The man scans the document and sniffs. ‘Indeed,’ he says, handing back the document. He waves Thomas and Ellie to the lift and leans into the microphone. ‘A reminder that Mrs Waring will be reading from her new book of poetry, Tea Leaves Tell the Tale, tomorrow night at eight o’clock in the dining room. Please be prompt as latecomers will not be accommodated.’
***
Thomas unlocks the door and Ellie follows him into the dark apartment. He feels his way around the sofa and pulls the blackout curtains across the large window. Ellie switches on the ceiling light and removes her hat, throwing her coat over the fat arm of a salmon-coloured velvet sofa. She watches Thomas fiddle between the two wireless stations until the strains of ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’ filter out of the wooden box.
She stands on the blue carpet, twisting her wedding band and engagement ring around her finger. ‘Tea?’
Walking over to her, Thomas takes her in his arms, leading her in a slow foxtrot. ‘I’m not thirsty.’ He leans his cheek against her hair. ‘I’ve dreamed about this moment. I’d lie awake in the tent in the desert, freezin’—’
‘You said in one of your letters it’s freezing in the desert at night. It’s hard to imagine.’
‘As cold as the North Atlantic in December.’
‘Oh, Thomas, you’re exaggerating.’
Thomas laughs. ‘Maybe a little. But I needs to paint you a picture. I was lyin’ there in the tent in the desert, listenin’ to Charlie snorin’ to beat the band. Night after night. Chasin’ the Germans about durin’ the day, freezin’ at night. So, I’d close my eyes and draw the picture of your face in my mind.’ He runs his fingers over a blonde curl. The corner of his mouth lifts in his crooked smile.
‘You kept me goin’, Ellie Mae. When we shipped out to Italy in October I was like a flea in a dog’s ear till they gave me leave. They let me come back with some of the poor fellas who’d been shot up so I could get as many as I could onto a hospital ship back to Halifax once they got patched up in London. They knew if anyone could swing it, I could.’
Ellie frowns. ‘Those poor men. What have we done with this world?’ She looks at Thomas. ‘I’m so glad you came back, Thomas.’
‘I had to. I told them I had a beautiful maid to marry.’ Thomas grabs her in a bear hug, lifting her up as he kisses her. ‘I missed you, m’darling.’ Setting her down, his eyes cloud over. ‘I’ve gots to get back on the hospital ship in Southampton day after tomorrow. Headin’ back to Italy, but don’t tell anyone. It’s top secret, but I trusts you.’
‘So soon? When will I see you again?’
‘As soon as I can, Ellie Mae.’ Thomas presses his cheek against hers as they sway to the music. ‘Did you miss me, just a mite?’
‘Nothing was the same in Norwich when I knew I wouldn’t bump into you somewhere. I’d go to Plantation Garden or Cow Tower, even in the market where you stole the hat from me, and I’d imagine you there. I’d imagine us there, together.’
‘And at the dances?’
‘At the dances, too.’
Thomas laughs. ‘So, you went out to all the dances, did you? While I was freezin’ my arse off in the desert! There’s love for you!’
‘It was just George.’
‘Poor old George. I swears if I’d been gone longer he would have gotten that ring on your finger. They say it’s those quiet ones you’ve gotta watch.’ Thomas taps his eyebrow. ‘George gots his eye on you, even if it’s a blind one.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
A deep laugh rumbles from Thomas’s throat. ‘Oh, no? He was down on one knee the other night.’
Ellie expels an exaggerated sigh. ‘He had a ring and everything. I feel quite bad about it, actually.’
‘All’s fair in love and war.’ Thomas slips his hand under Ellie’s knees and lifts her into his arms. Laughing, she wraps her hands around his neck.
‘What do think you’re doing, Mr Parsons?’
‘Carryin’ you over the threshold, Mrs Parsons.’
‘But we’re already inside.’
Thomas crosses to the door and pulls it open. He steps into the hallway. Ellie squeals as he adjusts his grip on her.
The door to Number 23 across the hall jerks open and a stout woman in her fifties, in a flowered housecoat and a hairnet, glares at the giggling pair.
Thomas reaches up to tip his beret, prompting another squeal from Ellie.
‘Don’t mind us, Missus. It’s our honeymoon. We’ll be quiet as mice.’
Chapter 43
Tippy’s Tickle – 16 September 2001
Sophie follows Sam and Rupert down a path winding between the spruce trees swaying wildly in the wind being blown across the island by tropical storm Maria. Nestled in a clearing at the bottom of the path, the white clapboard siding of the cottage is a soft grey in the night light, and its angled roof, split to accommodate clerestory windows, juts into the dark sky like a tectonic plate pushing its way skywards.
Pausing on a slate stepping stone, Sophie examines the building as the wind plasters Florie’s jumper against her body. ‘This looks a lot different from the other houses around here.’
Sam comes up behind her and leans his chin on her shoulder. ‘That’s because I built it.’
Sophie’s heart thrums in her chest. ‘You built it?’
‘Welcome to Bufflehead Cottage.’
‘Bufflehead?’
‘It’s a small sea duck that puffs out the feathers on its head to make it look bigger. Becca chose the name from a picture book of Newfoundland birds.’ Taking hold of Sophie’s hand, Sam leads her down the final steps to the front door. He twists the doorknob and then pushes the door open.
‘You don’t lock your door?’
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Ellie doesn’t lock hers either.’
‘Welcome to Tippy’s Tickle. Come on, I’ll show you around.’
They walk through the enclosed porch and under an archway, Rupert lumbering on ahead, into a large open-plan room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides and a wall with four green doors on the fourth. Sam flicks on a switch and light washes over the room from fixtures hidden amongst the exposed beams. A small hand-built kitchen with cupboards painted bright yellow nestles in a corner of the room, separated from the living area by a large fishing net draped from the ceiling, hung with a collection of seashells and driftwood.
Rupert flops onto a large braided rug as Sam strides over to a black wood-burning stove in a corner of the living room. After stuffing in logs and kindling, he lights the wood with a match. He gestures to the room. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’
Sophie surveys the wood-clad walls and the soaring angled ceiling with its row of high-level windows. The furniture is an eclectic mix of comfortable sofas, old antiques and Sam’s hand-made furniture pieces: a long dining table with edges following the tree’s natural contours; benches almost austere in their simplicity; a rocking chair with slender rockers like curved skis; an armchair with wide flat armrests and a frame similar to a barrel with seat cushions in woven wool; a chair like a large basket hanging from a beam in the corner. She walks over to the windows facing the seaside, but the night is moonless and the sky heavy with cloud, although the sweep and wash of the waves hums through an open window. She notices a framed photograph on a table near the window; Sam, beardless and younger, with an attractive, long-haired blonde woman who is cradling a baby.