The English Wife. Adrienne Chinn
‘Woman. Yes.’
Sam climbs the steps, Rupert at his heels, and calls out to the screen door. ‘Ellie! Florie! Becca! Roll out the red carpet. We’ve got company.’
Sophie follows Sam up the steps, clutching at the white-painted railing as the steps judder under his footsteps. ‘Who’s Becca?’
‘She’s my daughter.’
The door swings open and a small girl of about eight, her blonde hair tied into a messy braid and her face painted with bright pink and green dots and hearts, throws herself into Sam’s arms, gesticulating wildly with her fingers.
‘Florie painted your face? Yes, I can see that, Becca. What? She did? Let’s go see.’
Becca catches Sophie’s eye and pokes Sam on his shoulder, opening her hands in a question.
Sam glances at Sophie. ‘That’s Sophie. She’s come all the way from England. Remember that poem about the cat who went to London to visit the Queen? That’s where Sophie’s from.’
Sophie follows Sam and Becca through the screen door. Inside, long white-painted wooden counters stacked with boxes of art cards, homemade jams, rolls of colourful ribbon, plates of fat muffins, tempting cookies and red paper bags of something labelled hard tack flank the narrow walls in front of the sage green shelves displaying handmade glazed pottery and framed art prints.
Four lively dachshunds clatter through the doorway from a back room, followed by a sturdily built woman of about fifty, in paint-spattered jeans and a Joni Mitchell T-shirt.
‘C’mon in, c’mon in. You wants a cup of tea? I’ll get that sorted. How was it down in Gander, Sam? We’ve been watching the news and listening to the radio all day. Planes have been landing in St John’s and Stephenville too.’
Sam sets Becca down amongst the excited dogs. ‘It’s a bit crazy down there, Florie, but lots of people have been showing up to help. I was down there with the Warriors.’
Florie nods at Sophie. ‘Who’s this waif and stray, then?’
Sophie reaches out her hand. ‘Sophie Parry. I’m Ellie’s niece from London.’
‘You’re Dottie’s daughter, then? Thought you’d all forgotten about us out here. Wonders will never cease. You sounds right like the Queen.’ Florie pushes past Sam and gives Sophie a hearty hug. ‘Ellie said you’d be coming. I gots a good old Jiggs dinner cooking up for supper. We’ll feed you up some good here.’
Standing back, she sweeps her eyes over Sophie’s wrinkled velvet suit, dusty shoes and dishevelled hair. ‘I gots to say, girl, you looks like something the cat dragged in. We’ll get you in a shower so you can feel human again.’
‘Florie, are you giving our guest a hard time?’
Sophie glances towards the back room. A slender woman in her seventies, wearing a green bibbed apron over rolled-up jeans and a pink T-shirt, stands in the doorway. Her white hair is cut into a neat bob, and the toenails on her bare feet are polished bright pink. A pair of turquoise cat’s-eye glasses hangs from a cord around the woman’s neck. She smiles, and a web of fine lines fan out from her blue-grey eyes. ‘Sophie?’
‘Aunt Ellie?’
‘Well, I never thought I’d live to see the day.’ Holding out her arms, she pads across the polished wooden floor, enfolding Sophie in a hug and kissing her robustly on the cheeks.
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Ellie,’ Florie says as she winks at Sophie. ‘Your aunt’s an artsy-fartsy type.’ Florie regards Sophie with a critical eye. ‘You must takes after the other side of the family.’
‘How are your parents?’ Ellie asks as she stands back and surveys her niece.
She doesn’t know! Mum didn’t even bother to write Ellie to let her know that George had died. And now I have to tell her they’re both dead.
Sophie swallows and runs her tongue over her dry lips. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Ellie. Dad … he passed away. Ten … no eleven years ago now. He had a heart attack at work. Mum didn’t write to you?’
Ellie presses her hand to her mouth. Sophie notices her aunt’s fingers trembling against her lips.
Ellie takes a deep breath and shakes her head. ‘No. No, she didn’t. Poor George. I’m so sorry, Sophie. He was a lovely man. I knew him since I was six – did you know that? We were at school together. Right from kindergarten. Dottie must miss him terribly. How is she?’
Sophie bites her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Ellie. Mum’s gone too. Last year. Lung cancer. She was a smoker.’
‘Oh, Sophie.’ Ellie reaches out and pulls Sophie to her in a hug. ‘I’m so sorry. Your poor mother.’
Sophie leans awkwardly into the embrace as her aunt’s warm, bird-like body presses against her. Weren’t Ellie and Mum sworn enemies? Mum was never able to mention Ellie’s name without getting into a rant about her sister’s selfishness and cold-heartedness. This woman doesn’t seem anything like that.
Ellie steps back and shakes her head, her fine white hair swinging against her cheeks. ‘Poor Dottie. I’d always hoped to see her again. To see them both. She was so upset with me, and I never really understood why. Everything was fine until I met Thomas. Then she changed.’ She sighs. ‘I wanted to work things out with her. Florie and I were just talking about a trip to England next year, weren’t we, honey?’
Florie wipes a cookie crumb from her lip. ‘God’s truth. Got the travel brochures in the desk up in the house.’
‘I’m sorry that didn’t happen, Aunt Ellie. Mum would have loved that.’ She wouldn’t have. Not at all. Mum wouldn’t have opened the door to Ellie. And Ellie and Florie would have been too much for her to handle. It’s a good thing they never made it to England.
‘Well, you’re with family here, Sophie. There’ll always be room for you at Kittiwake. Oh, it’ll be so lovely having you here, won’t it, Florie?’
‘Oh, Lord, yes, duck,’ Florie says as she hands Sophie a mug of steaming chocolate. ‘We’s got more rooms in that big old house than I can find. We’ll set you up right good. Stay as long as you likes.’
Sam waves his hand at Becca, who is on the floor, giggling soundlessly as the dogs jump over her. ‘Come on, Becca-bug,’ he says as he signs to her. ‘Time to go. Let’s get some supper.’
Becca springs to her feet and signs something back. Sam glances over at Sophie. ‘Becca wants to teach you something.’
‘Teach me something? I’m … I’m not sure …’
‘Just watch her and do what she does.’
Becca takes Sophie’s hand and tugs her towards a battered wooden table in front of the bay window. She pulls out a wooden chair and gestures for Sophie to sit.
Sam drags a chair from under the table and straddles it like a bike. ‘Do you know the old nursery rhyme about the cat who visits the Queen?’
‘Yes,’ Sophie says as she sets her mug of hot chocolate on the table. ‘I think I can remember it.’
‘Just say it, and Becca will sign. Then do what she does.’
Sophie glances over at Ellie and Florie who are standing beside a counter, Florie’s arm draped casually across Ellie’s shoulders. Ellie nods encouragingly. ‘Go on, Sophie. It’s easy.’
Sophie takes a breath. ‘Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?’ She watches Becca’s hands closely as she clumsily mirrors the signs.
‘I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.’ She glances at Sam. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.’
Ellie