‘Oh, of course,’ Sophie says, momentarily disarmed by his unusual eyes, one the same blue-grey as Ellie’s, the other as brown as the mahogany table. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you too. You know, you’re my only cousin. My father didn’t have any brothers or sisters.’
Emmett scrapes butter and a dollop of blueberry jam onto a tea bun and takes a bite. ‘Pass the water, please.’
Sophie pushes the water jug over to him. ‘What do you do, Emmett?’
‘I builds boats. I fixes them too.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. That’s very good.’
Ellie pours out a cup of steaming tea. ‘Emmy works with Sam down by the tickle.’
‘Sam works for me.’
‘Yes, of course, darling. Emmy’s got Rod Fizzard’s old store – that’s a shed they used to gut the fish in – down on a wharf by the shore. What are you working on now, Emmy?’
‘Boat from Salvage.’ Emmett reaches for another tea bun. ‘A 1996 Sea Ray 330 Sundancer. Hull’s leaking.’
The door from the kitchen swings open and Florie ploughs into the dining room, her hand encased in a thick oven glove, carrying a plate of pink corned beef, cabbage and boiled vegetables swimming in gravy. She sets it down in front of Emmett. ‘There you goes, Emmy, b’y. Jiggs dinner, just how you likes.’
Emmett regards the steaming plate of food. Picking up his fork and knife, he addresses no one in particular.
‘Mustard, please.’
***
Sophie pushes the curtain – a cotton chintz printed with blue roses and pink ribbons, the colours long since softened by bleach and laundering – to one side, and raises the sash window. Leaning her elbows on the sill, she gazes across the edge of the stony cliff to the ocean beyond. The waning crescent of the moon throws a faint silver glow over the black landscape, its pale light catching the waves as they crest. As Sophie’s eyes adjust to the darkness, the sky comes alive with thousands of stars, shining like diamonds someone has scattered across a swathe of black velvet.
She’d expected to be in New York tonight. Eating a room service dinner as she flipped through the TV channels, the interview behind her. Debating with herself whether to spend money for the porn channel, but deciding against it when the last vestiges of Catholic guilt would prick her conscience. She might have ordered a small bottle of champagne, if the interview and her presentation had gone well. Picked up her mobile phone, and thumbed through the contacts, looking for someone to call, to let them know her good news. But there wouldn’t be anyone to tell. Not anyone who’d care.
She surveys the glittering sky and thinks of the thousands of people who’d been lost in the attacks in the United States the day before. Seeing the stars they would never again see, hearing the waves crash against the rocks below the cliff. Closing her eyes, Sophie sends them the sight of the stars and the sounds of the waves and the feeling of the cool breeze on her skin.
She doesn’t know what she is doing here, in this odd little place called Tippy’s Tickle. And why had her mother hated Ellie so much, Ellie who seems so perfectly lovely? And then there’s Florie. She’s what Poppy would’ve called a “character”. Emmett is a strange one. He doesn’t seem all that bothered about her, but, then, why should he be? She might share DNA with Ellie and Emmett and Becca, too, but they are all still strangers. Then there is Winny, the cousin she’s never heard of; Sam Byrne’s dead wife and Becca’s mother. What were the chances that she’d meet her late cousin’s widower in Gander Airport? How small is this place? And why is Sam working for Emmett? That seems like an odd set-up.
Didn’t Mavis at the airport say Sam had spent time in Boston? That’s why he sounded so different from the others, though she’d noticed the Newfoundland lilt slip in when he spoke to Wince at the garage. Such an irritating man. Calling her Princess Grace. What did he mean by that? Winny must’ve had the patience of a saint.
Why on earth had she thought seeking Ellie out was a good idea? Was it because, after years of devoting herself to her work at the expense of relationships, she was feeling … lonely? Sophie grunts. That’s ridiculous. She’s surrounded by people; her colleagues at the London practice, clients, builders, engineers, quantity surveyors, suppliers. There are a lot of people around her life, just no one in it.
She’d been curious to meet Ellie, that’s all. What’s wrong with that? Her parents were dead, and, as far as she’d been aware when she stepped off the plane, Ellie had been her only living relative. Now there were three: Ellie, Emmett and Becca.
Fate had conspired to put her down in Newfoundland. The least she could do was follow the thread, and find the answer to the question she’d wondered about all her life. What had happened between her mother and her aunt all those years ago, before Ellie left for Newfoundland? What did Ellie do to make Dottie hate her so much?
Norwich, England – 21 December 1940
Ellie jumps off the bus in front of the portico of the Samson and Hercules dance hall, where two chunky white-painted statues of the mythical figures hold up the porch roof. George waves at her from the top step, and she runs up to meet him and gives him a quick kiss on his cheek.
‘You look like a soldier in that outfit, Ellie.’
Ellie glances down at her navy uniform. ‘I’m sorry, George. It was busy over at the station. Fire over in Pegg’s Opening. It doesn’t take much for those old cottages to go up. It was just a cigarette this time that did it. I hope you don’t mind dancing with a girl in uniform.’
‘No, it’s nice. I just wish I’d known. I would have put on mine. It would have evened the balance.’
‘Don’t be silly, George. You look just fine.’ She smooths the white handkerchief that he’s tucked into the breast pocket of his brown wool suit jacket. ‘I can’t believe you managed to get us tickets. Everyone in town wanted to come to see The Squadronaires.’
‘Just lucky, Ellie. My boss was sent some tickets and his wife didn’t want to come.’
They push through the doors and through the crowd into the ballroom, the party dresses and suits of the recent past outnumbered by the khaki, Air Force blue and navy of uniforms. Paper-loop streamers hang from the ceiling and the Air Force dance band, The Squadronaires, handsome in their Air Force uniforms, are in full swing on the stage.
George squints at the room through his glasses. ‘Looks like all the tables are taken. We should’ve arrived before the interval.’
‘Oh, George, no one gets here before the interval,’ Ellie says as she bounces to the music. ‘Girls need time to get ready. Anyway, I’ve been at my desk all day. I want to dance, not sit.’
‘Fine, but I need a beer first. I’ll meet up with you over there by the stage. What would you like?’
‘Beer, please. Just a half.’ Ellie makes her way around the perimeter of the dancers until her way is blocked by the backs of a group of tall Newfoundlanders. ‘Excuse me.’ She clears her throat and shouts. ‘Excuse me!’ She pokes a broad shoulder.
The man turns around. ‘Well, there she is, after all this time.’ The smile lighting up his grey eyes. The long, handsome face. The name slips out of Ellie’s mouth before she has a chance to think. ‘Thomas Parsons.’
The smile turns into a grin. ‘You and my mam. The only two people who calls me Thomas.’ He hands his beer to one of his friends.