This isn’t right. This is my home, too. I’m Ellie Parsons. I’m the wife of your son, Agnes. I’m a mother to Emmett. I’m Eleanor Mary Burgess Parsons. I’m a woman and I intend to live my best life, Agnes Parsons. I live here now. You’ll just have to get used to the idea, because I’m not going anywhere.
She juts out her jaw and pulls back her shoulders. There’s nothing wrong with bringing some flowers into the house. Into my house.
Ellie stomps up the steps and pulls open the screen door. Tossing the flowers onto the table, she heads over to the cupboard, shoving the pots and pans aside until she finds what she’s looking for.
‘What kind of racket do you think you’re makin’, girl? My teeth are fit to rattle out of my head.’
If you had any teeth left, you old bat. Ellie dips the metal pitcher into the bucket of water by the stove and sets it on the table. Picking up the flowers she sticks them into the pitcher.
Agnes sets down her knitting and glares at Ellie over the top of her glasses. ‘What are you, deaf as a cod, maid? Didn’t I tells you to throw them out?’
‘You did, indeed.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘But I fancy them, and I truly don’t see the harm in having a few flowers in the house.’
Agnes shoves the knitting aside and pushes herself out of the armchair. ‘Are you givin’ me lip, girl?’
Ellie folds her fingers around the back of a wooden chair to steady herself. ‘I am not. This is my home, too, and I’d like to have a few flowers for Emmy’s birthday.’
Agnes’s mouth falls open. ‘You … you—’
The thud of footsteps on the back porch. The screen door flies open and Ephraim strides into the kitchen, scratching his neck. ‘Jaysus God, those skeeters are some thick.’ He throws a stack of dried cod onto the table. ‘Well, look at that.’ He bends over and sniffs at the flowers. ‘Aren’t those lovely. Cheers the place right up.’
A smile tugs at the corners of Ellie’s mouth as she glances over at Agnes. ‘Yes, don’t they? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go check on Emmy.’
***
Ellie roots through the baking sheets and muffin tins in the cupboard beside the stove. ‘Have you seen the cake tins, Agnes? I’m sure I saw them here just the other day.’
The kitchen is silent except for the click of Agnes’s knitting needles.
Ellie rises to her feet. ‘Agnes? Have you seen the cake tins? I need to bake Emmy’s birthday cake.’
Agnes peers over at Ellie, her pale eyes as hard as the ice of a ballycatter along the shore. ‘Hasn’t seen them.’
‘Martha Fizzard hasn’t borrowed them?’
‘Martha Fizzard’s gots her own.’
Ellie kneels down on the faded green linoleum and pulls the contents out of the cupboard until they’re stacked around her like a fortress. ‘They’re not here.’
‘You must’a put them somewhere else last time you used them. If it wasn’t for your lack of sense, you’d have no sense at all.’
‘I put them back here. I know I did.’
‘Looks like there’ll be no birthday cake today.’
‘But Emmy’ll be so disappointed.’
Agnes holds up a knitted needle with half a toddler’s pink wool jumper. ‘The baby’s only three. He doesn’t knows what he doesn’t know.’
‘You hid them, didn’t you, Agnes.’
‘Never did any such thing.’
Rising to her feet, Ellie steps over the piles of pots and pans and pulls open the screen door.
‘Where’d you think you’re goin’, miss? You left a mess there in the kitchen.’
‘It’s Emmy’s birthday, and he’s going to have a birthday cake.’ The screen door slams behind her as she hurries across the yard and down the steps to the Fizzards’ house by the tickle.
That spiteful old woman! First the flowers and now the cake tins.
She says the words over and over again in her head as she makes her way to the Fizzards’: This is my home, too. This is my home, too. This is my home, too.
Chapter 53
Tippy’s Tickle – 12 September 2011
‘Have you spoken to them?’
Sophie glances at her bedroom door and turns down the volume on her laptop. ‘Give me some time. I’ve only just arrived, Richard. I have to find the right way to do this. Most of the people in Tippy’s Tickle have been living here all their lives. It’s their home.’
Richard removes his round, black-framed glasses. He huffs on the glass and wipes the lenses with a white handkerchief. ‘Sophie, we don’t have time. You know what we can offer. It’s more than generous. I don’t know why you’re making this so complicated. We only need the land around that big house on the cliff and access to the water for the marina. For a start, anyway. What’s that? Three, four properties? Everyone else can stay in their shacks, for all I care. Believe me, those folks will think they’ve won the lottery. They’ll be lining up once we start handing out the money.’
He picks up a tiny white china espresso cup in a thick-fingered hand and sips the coffee. He sets down the cup in its saucer, the chink of china resonating over the Skype connection. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the consortium Friday afternoon here in the boardroom at two. I want to give them some good news, Sophie.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Richard slides his glasses up the bridge of his large Roman nose. ‘Failure isn’t an option.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Richard shrugs, the neck of his black turtleneck sweater swamping his chin. ‘If you don’t get every one of those people signing up to sell by Friday, don’t bother coming back to New York.’
***
Becca runs up the road from the cottage towards Sam’s pickup truck, Bear loping at her heels, a stuffed dinosaur, frayed and faded, in his mouth. Standing with her hand on the pickup’s door handle, Sophie watches the girl approach; tall, like Sam, and so pretty in the loose floral cotton dress and oversized blue sweater embroidered with fabric flowers, her fine blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Sophie waves at her, signing, ‘Hello, Becca.’
Becca nods politely at Sophie, her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses the steely blue of a winter sea. ‘Hello, Sophie. How are you?’ she signs.
‘I’m well. It’s nice to see you.’
A shadow of a smile flicks across Becca’s face, then she climbs into the back of the pickup truck with Bear, making a nest for herself amongst the easels and blankets.
Florie hands Sophie a wicker picnic basket and a yapping dachshund. ‘Here you goes, maid. Make sure Hildy doesn’t get into the food. She almost had my finger off this morning when I was makin’ the cheese sandwiches.’
Sam turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters and chokes. He tries again, and the engine engages with a gritty whine. He leans out of the window. ‘Get in or we’ll miss the sun. It’s going to rain later.’
‘Sit in the front with Sam,’ Ellie says, coming up beside Sophie. ‘I get nervous when we’re driving along the coast. I’ll sit in the back with Florie.’