***
Thomas opens his eyes. He has landed amongst the branches of a long-dead bush on the hillside. His body is a map of pain, but none of it as bad as the fire emanating from his right boot. Raising his head, he sees his boot, bloated and distorted like a blown-out tyre. Above it his leg is a pulp of bone and shredded skin and wool. He falls back against the branches. His head throbs and he raises his hand to his forehead. When he looks at his hand it’s like it’s been dipped in a tin of red paint. Cold is seeping into his body. He shivers. He hopes it won’t take long.
He drifts. He’s in Cow Tower with Ellie. Moonlight streams in through the open roof, lighting her face in a silver glow. She takes his hand and guides it to her stomach. Her blue-grey eyes watch him as he cups the roundness.
‘Our child,’ she says. ‘We’re having a child.’
A flash of white light and his body is lifted as the explosion smashes into the hill beside him. His eyes fly open. The barrage goes off around him like an orchestra of war. Then, just as suddenly the guns stop.
He closes his eyes and lets his body float in the emptiness opening up to him. He is lying on a raft that is being pulled over the sea, bumping and dipping as the raft slides over the waves. He turns his head and sees the barnacled grey-black skin of a humpback whale slide into the sea. He’d had no idea there were whales in heaven. He turns his head to the other side and catches the dark eye of another whale before it disappears into the deep green waves.
When he wakes he is in a cave. There are others there, wounded, like him. They are moaning and crying out for their mothers and their lovers. In German.
A medical orderly leans over him. He removes Thomas’s helmet and wraps newspaper around his head. He says something to another orderly when he looks at Thomas’s leg. The word echoes around Thomas’s head like a ricocheting bullet.
Kaput. Kaput. Kaput.
Chapter 45
Tippy’s Tickle – 17 September 2001
‘Good morning, Princess Grace.’
Sophie opens her eyes. She smiles. ‘Good morning.’
Sam sits on the bed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, holding two mugs. ‘Coffee? Milk, no sugar, right?’
Sophie stretches under the tangle of sheets and sits up against the pillows. The large bed almost fills the room, its wooden headboard further evidence of Sam’s woodworking skills. Tucking a sheet around her body, she holds out a hand. ‘Thanks. That’s perfect.’
Sam watches her take a sip and smiles, fine lines fanning out from his dark eyes as his tanned, bearded face softens. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘I like you like this.’
Sophie runs her hand across her face. ‘I must look a mess. Is my mascara all smudged?’
‘Doesn’t matter. You look cute.’
‘Cute?’ She hands him back the mug. ‘I’ve never been accused of being cute before. Now I have to look.’
Sam sets the mugs down on a wooden chair beside the bed and reaches out for Sophie’s arm as she kicks at the sheets. Clambering over the covers, he rolls on top of her.
‘Sam. Sam, what are you doing?’
‘Just looking.’
Sophie flops back on the bed and watches him as he spreads her hair across the pillow. His eyes are lit with something she’s never seen in them before. Her stomach jolts, setting off the familiar anxiety in her solar plexus, like moths beating frantically for an escape. Oh shit.
He leans into her, pressing kisses, as light as a breath, along her neck.
She swallows. ‘I’m leaving soon, Sam. Today. I’m leaving today.’
‘I know,’ he says as he traces kisses along her jaw.
‘I’m … I’m not sure this is a good idea.’
‘Do you want me to stop?’
She shudders as a buzz runs up her body. ‘No. No, I don’t.’
***
Sophie stands at the window and sips her coffee as she rubs the flannel sleeve of one of Sam’s plaid shirts. Outside, just visible beyond the wooden railings of a deck and over the tops of the spruces growing below the hill, a sandy beach curves along the shoreline, framed by a green-black backdrop of conifers. Tickle-aces duck and glide over the choppy water, peeling away like Spitfire pilots when a bald eagle spins into the cove, claws outstretched, and plucks a squirming fish from the water. If only I could stay. But I can’t. I just can’t.
‘I see you found the coffee pot.’
She turns around. ‘Yes. I had to step over Rupert in the kitchen to get to it. Much better than the coffee in the store.’ She nods towards the wood burner. ‘Fire’s out.’
Sam walks barefoot out of the bedroom in his jeans and T-shirt, towelling his wet hair. He drops the towel onto the sofa and comes up behind Sophie, wrapping her in his embrace. The scent of soap lingers on his body as his warmth envelops her.
‘How’s that?’
‘Better.’ She turns around, and reaching her arms around his neck, pulls him into her kiss.
A crash of glass from the kitchen. Rupert’s deep woof.
‘Becca?’
Becca stands by the kitchen counter, her eyes wide, a river of orange juice snaking across the wooden floor between islands of shattered glass. Spinning around, she dashes towards the porch. The slam of the screen door.
‘Becca! Becca, wait!’ Sam races out of the room after his daughter, Rupert galloping behind barking.
Sophie stands on the braided rug, shivering as the chill of the unheated cottage filters through to her skin. Her stomach jolts and drops, like she is falling through air. Bloody hell, Sophie. What have you done now? She sets the mug down beside the photo of Sam and his family, and stumbles across the braided rug into the bedroom.
Chapter 46
Norwich, England – 11 August 1944
‘Good heavens.’
Dottie spins around on the stool at Ellie’s vanity table, the cardboard lipstick tube primed and ready in her fingers. ‘I was just going to use a little bit.’ Her eyes widen. A wet patch spreads out over the Persian rug between Ellie’s slippered feet.
‘I think my water just broke.’
Dropping the lipstick tube on the vanity, Dottie leaps to her feet. ‘Is the baby coming?’
‘Yes. Yes. It’s coming.’ Ellie picks at her wet dressing gown and holds it away from her body. ‘You need to call the midwife. The number’s by the phone.’
‘The phone’s not working. They still haven’t fixed the line since the storm.’
Ellie cups her belly and shuffles over to the bed. ‘Hand me a towel, Dottie. Then go over to the school and use their phone.’
Dottie eyes her sister as she tosses her a towel. ‘Are you scared?’
‘A little. I wish Thomas were here.’
‘What if he—?’
‘Don’t even think it, Dottie. Thomas’s fine. One of these days he’s going to walk through our front door.’
‘But you haven’t had a letter for ages.’
Ellie presses her lips together. ‘Which is a good sign.’
‘You could always marry George instead, like you were supposed to.’
The fine line between Ellie’s eyes deepens. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m married to Thomas.’