style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Please make your way out the front doors here, folks. We’ve gots a bus ready to take you to Lewisporte. It’s a lovely spot on the coast. We’re puttin’ you up at the high school there. It may not be the Ritz Carlton, but you’ll have beds and blankets and all the tea in China. Delta Flight Fifteen, off you goes.’
Sophie pushes through the surging bodies. ‘Excuse me!’
‘Hello, m’dear.’ The man points at the doors with the megaphone. ‘Are you Delta? Just follow the crowd through the doors there.’
‘What’s happening? Why are we getting moved? I’ve got to get to New York. I’ve got an important meeting first thing in the morning.’
The man clucks his tongue. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be happenin’, m’dear. The planes are all stayin’ here till further notice.’
‘You don’t understand. I’ve got to get to New York. I’ve just got to.’
The man shakes his head, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘Don’t you worry, m’love. We’ll gets you there as soon as we can. The last I heard it’s goin’ to be a few days yet. Things aren’t lookin’ too good in New York right now.’
‘What’s happened? Someone said something about the World Trade Center. I tried to call New York, but none of the phones are working. They said one of the payphones was working, but it’s not anymore.’
The man’s fleshy red face clouds over. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
The crowd surges forward, knocking Sophie into the stocky man. ‘I’m sorry, m’dear. I’ve gots to get this bunch back under control.’ He presses the megaphone to his mouth. ‘C’mon, now, behave nice or I’ll be asking you to do this single file like the nuns makes them do down at Notre Dame Academy. Orderly fashion, please! Delta Fifteen. Is that all of you?’
Sophie squeezes through the crowd back to the bird statue. She sets the Foodland bag on the floor beside her case. Her heart pounds against her ribcage like a mallet. It’s like her future is on a raft that’s drifting out to sea. One more wave and it’ll be gone forever.
She reaches into her shoulder bag and fumbles for her change purse. Her fingers rub against the edges of her old green leather address book, wedged into an inner pocket. Slipping it out of her bag, she flips through the flimsy blue pages full of scribbles and crossings-out. D, E, F, G, H. There it is. Parsons. Ellie Parsons. 1 Tizzard’s Point, Tippy’s Tickle, Newfoundland. No phone number.
She tucks the address book into her bag and heads back to Mavis.
There’s no bloody way I’m bunking down with hundreds of strangers on a gym floor. Aunt Ellie, you’re about to meet your niece. Surprise!
‘Hello, my love.’ Mavis greets her, picking up a plastic cup. ‘Tea?’
‘No thanks. I was just wondering, have you heard of a place called Tippy’s Tickle?’
‘Tippy’s Tickle? Well, sure. It’s up the coast past Gambo. Back of beyond, and that’s sayin’ a lot in these parts.’
‘I have an aunt there. I’d like to try to get in touch with her but I don’t have a phone number.’
‘Well, duckie, today’s your lucky day.’ Mavis drops a teabag into the styrofoam cup. ‘Sure you don’t want some tea?’
Sophie shakes her head. ‘What do you mean, today’s my lucky day?’
‘We’ve gots somebody here from Tippy’s Tickle.’
Sophie’s heart leaps. ‘You do?’
‘We sure does, duck. I’ll go give them a holler.’
Sophie watches Mavis disappear through a door. Her stomach rumbles. The last thing she’d eaten was half a stale cheese sandwich the night before. Eyeing the tray stacked with beige cookies oozing red jam, she grabs one and takes a tentative bite.
‘I told you you had to try a Jam Jam.’
She looks up to see the biker grinning at her. ‘You?’
Mavis smiles, displaying a set of bright white dentures. ‘Here you goes, duckie. This is Sam Byrne. He lives in Tippy’s Tickle. Didn’t I say it was your lucky day?’
Sam sweeps an arm towards the front doors of the terminal. ‘Miss Julie awaits.’
‘Miss Julie?’
‘My bike. Named her after Julie Christie. Saw Doctor Zhivago at least ten times over at the Popular Theatre in Grand Falls when I was a kid. My uncle Jerry at the candy counter used to sneak me a Cherry Blossom if I promised to behave. Well, he wasn’t really my uncle. We all just called him uncle.’
‘I imagine that was hard for you.’ Sophie looks over at Mavis. ‘Maybe there’s a taxi I can take?’
‘A taxi to Tippy’s Tickle?’ Mavis laughs. ‘Did you hear that, Sam? No, m’dear. It’s too far for that. Sam’s your best bet unless you hires a car. Only they’re all out getting’ folks to Gambo and Lewisporte.’
‘Well, Princess Grace, it looks like I’m your man.’
Sophie rolls her eyes. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘You could always bunk up in the legion hall with a thousand others.’
Sophie fixes Sam with a glare that could freeze the Sahara. ‘I’m only going with you because Mavis knows you.’
‘Oh, you’ll be all right with Sam, duckie,’ Mavis says, patting Sophie’s arm. ‘Sweetest fellow you’d ever meet. Even all those years he was down in Boston didn’t rub it out of him. That’s as long as you don’t gets on his bad side. Now that’s another story. Whatever you do, you don’t wants to do that.’
Norwich, England – 27 July 1940
The late afternoon sun slides into Dame Edith’s attic art studio through a window filmed with a fine layer of dust. The light casts a halo around the helmet worn by the young woman perched on a stool in front of the artist. She holds a gas mask as she looks past the artist’s shoulder at Dame Edith’s parrot, Sir Ralph, who sits preening his rainbow plumage on his perch by the door.
Dame Edith thrusts her paintbrush at Ellie and wipes her hands on her beige gaberdine smock, smearing it with streaks of the cadmium yellow, raw sienna and chromium oxide green paints Ellie had had to rush out to Jarrolds to buy during her lunchtime.
‘That will do for today, Corporal Cross. When can you come by again? We’ll only need a couple more sittings. I’ll fill in the background scenery afterwards.’
The
