Sophie waves her hand at him. ‘No, really. I’m fine.’
Becca claps her hands and signs to her.
‘Becca insists,’ Sam says, approaching her.
‘No, Sam. Really …’
Too late.
‘Sam!’ She glares at Sam as she wipes at the icing smeared across her face and licks cake and icing off her lips.
‘Ooh, Sam,’ Florie says, sucking the air in between her teeth. ‘You’re playing with fire, there, b’y.’
Becca jumps around the kitchen clapping her hands, setting the dachshunds off into a chorus of yapping.
Sophie licks her finger and nods. ‘Wow. You’re absolutely right, Sam. That really is very good chocolate cake. Cut me another piece, will you, Florie?’
***
Emmett picks up the guitar and begins to strum a jig, his long fingers flying over the strings.
‘Doxxies are all tucked up in the kennel,’ Florie says as she enters the kitchen through the screen door. ‘Well, now, looks like the party’s started! C’mon, Rupert, out you go, you big lump. We needs space to stomp about.’ She beckons to Becca. ‘C’mon, duckie. Music’s started. That’s our cue.’
Becca runs ahead of Florie out into the hallway. A few minutes later, the reedy bellowing of an accordion and a tinny jangling announce their return. They march into the room and around the table, Florie pounding out a harmony to Emmett’s jig on the accordion. Becca jabs what looks like a rubber-booted mop hung with bottle caps onto the floor while she hits the caps with a drumstick.
Sophie points to the stick. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘It’s an Ugly Stick,’ Sam says as he pulls a harmonica out of the pocket of his jean jacket. ‘It’s not a kitchen party without one.’ He joins in on the harmonica as Ellie drums out the rhythm on the table top with her hands.
Emmett segues into another spirited tune, similar to the Irish music Sophie had heard once in a Dublin pub, when she’d been entertained by an Irish client who’d had more on his mind than the design of his restaurant. Becca thrusts the Ugly Stick and drumstick at her.
‘Have a go, Sophie,’ Ellie says. ‘Go on.’
Sophie stares at the disfigured mop. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know how.’
Becca brushes her right hand twice against the back of her left.
‘It’s easy, Princess Grace,’ Sam says as he gets up to get some more beer from the fridge. ‘Just bash at it.’
‘Thump it on the floor, duck, and whack it with the drumstick,’ Florie says as she squeezes a tune out of the accordion.
Sophie jabs the Ugly Stick’s rubber boot onto the linoleum. She whacks at the bottle caps, releasing a tinny jangle.
‘There you goes, duckie,’ Florie says as taps her foot to the music. ‘You’re a natural. You don’t needs any talent at all to plays the Stick.’
Ellie taps Becca’s shoulder. ‘Come on, sweetie. Let’s go dance.’
Becca sits on the floor and pulls off her running shoes. Soon, the two of them are stamping their feet and twirling around the kitchen floor as Rupert adds a baseline of woofs from outside on the porch.
***
Florie picks up the dozing child. ‘Time for bed, duckie. School day tomorrow.’
Sam glances at his watch. ‘Sorry, Florie. Lost track of time. We should be going.’
‘Don’t be silly, Sam,’ Ellie says as she pours out several cups of tea. ‘It’s not that late. We’ll put her in the attic room. She loves it up there.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Yes, don’t be silly.’ Ellie looks over at Emmett who is tightening the guitar strings. ‘Emmy, play the ‘St John’s Waltz’. I love that one.’
Emmett nods and, strumming out the first lilting chords, begins to sing the ballad in a strong, melodic voice.
Sam holds out his hand to Sophie. ‘Let’s have a go, then, maid.’
Sophie stares at his hand. Nodding, she slips her hand into his. ‘All right.’
He leads her onto the floor and takes her into his embrace. She closes her eyes and leans into him, letting the warmth of his body and the lilting song dissolve her hesitation.
‘Are you having a good time, Princess Grace?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. I’m having a wonderful time.’
‘Best kind.’ Pulling her closer, he leans his cheek against hers as they dance to Emmett’s warm tenor singing out the words of the waltz.
Chapter 42
London, England – 28 December 1943
The thunder of the ack-ack guns on Clapham Common fills the night air, like the harbinger of a storm encroaching on the city. Ellie and Thomas turn left under the rail bridge and head down Balham High Road. At the greengrocer’s they dodge across the street and hurry between the tall brick pillars flanking the driveway into Du Cane Court. The hulking shape of the Art Deco building obliterates the sky, its presence only hinted at by the clouds reflected in the moonlit windows.
Ellie follows Thomas through the revolving doors into an elegant marble-tiled lobby. They skirt around the fat black columns uplighting the white ceiling and head towards the lift. The building manager, looking dapper in a brown double-breasted suit, lurks behind the sweeping black lacquered reception desk. A microphone is in his left hand and his face is puckered with annoyance.
‘Excuse me?’ he says, covering the microphone with his hand. ‘May I help you?’
Thomas heads over to the desk and extends his hand. ‘Hello, there. Is Reg off tonight, then?’
The building manager raises an arched eyebrow. ‘Am I meant to know who you are?’ He sweeps his eyes over Ellie’s feathered fedora and the tweed coat she has obviously remade from a man’s overcoat.
‘I’m Frank Edwards’s cousin. Twice removed, or somethin’ like that. Over from Newfoundland.’ Thomas holds up a key. ‘He’s lettin’ us use his flat for a couple of days while I’m on leave.’
Ellie peels off a leather glove and holds up her left hand. A thin gold band shines on her ring finger on top of her engagement ring. ‘It’s our honeymoon.’
The manager holds up a slender finger and leans into the microphone, which is connected by a thin wire cord to the building’s integrated wireless system. ‘Du Cane Court calling! Du Cane Court calling! A flat on the second floor in H block has the light on, and the blackout curtains are not drawn.’
The lift dings and the door slides open. A young, dark-haired woman in a black raincoat and a headscarf tied under her chin steps out into the lobby.
‘Good evening, Miss Freeman,’ the manager says as the young woman walks by, her shoes clicking on the terrazzo floor. ‘Isn’t it rather late to be going out?’
‘Good evening, Mr Jackson,’ she calls over her shoulder as she heads out the revolving door. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
The manager clears his throat and looks at Thomas. ‘You have a marriage licence, I assume?’
‘Why’s it I knew you’d ask me that?’ Thomas unzips his leather satchel and removes a folded piece of paper. ‘Here you goes. Signed, sealed and delivered, fresh from Wandsworth Registry Office.’