The English Wife
Page 35
She’d probably found the envelope by now. Or maybe Sam had. He was in and out of that drawer ten times a day when he was using the old lathe in the store. Said he liked it better. ’Course he would. It’d been Marsh Puddester’s down in Windsor. Best wood lathe in central Newfoundland.
Maybe that woman was reading the note at this very minute.
Soon, Mam. Soon, you’ll be free. The poison money will be back where it came from. Heaven’ll open its doors to you and you’ll be the angel you always were to me here on this earth. A real angel, Mam. You’ll be where you belongs.
It hadn’t been hard to put that man’s cheques into his account instead of his mam’s. He’d practised copying his mam’s signature off the food orders from Jim Boyd’s a hundred times a day. Everyone at the Wesleyville bank knew he was Ellie’s son. No one had batted an eye when he’d said his mam had signed the cheques over to him.
There was a lot of money in the safety deposit box now. All that poison money from those twelve cheques, and all this stuff called interest. And then there was the money he’d saved up from his fishing and boat-building to repay all the money Mam had started getting from England after Da’ died – the cheques he’d seen his mam hide in the Fry’s cocoa tin on the top shelf till she’d get a lift into Wesleyville the last Thursday of the month with Jim Boyd to bank it. All this poison money was going back where it belonged. To the daughter of the man who’d blackened his dear mam’s soul.
Take the money and leave Tippy’s Tickle, that’s all she needed to do, and take that murderer, Sam Byrne, with her. Then, everything would be back to normal. He looks up at the clouded sky. I’m just sorry you won’t be here to see it, Mam.
He reaches the giant shards of rock that thrust up through the ocean at the base of the lighthouse. Cutting off the motor, he steers the boat through a crevice with an oar until he is underneath the cave opening. Dropping anchor, he grabs hold of a slice of rock. He tosses a rope over it and secures the boat to it with a bowline.
Tucking the leather satchel under his arm he jumps onto a flat rock sleek with water. He stumbles but catches himself on the bobbing boat. The tide is coming in. He doesn’t have much time.
Grabbing a crack in the cliff face, Emmett jabs his boot onto a jutting rock and slowly makes his way up the rock face to the cave. Another toehold, another fingerhold. Then another. No one’ll ever find the box up here. That’s for sure. The wind whips a spray of saltwater against his face and he blinks to clear his eyes.
Not far, now, b’y. Just a few more—
The rubber sole of his boot slips against the wet rock. He hovers in the air in a millisecond that lasts an eternity. Then he crashes against the rocks and through the waves and down, down, down, sliding like an anchor into the deep, cold water.
The whale breaches, its huge body soaring out of the ocean like a missile. It slides under the water, the white foam of the waves from the breach slowly settling. Around the base of the cliff, George’s letters float like white waterlilies, until they slowly sink into the blue-grey water of the North Atlantic.
EPILOGUE
Wesleyville, Newfoundland – 5 October 2011
‘Bloody Nora. There’s thousands here, Sam. Where on earth did Emmett get this money?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
Sophie hands him a stack of hundred-dollar bills wrapped into neat piles of a thousand dollars. ‘Help me count, will you?’
‘Sure thing, Princess Grace.’ He reaches into the safety deposit box and takes out a stack of money.
‘You don’t think he stole it, do you? Do you think it had anything to do with the accident over by the lighthouse? Why on earth would he have been out there?’
Sam shakes his head as he silently counts out the money. ‘Emmett was a closed book, Sophie. He pretty much kept to himself. I don’t think even Ellie knew what went on in his head.’
‘Wait, there’s something else in the box.’ Sophie takes out a small white satin bag and an envelope that has yellowed with age. She slides a card out of the envelope. ‘Look at this, Sam. An old Valentine’s card. Looks like it’s from the war, judging by the uniforms.’
Sam flips over the card. Glancing at Sophie, he clears his voice. ‘Cupid is the victor o’er many a heart today. He’s made me love you, sweetest, far more than words can say. One little kiss would be such bliss, oh, don’t refuse me, pray!’
Sophie smiles. ‘Do you suppose Thomas gave that to Ellie when he was courting her?’
‘Were you listening, maid?’
‘What do you mean?’
He leans over the table. ‘One little kiss would be such bliss, oh, don’t refuse me, pray!’ He reaches out and plants a kiss on her lips.
‘Sam. Sam!’ she says, giggling. ‘They’ve probably got a camera on us in here.’
He sits back in his chair and licks his lips. ‘Is that cherry?’
‘Lip gloss. Becca gave it to me.’ She opens the drawstring on the satin bag and shakes out two rings, a thin gold wedding band and a silver ring with a large square-cut stone. She picks up the silver ring. ‘I think this was Aunt Ellie’s engagement ring. She mentioned it to me once when we were drawing. This must be her wedding ring. She said she’d lost them years ago.’
‘That’s some diamond.’
‘It’s not a diamond. Ellie said it was a zircon.’
‘Let me have a look at that.’ He holds up the ring and squints at the silver band. ‘I don’t think this is silver. It’s got a maker’s mark. Look, a dog’s head.’
Sophie takes the ring and looks at the mark on the inner rim. ‘What do you think that means?’
‘I’ve seen that mark before on a ring my mother had. It’s platinum.’
‘Platinum? It can’t be. That’s expensive.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Sophie rolls the ring around her fingers. ‘Do you think this really is a diamond? I’ve never seen one this big.’
‘If the ring’s platinum, that’s not going to be a zircon.’
‘Ellie thought it was a cheap zircon all these years.’ Sophie slides the rings back into the satin bag and hands it to Sam. ‘Give these to Toby for Becca. She doesn’t have an engagement ring. Ellie would have liked her to have it.’
‘Are you sure? If that’s a diamond, that ring is going to be worth a lot of money.’
‘Sam, look at the table. I have plenty of money.’
Sam surveys the ordered stacks of thousands. ‘You don’t have to give up your apartment now. You can stay in New York if you want to. You won’t have to join Florie’s commune.’
Sophie nods. ‘Sam, I wanted to talk to you about that.’
He sits back in the chair. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’ve had an email from one of Richard’s partners. Baxter T. Randall. He’s not as stuffy as his name makes him sound. He’s a real visionary. He has a great sense of humour, too. He’s jumping ship and opening up his own practice. He’s invited me to join him as a founding partner. Randall and Parry Architects.’
‘Has a nice ring to it.’
‘He wants me to head up the London office.’
Sam nods. ‘London, eh? Just your cup of tea, Princess Grace. You’d be great.’
‘I would, I know. It’s a fantastic opportunity.’
‘It sure is.’
‘For someone else.’
Sam shakes his head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The thing is, I’ve taken another job.’
‘Right. Listen, I understand—’
‘Smaller company, but big ideas. I insisted on a partnership, of course. I want a place where I can grow. If I partner up with Baxter, it’ll be all about his vision. I’ve been through all that with Richard.’
‘I get that.’
She holds out her hand across the table.
Sam stares at her hand. ‘What?’
‘Shake my hand.’
‘What?’
‘Just shake my hand.’
Sam reaches across the table and
gives Sophie a firm handshake.
She smiles. ‘Hello, partner.’
THE END
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Acknowledgements
One day, back in 1940, my Aunt Stephanie, then still a teenager, met my uncle Gus Edwards, a Newfoundlander stationed with the 57th Newfoundland Heavy Regiment (later renamed the 166th Newfoundland Field Regiment), at Sunday lunch at her grandparents’ house in Filby, Norfolk, England. Stephanie’s grandfather was the local vicar, and he’d thought it only right and proper to invite one of the new soldiers, so far away from their home, to Sunday lunch each week. So, I must thank my Aunt Stephanie’s grandfather for his generosity of spirit, without which this story may never have been written.
The stories of Ellie and Thomas, and Sophie and Sam, were born during a city break in Seville with my sister Carolyn Chinn. Between visits to the Alcazar, the Cathedral, and flamenco shows, we’d drink sherry over tapas and I’d throw out my ideas for the novel. After five days (and a lot of excellent sherry and tapas), I had the shape of the novel, and an idea of the main characters. Thank you, Carolyn, for listening to my jumbled thoughts and helping me put them into some kind of order.
Shortly after that, my friend, Mandy Sinclair, kindly lent me the use of her flat in Marrakech while she was back in Canada, and I spent a productive week drafting out the outline and character biographies, fortified by supportive outings around my favourite city with another friend, Aine Marsland. Many thanks to you both!
A few months later I visited Norwich, where novelist Melvyn Fickling, a Norfolk boy through and through, and another great friend, walked with me through the twisting medieval streets, seeking out the landmarks and old bomb sites that helped me recreate Norwich during the years of World War II. Thank you, Melvyn.
I spent a month during iceberg season (May), writing in St John’s and Eastport, Newfoundland, as the guest of my cousin, Jennifer Edwards Gill (Aunt Stephanie’s daughter), and her husband, Rob Gill. I benefited enormously from Jennifer’s insight into her mother’s experiences as a war bride, as well as evenings playing killer games of Settlers of Catan. Jennifer and Rob, I am indebted to you. Thank you!
In Newfoundland, I also spent writing time at my cousin, Glen Edwards’s, in my home town of Grand Falls-Windsor, where I enjoyed the company and stories of my uncles, John and Reg Edwards. I rented a car and explored Fogo Island and the Kittiwake Peninsula, with a stop in lovely Trinity, all of which provided inspiration for the locations in The English Wife.
After Newfoundland, I availed myself of the hospitality and writing tables of my brother, Geoff Chinn, and his partner, Wendy Buckingham, and many people in Quebec and Ontario whom I’m fortunate to call my friends: Claire Delisle, Cate Creede, Craig Ryan and J-P Talb, Vicky Seton and Pierre Cardinale, Lori Legault Lorenzo and Danny Lorenzo, Krista Fidler and Greg Sayer. Thank you all.
Thank you, too, to Laurence Daren King, for being one of the guides on my writing road; to my wonderful editors, Hannah Todd, Bethan Morgan, Helena Newton, and Lydia Mason at One More Chapter; and to my agent, Jo Swainson, for keeping the faith.
About the Author
Adrienne Chinn was born in Grand Falls, Newfoundland, grew up in Quebec, and eventually made her way to London, England after a career as a journalist. In England she worked as a TV and film researcher before embarking on a career as an interior designer, lecturer, and writer. When not up a ladder or at the computer, she can usually be found rummaging through flea markets or haggling in the Marrakech souk.
@adriennechinn
@AdrienneChinnAuthor
Also by Adrienne Chinn
The Lost Letter from Morocco
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