The English Wife. Adrienne Chinn
‘I frightened a little mouse under her chair.’
Beaming brightly at Sophie, Becca wraps her arms around her in a hug. Ellie smiles at them across the table. ‘It looks like you’ve made a friend.’
Sam rises abruptly and frowns at Sophie. He pushes his chair under the table. ‘Becca has plenty of friends.’ He taps Becca on nose. ‘C’mon, Becca-bug. Supper time,’ he signs.
Becca kisses Sophie on her cheek and takes hold of Sam’s hand. Sophie watches them walk towards the screen door, spying Sam sneak a chocolate chip cookie from a plate on the counter to give his daughter, as Rupert drools.
‘It’ll ruin her supper,’ Florie calls after them as the screen door slams shut.
Sophie picks up the mug of hot chocolate and takes a sip. ‘What happened there?’
‘Don’t mind him, duck,’ Florie says. ‘He’s all right. He’s just overprotective of Becca since Winny passed.’
‘Winny?’
‘My daughter.’ Ellie rises from the table and walks over to the bay window, folding her arms as she looks out to the inlet beyond. ‘She died three years ago.’ Turning back to Sophie, she smiles sadly. ‘She would have been your cousin. It’s such a shame you never had a chance to meet.’
‘She was a beauty, was Winny,’ Florie says as she heads towards the back room. ‘Blonde like Ellie. You don’t look much like her. C’mon, let’s go have a scoff. I’m gut-foundered.’
Norwich, England – 7 August 1940
Ellie walks over to a wooden bench under an overgrown cedar and sits down, the tree’s branches sweeping out above her like the wings of a giant crow. She crosses her ankles and tucks her feet under the bench, steadying herself by pressing her hands into the rough grey wood. The mourners melt away, slipping back to their lives, far away from the eerie quiet of the cemetery.
Beside the graves, George talks to the priest. Ruthie, Richie, and their parents, Bryan and Peggy – the whole Huggins family – never waking up to see these trees and the sky, or eat fish and chips on the pier in Yarmouth on a hot August day. The raider had been back the next day, bombing Boulton and Paul’s Riverside Works and machine-gunning King Street on his way home. More deaths. More freshly dug graves under the leafy canopy of elms and oaks in the cemetery. And more to come – she is sure of that now.
George shakes the priest’s hand. Ellie watches him stride towards her, the vibrancy of the green grass under his feet somehow at odds with the mood that has settled over the ancient city. He’s lost weight; his dark grey suit hangs loosely on his body. He sits beside her and places his hand over hers. His is warm, reassuring, and she feels the tension in her fingers slowly dissolve.
‘Are you okay, Ellie?’
She bites her lip and looks at him, willing the tears not to come. Amazed that there are any tears left inside her.
‘No. No, I’m not.’ She dabs at her eyes with a white handkerchief. ‘I remember when I met Ruthie on our first day in Brownies, in the basement hall at St George’s. She’d tied her tie all wrong. I showed her how to do it. Pops had taught me. She shared some rock candy she’d saved from her summer holiday in Yarmouth. It was fuzzy from her pocket, but I didn’t mind.’ She blinks hard, balling her hands into fists. ‘It’s not fair.’
George squeezes her hand. ‘No, it’s not fair. But there’s nothing for it but to keep on going. Ruthie would want that.’
Ellie nods. ‘I know.’ She smiles sadly. ‘She knew every dance hall and picture house show going on in Norwich. She wasn’t one to sit at home waiting for things to happen.’
‘Then the best thing you can do for Ruthie is live your life, Ellie. Become an artist. I’ll always support you in that – you know that. I’m awfully proud of you, you know. You’re talented. Dame Edith wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t.’
Ellie sighs, the air rushing out of her lungs like bellows deflating. ‘That’s the thing, George. I’ve been standing at the easel in art class painting oranges and apples, and running all over Norwich searching for Prussian Blue, or Cobalt Violet or whatever tube of oil paint Dame Edith’s decided she needs urgently, and it just seems so pointless.’
She looks at George’s kind face, at his concerned brown-eyed gaze behind his glasses. ‘I couldn’t find the Cobalt Violet paint anywhere. I’d been to Buntings and I was on my way to Jarrolds, but when I got to Bethel Street my stomach was growling so I thought I’d nip into a tea shop to pick up a sandwich. There was a sign outside the fire station asking for women to join the Auxiliary Fire Service. I went in and I signed up.’
‘You signed up? In the fire service? Are you sure, Ellie?’
‘Yes, absolutely. I have my uniform and I’m to work as a clerk in a room above the fire engines. I start on Thursday.’
‘But what about your art classes? And Dame Edith?’
‘I’m cutting down the classes and I’m afraid I’m just going to have to tell Dame Edith I can’t help her anymore. It’s fine, George. I’ve decided. Susan Perry-Gore will be over the moon for a chance to work with Dame Edith.’
‘It’s dangerous work, Ellie.’
‘No more dangerous than sleeping in your bed when the air raid siren doesn’t go off.’
‘What did your father say?’
Ellie grimaces. ‘I haven’t told him yet. But, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind. We’re in the war now, George. The Germans are flying over here more regularly. And the War Office has the Newfoundlanders building pillboxes and fortifications all along the coast. Ruthie’s Uncle Jack in Fakenham heard some of them talking about it at the Limes. Swanning around being an art student is just selfish right now. I have to do something real. I have to do it for Ruthie. And for me.’
Tippy’s Tickle – 12 September 2001
‘Emmy! There you are.’
A warm, yeasty fragrance fills the room, and Ellie pushes a plate of freshly baked tea-buns and the butter dish across the mahogany dining table. ‘Sit down and have a bun. We’ve got your dinner heating in the oven. Florie’ll get it for you.’
Florie raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh, she will, will she?’
‘Yes, please, Florie. I have to make the introductions.’
Dropping her napkin beside her plate, Florie pushes her chair away from the table. ‘Florie do this, and Florie do that. I only stays with you because of your blueberry pudding, Ellie, you gots to know that.’
‘Just the blueberry pudding?’
‘Well, I’ll gives you your Yorkshire pudding too,’ Florie says as she pushes through the swing door to the kitchen.
Emmett Parsons slides his tall, thin frame onto the chair and lays a napkin neatly over his lap. His greying hair springs from his head in unruly waves, but otherwise his appearance is neat and orderly; his checked flannel shirt buttoned to the neck, his grey trousers neatly ironed, his brown shoes polished to a high gleam. Bowing his head, he presses his hands together and mumbles a prayer of thanksgiving.