the two curved gates, and a wooden bench, bleached grey, sits just inside the gate, with a view over the weather-battered headstones to the puffing ocean.
‘What are those?’ Sophie shouts into Sam’s ear, pointing at the water spouts.
‘Whales.’
‘Whales?’
‘Humpbacks. Minkes. Finbacks – they’re the second largest after the blue whale. We’ve got those too, down off the southwest coast. Sperm whales, of course. Orcas. Lots of dolphins. It’s whale paradise around here.’
Sam steers the bike through a village with box-like houses painted white, dark red and vivid blue. Ropes of bright orange buoys the size of bowling balls hang over peeling picket fences like necklaces. As they approach a small general store, a long-haired black dog the size of a small bear rushes out the door and down the white wooden steps, barking huskily.
‘Good grief!’ Sophie pulls her elbows into her body and huddles against Sam’s back.
Sam slows the bike to a stop and reaches out to the panting dog. ‘Hey there, Rupert. Did you miss me? Where’s Becca? Come on, let’s go find her and Ellie.’ He undoes the chinstrap of his helmet and winches it off his head. ‘Welcome to Tippy’s Tickle.’
Sophie takes off her helmet and slides her leg over the seat, her velvet skirt riding up her thighs despite her best efforts. Stumbling onto the gravel drive, she thrusts the helmet at Sam. ‘Why on earth is it called that?’
‘Tippy’s Tickle? Well, legend has it an old fisherman named Tippy saw a mermaid in the tickle here years ago.’
‘What’s a tickle?’
Sam points to the narrow inlet. ‘That is. Narrow inlets. We call them tickles here. They’re like fingers of water tickling the rock. Usually between islands or an island and the mainland. The church isn’t on an island, but the spit it’s on is close enough to an island. The church gets cut off sometimes in the spring. Then it really is an island and the only way to Sunday Mass is by boat.’
She tugs her skirt back into place. She looks up to catch Sam grinning at her. ‘What?’
‘I don’t think Tippy’s Tickle has seen quite the likes of you since old Tippy saw that mermaid.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She squints at the single-storey wooden building perching on a raised concrete foundation. Two large white-framed sash windows frame the white-screened door, and an odd octagonal bay clings onto the left side of the modest dark red clapboard building like the afterthought of a builder harbouring delusions of grandeur. A sign above the door reads F. Quick and E. Parsons, Props. in bright yellow letters.
‘What’s this place?’
‘It’s your aunt’s store.’ Sam dismounts and adjusts the bike’s kickstand. ‘It’s the heart and soul of the town. Ellie prints her art over in the room with the bay window when she’s not schooling Becca, and Florie sells it to any tourists who manage to find their way here, along with basic provisions. We get the tourists here for the icebergs in the spring and the whales in the summer. Ellie’ll probably be at the printing press with Becca this time of day.’
‘Who’s Florie?’
‘Ellie’s partner.’
‘Her partner?’
‘Yes. They’ve been together for years.’
‘Florie’s a …?’
‘Woman. Yes.’
Sam climbs the steps, Rupert at his heels, and calls out to the screen door. ‘Ellie! Florie! Becca! Roll out the red carpet. We’ve got company.’
Sophie follows Sam up the steps, clutching at the white-painted railing as the steps judder under his footsteps. ‘Who’s Becca?’
‘She’s my daughter.’
The door swings open and a small girl of about eight, her blonde hair tied into a messy braid and her face painted with bright pink and green dots and hearts, throws herself into Sam’s arms, gesticulating wildly with her fingers.
‘Florie painted your face? Yes, I can see that, Becca. What? She did? Let’s go see.’
Becca catches Sophie’s eye and pokes Sam on his shoulder, opening her hands in a question.
Sam glances at Sophie. ‘That’s Sophie. She’s come all the way from England. Remember that poem about the cat who went to London to visit the Queen? That’s where Sophie’s from.’
Sophie follows Sam and Becca through the screen door. Inside, long white-painted wooden counters stacked with boxes of art cards, homemade jams, rolls of colourful ribbon, plates of fat muffins, tempting cookies and red paper bags of something labelled hard tack flank the narrow walls in front of the sage green shelves displaying handmade glazed pottery and framed art prints.
Four lively dachshunds clatter through the doorway from a back room, followed by a sturdily built woman of about fifty, in paint-spattered jeans and a Joni Mitchell T-shirt.
‘C’mon in, c’mon in. You wants a cup of tea? I’ll get that sorted. How was it down in Gander, Sam? We’ve been watching the news and listening to the radio all day. Planes have been landing in St John’s and Stephenville too.’
Sam sets Becca down amongst the excited dogs. ‘It’s a bit crazy down there, Florie, but lots of people have been showing up to help. I was down there with the Warriors.’
Florie nods at Sophie. ‘Who’s this waif and stray, then?’
Sophie reaches out her hand. ‘Sophie Parry. I’m Ellie’s niece from London.’
‘You’re Dottie’s daughter, then? Thought you’d all forgotten about us out here. Wonders will never cease. You sounds right like the Queen.’ Florie pushes past Sam and gives Sophie a hearty hug. ‘Ellie said you’d be coming. I gots a good old Jiggs dinner cooking up for supper. We’ll feed you up some good here.’
Standing back, she sweeps her eyes over Sophie’s wrinkled velvet suit, dusty shoes and dishevelled hair. ‘I gots to say, girl, you looks like something the cat dragged in. We’ll get you in a shower so you can feel human again.’
‘Florie, are you giving our guest a hard time?’
Sophie glances towards the back room. A slender woman in her seventies, wearing a green bibbed apron over rolled-up jeans and a pink T-shirt, stands in the doorway. Her white hair is cut into a neat bob, and the toenails on her bare feet are polished bright pink. A pair of turquoise cat’s-eye glasses hangs from a cord around the woman’s neck. She smiles, and a web of fine lines fan out from her blue-grey eyes. ‘Sophie?’
‘Aunt Ellie?’
‘Well, I never thought I’d live to see the day.’ Holding out her arms, she pads across the polished wooden floor, enfolding Sophie in a hug and kissing her robustly on the cheeks.
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Ellie,’ Florie says as she winks at Sophie. ‘Your aunt’s an artsy-fartsy type.’ Florie regards Sophie
