Sophie taps a drawing with her pencil. ‘What are you drawing?’
Sam unrolls the drawing and sets Sophie’s coffee mug on one corner while he holds the other down with his left hand. ‘I had an idea for retreat cabins. We’ve got all sorts of artists finding their way up here in the summer. Painters, writers, textile artists, photographers … you name it. They see some pictures online, and the next thing you know, they’re showing up at Florie’s asking where they can stay for a few months. Some of the locals rent out rooms, but there’s no place for them to do their art except around Ellie’s art table in the store or on someone’s kitchen table. So, I came up with an idea for these cabins.’
Sophie leans over the plan drawings. A simple square room clad in plywood, with a tiny toilet and kitchenette, and a log burner in the open-plan main room.
‘This looks great, Sam. Could I … would you mind if I made a few suggestions?’
‘Sure.’
Sophie slides a blank piece of paper across the table and draws a truncated cube, its far wall replaced by a plane of glass, with a deck protruding from the side wall like a platform.
Standing back from the table, she cocks her head and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘What do you think? We could keep the interior simple, play with a mix of plywood and cladding painted white, and paint the exterior in the colour of the stores I’ve seen – red, white, some blue, you know. Let the deck go silver like the wharves.’
‘Looks good. I like it.’
‘I just tweaked it a bit, that’s all. We could play with the shapes. Maybe make one triangular, even a circle. I can do some drawings while I’m here. They won’t take me long.’
Sam laughs.
‘What?’
‘You said we. Twice.’
‘Did I? I meant you. Or me. Drawing. You know.’ Sophie feels the blood rise in her face. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.
‘I like it. I like that you said that.’
‘Yes, well.’ She clears her throat. ‘Where were you thinking of putting them?’
‘Thought I’d put a couple down along the coast the other side of the beach, and one on the cliff the other side of Kittiwake.
‘On the cliff?’
‘Yes, it’s a great spot. I haven’t found better along the coast here. I’ve been looking for the past year. I bought the land six months ago.’
‘You bought the land?’
‘Yes. Down by the beach too. Ellie and Florie wouldn’t sell to anyone else. That’s why I’ve still got the old pickup and Florie has new kennels.’ He grins. ‘Priorities. Thought I’d snatch up the land before some CFA speculator put a hotel or a condo up there.’ He laughs. ‘Can you imagine it?’
Sophie laughs. ‘No. That would be ridiculous.’ She clears her throat again. ‘So, you’re planning to build these artists’ retreats there. Won’t they be … intrusive?’
‘No. Look at the size of these. They’re small, and I’m using local materials. Compost toilets. That sort of thing. They’re not going to affect the landscape like a huge development would.’
Sophie rolls up her sketch and hands it to Sam. ‘How are you going to build these when you barely have staff to fill your furniture orders, let alone the time it takes you to do your construction work?’
He shrugs. ‘I’ll find a way.’
‘What about just moving to St John’s? You could make your furniture just as easily there, and have a showroom. A lot more people will see your work. You’d be close to Becca, too, when she’s at university.’
‘I’m sure Becca will be thrilled not to have her old dad hanging around. Besides, I like it here. It’s grown on me.’
‘So, you do have a girlfriend.’
Sam laughs. ‘I don’t think Bear would appreciate being called my girlfriend.’
He reaches out, his fingers hovering near Sophie’s cheek. She leans away from his hand. ‘Sam, I—’
He drops his hand. ‘Right. Take it easy, Princess Grace.’ Turning to the big dog who is lying on the floor like a black rug, he claps his hands. ‘Bear! C’mon, Bear!’ He heads out past the kitchen and into the porch. The door slams.
Sophie stares at the flashing cursor. What am I doing? It’s just like last time. It’ll never go anywhere with Sam. So, why do I want it to such much?
And now Sam owns half the land the consortium wants. And Ellie and Florie own Kittiwake and the shop.
Maybe she can convince her aunt to sell – the stairs up to the house can’t be that easy for her to climb anymore. Especially in the winter with the snow and ice. And if Ellie went, so would Florie, that was a given. But, where would they go? She could suggest Florida. Lots of Canadians retire down there. She could talk up the weather. But Sam would never move, no matter how much money Richard and the consortium waved in front of him.
Sam is a problem.
Chapter 58
Tippy’s Tickle – 24 October 1949
‘Mrs Parsons! This is a surprise.’
Agnes Parsons eyes the new schoolteacher. Sensible-looking enough. Good shoes, plain dress. Wool cardigan, which you’d expect this time of year. Short dark hair in the permanent wave everyone’s doing now. Odd-shaped glasses, though. Like cats’ eyes. Town woman, that’s for sure.
‘Why should it be a surprise? Emmy here’s my grandson. I’ve come to fetch him home from school.’
‘Is Ellie not well?’ Bertha Perkins asks as she buttons the last button on Emmett’s pink jumper. ‘She always picks up Emmett.’ She pulls the matching pink wool cap over his wavy brown hair and pats his head.
‘She’s brewed a cold. Took to her bed.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Please give her my best wishes.’
‘English, you see. Weak as a bent branch in a storm.’
‘Oh dear. Is there anything I can do? Bring over some soup?’
Agnes screws her face into a frown. ‘You sayin’ my soup’s not good enough?’
‘No, no, of course not. I’m sure your soup is very good, Mrs Parsons. I just thought to be helpful.’
Agnes huffs. ‘We don’t needs charity. We can takes care of our own.’ She takes hold of Emmett’s hand. ‘Come on, b’y. Let’s go.’
Bertha Perkins watches the older woman pull the small boy along the path from the church’s basement hall. ‘Lovely to see you, Mrs Parsons! Give my best to Ellie!’
No response. She pulls her blue cardigan close around her body and closes the door.
***
Ellie rolls over under the covers and reaches for the handkerchief on the bedside table. She blows into the handkerchief and coughs hoarsely. Flopping back against the pillows, she pulls the covers up to her chin.
She should get up. There was supper still to make, and Thomas’s trousers to mend for tomorrow. At least Agnes had gone to collect Emmy. Agnes would never admit it, of course, but she had a soft spot for her grandson. If only she’d stop knitting Emmy girls’ clothes. Thomas was right. He’d start getting ribbed, now that he was in school.
She closes her eyes and succumbs to the aches throbbing through her body. The last time she’d been this sick she’d been back home in Norwich, tucked up in bed in her old room, Poppy filling her hot water bottles and Dottie bringing her hot lemon and honey for her throat. Before Thomas. Another life.