She was playing Cat’s Cradle in the garden with Ellie and I wanted her attention.’ She drops her head into her hands. ‘I saw her run across the garden, screaming at me to get off the road. I just sat there on my little tricycle and clapped my hands. I’d won, you see. I’d made her notice me.’ A sob wrenches out of Dottie’s throat. ‘And then, there was blood. Blood everywhere.’
‘Dottie, it was an accident. It wasn’t your fault.’
The English Wife Page 31