partners or children to distract her. It was better not to get too attached to living things. They only ended up leaving. Or dying. First her father, George, over twenty years ago of a heart attack as he inspected the Cherry Cobblers production line at Mcklintock’s, then Dottie back in 2000. Lung cancer. Cigarettes will get you every time.
It was okay. She was okay. She didn’t need anyone.
Sophie hadn’t even known her aunt Ellie existed until she’d opened an envelope addressed to The Parry Family one Christmas back in the late 70s. The card had a cartoon moose surrounded by tinsel-strewn Christmas trees on the front. Inside, in a fine, confident hand: To all of you at Christmas, from your loving sister and aunt, Ellie. She’d copied the address into the small green leather address book her father had given her for her fifteenth birthday. Then she’d placed the Christmas card beside the mahogany clock on the black marble mantelpiece, with the ones from her father’s colleagues at Mcklintock’s Chocolates, and the ones from the Women’s Institute and the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital Auxiliary. It was gone the next day.
Sophie shakes her head to jolt away the image that threatens to materialise again in the blackness behind her eyelids. She can’t let him into her head. His brown eyes, quizzical and teasing. Her mother had been right. Men only confuse you. Best to keep them at arm’s length. At least the ones who could matter. The ones like Sam.
Maybe that’s why her mother had married George Parry. Because he never really mattered to her. She didn’t do much to hide that fact. Poor Daddy was a means to an end. A means for her mother to become top of the social elite of Norwich.
George did everything he could to make Dottie happy. Join the Lions Club. Tick. Suck up to the owner of Mcklintock’s Chocolates. Tick. Become a patron of the Norwich Philharmonic Orchestra. Tick. Buy bigger, more expensive houses in better neighbourhoods as he worked his way up to managing director of Mcklintock’s. Tick. Tick. Tick. But her mother was never a happy woman. Sophie had grown up in Norwich in a beautiful house heavy with unspoken words. She’d escaped to university in London as soon as she turned eighteen, Frank Lloyd Wright’s The Natural House and a sketchbook under her arm. It’d been a relief. Like throwing off a thick wool coat in an overheated room. She’d never get married. Ever.
Sophie opens her eyes and examines her hands, moving her fingers the way she’d been taught at the Sign Language Centre. ‘Hello, Becca. How are you?’ Becca must be eighteen now. Sophie didn’t really know what had prompted her to learn sign language, when she’d never intended to go back to Newfoundland. She’d been curious, she supposed. And it was something else to put on her CV. Chances were Becca and Sam didn’t even live in Tippy’s Tickle anymore. People move on. It will be better if they’ve moved on.
Sophie loosens her seatbelt and rubs at the stiffness in her neck. She’d meant to keep in touch with her aunt. But after posting out the first couple of Christmas cards, bought in a hurry at Browne’s between client meetings, time just got away from her, even as Ellie’s annual Christmas and birthday cards, full of the chatty goings-on of Tippy’s Tickle, sat on Sophie’s mantelpiece like a reproach, until they’d end up in the ‘To Do’ pile on her desk, begging for a response that she’d never get around to writing.
She’d thought of Sam often, at first, and an ache would form that would roll into a ball and sit in her stomach like an anchor. He’d left messages, which she hadn’t returned, even though her heart had buzzed with pleasure when she’d found his messages on her phone. She’d meant to call, to text at the very least. She’d stood in the kitchen of her apartment with her finger hovering over the numbers on her mobile phone at least a half dozen times. But, she hadn’t called him. Or texted him. She’d wanted to so much. But, it would never work. He knew that. He’d said as much himself the last time she’d seen him. That had hurt. Especially after … No. She wasn’t going to let herself be hurt.
She shakes her head, catching a sideways glance from the over-tanned Florida retiree beside her as she grabs for an earbud that pops out of her ear. Bloody Sam. What is he doing in her head like this?
Sophie turns off the music and stares out the window at the sky. They say time heals all wounds, but they’re wrong. Time buries all wounds. Dig them out, and the wounds still bleed. Better to keep them buried. The words from a pop song spring into her mind. Absolutely no regrets. She has absolutely no regrets. There’d been a crazy moment when the idea of living an artist’s life on the north coast of Newfoundland with a widowed lover and his deaf daughter, not to mention that ridiculous beast of a dog, had brought her up short on the path that had always been so clear and straight. Then Sam had rejected her. The phone messages he’d left her in New York couldn’t erase that fact. If he’d done it once, he could do it again.
No, she has absolutely no regrets. Her path is clear, her focus laser-sharp, as long as she stays on course. The prize is everything: partner in the firm now; then, in a few years, when Richard retires, managing director of Richard Niven & Associates Architects. A long-distance relationship with Sam would have complicated everything. Some things were better left alone.
All she needs to do now is convince Ellie and Florie and some of the villagers with places along the tickle to sell up. The consortium wanted to build a restaurant down on the shore too, and put in a marina for the multi-millionaires’ yachts sailing up from Massachusetts and Rhode Island. The financial package the consortium was offering to the villagers was generous. It shouldn’t be that hard. She’ll keep telling herself that. But she has a bad feeling. Her stomach flutters and beads of sweat break out on her forehead. She brushes the sweat away with the back of her hand. Why’s it so bloody hot everywhere?
The plane veers right. Sophie flips up the window blind. The sun, bright in the western sky, burns out the blueness until all that’s left is throbbing white light. She leans her forehead against the warm glass and closes her eyes. Willing the heat to erase the face that threatens to form again in her mind. Wondering if coming back is a huge mistake.
Norwich, England – 26 July 1940
Ellie steps back from the easel and squints at the dimpled peel of the orange on the canvas, looking, she thinks, like the spitting image of the dents and pores on the face of Mr Pilch, the greengrocer. She picks up a small, fine-tipped paintbrush and dabs at the titanium white paint on the palette she balances in her left hand. Leaning closer, she brushes delicate strokes of white onto the dimpled skin, copying the effects of the light filtering through the branches of the elm tree outside the large arched window as it gleams on the fruit.
‘Cracking job, there, Miss Burgess. You’ve caught the feeling of that orange extremely well. Can you see when you paint, that you must put aside your notions of what you’re observing, and become like a child observing an object for the first time?’ The woman points a blunt-tipped finger at Ellie’s artwork, dragging the sleeve of her embroidered white muslin blouse across the rainbow of wet paint on Ellie’s palette. ‘Can you see the green cast to the orange? The way the shadow at its edges is almost violet? Can you see how the orange is telling you its story?’
Ellie’s heart jumps. Four weeks into the advanced oil-painting class and this is the first time the celebrated guest tutor, Dame Edith Spink RA, has singled her out for praise.
‘Thank you, Dame Edith. I do think I understand. I’d always thought an orange was round and smooth … and orange. But, it’s not at all. My brain was telling me one thing, but my eyes are telling me another.’
