‘Are you okay, Ellie?’
She bites her lip and looks at him, willing the tears not to come. Amazed that there are any tears left inside her.
‘No. No, I’m not.’ She dabs at her eyes with a white handkerchief. ‘I remember when I met Ruthie on our first day in Brownies, in the basement hall at St George’s. She’d tied her tie all wrong. I showed her how to do it. Pops had taught me. She shared some rock candy she’d saved from her summer holiday in Yarmouth. It was fuzzy from her pocket, but I didn’t mind.’ She blinks hard, balling her hands into fists. ‘It’s not fair.’
George squeezes her hand. ‘No, it’s not fair. But there’s nothing for it but to keep on going. Ruthie would want that.’
Ellie nods. ‘I know.’ She smiles sadly. ‘She knew every dance hall and picture house show going on in Norwich. She wasn’t one to sit at home waiting for things to happen.’
‘Then the best thing you can do for Ruthie is live your life, Ellie. Become an artist. I’ll always support you in that – you know that. I’m awfully proud of you, you know. You’re talented. Dame Edith wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t.’
Ellie sighs, the air rushing out of her lungs like bellows deflating. ‘That’s the thing, George. I’ve been standing at the easel in art class painting oranges and apples, and running all over Norwich searching for Prussian Blue, or Cobalt Violet or whatever tube of oil paint Dame Edith’s decided she needs urgently, and it just seems so pointless.’
She looks at George’s kind face, at his concerned brown-eyed gaze behind his glasses. ‘I couldn’t find the Cobalt Violet paint anywhere. I’d been to Buntings and I was on my way to Jarrolds, but when I got to Bethel Street my stomach was growling so I thought I’d nip into a tea shop to pick up a sandwich. There was a sign outside the fire station asking for women to join the Auxiliary Fire Service. I went in and I signed up.’
‘You signed up? In the fire service? Are you sure, Ellie?’
‘Yes, absolutely. I have my uniform and I’m to work as a clerk in a room above the fire engines. I start on Thursday.’
‘But what about your art classes? And Dame Edith?’
‘I’m cutting down the classes and I’m afraid I’m just going to have to tell Dame Edith I can’t help her anymore. It’s fine, George. I’ve decided. Susan Perry-Gore will be over the moon for a chance to work with Dame Edith.’
‘It’s dangerous work, Ellie.’
‘No more dangerous than sleeping in your bed when the air raid siren doesn’t go off.’
‘What did your father say?’
Ellie grimaces. ‘I haven’t told him yet. But, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind. We’re in the war now, George. The Germans are flying over here more regularly. And the War Office has the Newfoundlanders building pillboxes and fortifications all along the coast. Ruthie’s Uncle Jack in Fakenham heard some of them talking about it at the Limes. Swanning around being an art student is just selfish right now. I have to do something real. I have to do it for Ruthie. And for me.’
Tippy’s Tickle – 12 September 2001
‘Emmy! There you are.’
A warm, yeasty fragrance fills the room, and Ellie pushes a plate of freshly baked tea-buns and the butter dish across the mahogany dining table. ‘Sit down and have a bun. We’ve got your dinner heating in the oven. Florie’ll get it for you.’
Florie raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh, she will, will she?’
‘Yes, please, Florie. I have to make the introductions.’
Dropping her napkin beside her plate, Florie pushes her chair away from the table. ‘Florie do this, and Florie do that. I only stays with you because of your blueberry pudding, Ellie, you gots to know that.’
‘Just the blueberry pudding?’
‘Well, I’ll gives you your Yorkshire pudding too,’ Florie says as she pushes through the swing door to the kitchen.
Emmett Parsons slides his tall, thin frame onto the chair and lays a napkin neatly over his lap. His greying hair springs from his head in unruly waves, but otherwise his appearance is neat and orderly; his checked flannel shirt buttoned to the neck, his grey trousers neatly ironed, his brown shoes polished to a high gleam. Bowing his head, he presses his hands together and mumbles a prayer of thanksgiving.
‘Emmy, this is your cousin, Sophie. She’s come from England, where I was born.’
Emmett looks over at Sophie. He nods. ‘Pleased to meet you. Pass the jam, please.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Sophie says, momentarily disarmed by his unusual eyes, one the same blue-grey as Ellie’s, the other as brown as the mahogany table. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you too. You know, you’re my only cousin. My father didn’t have any brothers or sisters.’
Emmett scrapes butter and a dollop of blueberry jam onto a tea bun and takes a bite. ‘Pass the water, please.’
Sophie pushes the water jug over to him. ‘What do you do, Emmett?’
‘I builds boats. I fixes them too.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. That’s very good.’
Ellie pours out a cup of steaming tea. ‘Emmy works with Sam down by the tickle.’
‘Sam works for me.’
‘Yes, of course, darling. Emmy’s got Rod Fizzard’s old store – that’s a shed they used to gut the fish in – down on a wharf by the shore. What are you working on now, Emmy?’
‘Boat from Salvage.’ Emmett reaches for another tea bun. ‘A 1996 Sea Ray 330 Sundancer. Hull’s leaking.’
The door from the kitchen swings open and Florie ploughs into the dining room, her hand encased in a thick oven glove, carrying a plate of pink corned beef, cabbage and boiled vegetables swimming in gravy. She sets it down in front of Emmett. ‘There you goes, Emmy, b’y. Jiggs dinner, just how you likes.’
Emmett regards the steaming plate of food. Picking up his fork and knife, he addresses no one in particular.
‘Mustard, please.’
***
Sophie pushes the curtain – a cotton chintz printed with blue roses and pink ribbons, the colours long since softened by bleach and laundering – to one side, and raises the sash window. Leaning her elbows on the sill, she gazes across the edge of the stony cliff to the ocean beyond. The waning crescent
