‘Holy God, he’s not jokin’!’
Ace thumps the Ugly Stick. ‘Hold your horses, I’m just about there, b’ys.’ He motions to Thor who is wiping a hand on his Rush T-shirt. ‘Bring up the fish, b’y. We’re gonna need her in a minute.’ Ace surveys the room. ‘Now, I hears we gots some Come From Aways here today.’
‘Gotta change that, son! Can’t have CFAs here!’
‘Screech ‘em in, b’y!’
Holding the dripping cod above his head, Thor weaves his way through the throng towards the counter. Ace bangs the Ugly Stick until the crowd quietens. ‘Now, we’s got to fix this situation ‘cause we all knows what happens to CFAs if they’d don’t gets Screeched in, don’t we?’
Emmett cups his hands around his mouth. ‘They stays CFAs!’
‘Right you are, Emmett Parsons! We can’t have that happen. So, will the followin’ CFAs approach the Ugly Stick – Miss Becca Byrne, Miss Sophie Parry and Miss Ellie Parsons!’
‘That’s three Screech-ins and the birthday, Ace! That’s four events, not three!’
Ace’s thick grey eyebrows draw together. ‘You gots more tongue than a logan, Toby Molloy!’
Sophie glances at Sam in panic. ‘What do they want me to do?’
He prods her forward. ‘There’s no getting out of this one, Princess Grace. Just do what he says.’
Becca walks over to Sophie. Smiling shyly, she grabs Sophie’s hand and pulls her to the front as Florie pushes Ellie forward.
‘Right you are, ladies! Give us the Screech bottle, Toby, and three glasses. What am I sayin’? Glasses all round!’
The room erupts in a cheer.
Ace splashes the dark rum into three shot glasses for the women and one for himself and hands the bottle to Toby. ‘Pass it around, b’y. We’re all gonna Screech them in. But first we needs some ceremony.’ He clears his throat and stamps the Ugly Stick.
‘Here’s to your health, and here’s to your gullet,
Drinks up the Screech, b’y; hangs on to your wallet.
Then when you’re done, don’t goes, m’ duck,
The cod’s here to kiss, and we all gives a—’ he waggles his bushy eyebrows ‘—buck.’
He waves at Emmett. ‘Emmett, b’y! Pass the hat. Pops your loonies and your toonies in the hat, b’ys and maids. We’re collectin’ for the cancer charity today.’ He taps Sophie on her shoulder with the stick. ‘Now, m’dear, you gots to kiss the cod.’
‘I have to what?’
‘Kiss the cod, girl. G’wan. Best to do it before she thaws out all the way. Give her a right smack on the kisser.’
Thor holds the dripping fish up to Sophie. Screwing up her nose, she puckers up and gives the mouth a quick peck. The crowd erupts with whoops.
‘There you goes, maid. That’s how it’s done.’ Thor moves along to Becca who pinches her nose and kisses the fish. Ellie pushes the sleeves of her pink turtleneck sweater up her arms and plants a kiss smack on its mouth. The room thunders with cheers.
Ace holds up his shot glass of rum. ‘Now, they says that one day a fella gave an American GI here a glass of Newfoundland rum back in the war. The GI gulped it down and let out an almighty screech. And that, so they say, is how Screech gots its name. Up to the lips and over the gums, watch out gullet, here she comes!’
An accordion wheezes into a lively tune. Sophie sets her empty glass on the counter and holds her hand up to Ace. ‘Pull me up.’
‘What’s that, maid?’
Sophie steps onto a chair. ‘Pull me up.’
Ace grabs her hand and hauls Sophie onto the wooden counter. She takes the Ugly Stick and pounds it on the countertop. ‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’
Sam stands on a chair and whistles. ‘Oi! Quiet!’ The room settles into a low buzz.
Sophie licks her lips and glances at Ellie. ‘I’ve got news about the hotel and the golf course.’
The room hums with boos.
‘They turfin’ us out, maid?’
‘They’ll have to drag me out by my boots!’
She clears her throat. ‘As you know, the consortium for the hotel development met with Richard Niven Architects in New York this afternoon. I’d advised Richard this morning of your unanimous decision not to sell, but the consortium didn’t consider that an impediment to pursuing the project. They felt,’ she clears her throat, ‘they felt they could, well, they could pay you more money.’ She glances at Ellie. ‘A lot more money.’
‘Ten million, you gots yourself a deal!’
‘Start practisin’ your golf swings, b’ys!’
Sophie glances at Sam. ‘I know the golf course is controversial, but the consortium believes that the development would benefit Tippy’s Tickle by bringing employment into the area and by rebranding the town with a new name.’
‘A new name? What’s wrong with Tippy’s Tickle?’
‘Old Tippy’s turnin’ down in Davy Jones’ Locker, b’y!’
She raises her voice. ‘They’ve decided on … They’ve decided on Walrus Heights for the new name.’
‘Walruses? There’s no walruses in Tippy’s Tickle!’
‘’Cept for old Thor, there! He’s the spit of a walrus!’
Sophie clears her throat again. ‘Anyway, this was the state of play until—’ she takes a deep breath ‘—I’m afraid I accidentally attached the video I took of the whales beaching themselves to my feasibility report for the consortium.’ She glances at Sam. A smile slowly forms on his face.
‘I’ve been informed that the investors found it most distressing – which, of course, it was for all of us. They feel, very strongly, that they can’t risk any incidents like this happening to the Walrus Heights Golf Resort and Spa. Consequently, they’ve decided not to proceed further with this project in Tippy’s Tickle.’
The room thunders into cheers. Sophie stamps the Ugly Stick, setting the bottle caps jingling. ‘I also want to say that I’ve tendered my resignation from Richard Niven Architects effective—’ she looks at her watch ‘—effective today at two o’clock New York time. Three-thirty Newfoundland time.’
‘You go there, Sophie, girl!’
‘She’s a right Newfoundlander now!’
Becca climbs onto the counter beside Sophie. ‘I have something to say,’ she signs to the crowd. Toby Molloy steps onto a chair to translate her signs, his clear green eyes exposed by a recent haircut. Becca looks over at Toby, her face luminous. She holds up her hand, a gold band circling her ring finger. ‘Toby and I are married!’ She pats her flat stomach. ‘And we’re expecting a baby!’
Chapter 72
Norwich – 1 December 1961
Dottie leans over to air kiss Marion Humphrey’s jowly, over-powdered face. A whiff of musky perfume assaults her nose, and she pushes her tongue against her teeth to suppress a sneeze.
‘That was a lovely luncheon, Marion. It looks like everything is on course for the hospital auxiliary Christmas Fair. Your husband has been so generous sponsoring the event.’