‘You’re not imposing. You’re welcome for as long as you want.’
‘Thanks so much, Aunt Ellie.’
She hangs the receiver back on its hook, blowing her fringe out of her eyes as she fishes her address book out of her Longchamp bag. Taking a deep breath, she dials the New York number.
***
Sophie presses the receiver to her ear. ‘Oh, my God. I had no idea. Is everyone okay?’
‘We’re fine here.’ The receptionist’s voice wavers. ‘But we had clients in the North Tower. We just, we just—’
Sophie holds her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry … Excuse me, what’s your name?’
‘Jackie.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jackie. They didn’t tell us anything.’
‘It’s like a war zone down where the Towers were. There’s smoke and dust everywhere. The whole financial district is under a black cloud.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Look, don’t worry about the meeting, Ms Parry. It’s the last thing we’re thinking about right now. We’ll sort something out whenever you get here. Just call me.’
Sophie expels a puff of air as relief floods over her. ‘Oh, thank goodness. Thanks very much.’
The receptionist sucks in a breath. ‘My brother-in-law’s a fireman. He had the day off. It was my nephew’s birthday. Frank was called in. We haven’t heard from him since yesterday. His boy’s only four.’
Sophie leans her forehead against the payphone. The world’s fallen apart and all I’ve been worried about is getting to a bloody job interview. She runs her tongue over her lips. ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right, Jackie. Don’t worry. Just let Mr Niven know my plane was diverted to a place called Gander in Newfoundland. They’ll fly us out as soon as they can. They’re saying two or three days. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.’
‘I’ll let him know.’
‘I’m sure everything will work out for your family.’
Jackie’s voice catches in a swallowed sob. ‘Thanks, Ms Parry. I hope so.’
***
Sophie stares up at the television in Wince Moss’s garage. A silver plane, the sun glinting off its wings as it banks, spears into the tower. A cloud of grey smoke, growing like a cancer, obliterates the blue summer sky. Orange flames devour the metal structure. She raises her hand to her mouth in the only possible response.
Silence.
Chapter 10
Norwich, England – 30 July 1940
The bombs woke her. She didn’t know they were bombs at the time, of course. But what she remembers is that she was so solidly asleep, she was in that place of blackness between dreams and wakefulness. Then her eyes opened, and, for a moment, the blackness of unconsciousness and the blackness of the lightless room melded together so that she wasn’t sure whether she was dreaming.
A thrumming. Outside the window. Growing louder.
Ellie kneels up in her bed, glancing over to Dottie who is still asleep under her covers. She peeks behind the blackout curtain. The sky is clear blue, with a few puffs of clouds hovering around the early morning sun. Then she sees it. A flash of sunlight on a metal wing as it banks and heads back towards the city centre. Growing larger as it approaches. The bomb falling through the blueness, past the oak trees on Victoria Terrace. An enormous crash. A cloud blowing up skywards, pink with brick dust. The black cross on the bottom of the wing as the Heinkel powers over the house.
Dottie bolts upright in her bed. ‘What’s that?’
‘Get out of bed, Dottie. Hurry. They’re bombing. We’ve got to get to the cellar.’
Throwing back the covers, Dottie jumps out of bed. Ellie tosses her the dressing gown her sister had left in a heap on the old Persian rug and shrugs into her own. She grabs Dottie’s hand and pulls her sister towards the bedroom door.
‘Ellie, wait! I can’t find one of my slippers.’
Another crash, near the city centre.
‘It doesn’t matter. Come on.’
Ellie flings open the bedroom door. Their father is on the landing, his thin brown hair dishevelled, his round glasses sitting crookedly on his face. He has pulled on his white cricket jumper over his striped pyjamas and stuffed his feet into green wellies.
‘Hurry up, girls, hup hup.’
Dottie runs over and clings to her father. ‘Poppy. We didn’t hear a siren.’
‘No, dove. There wasn’t one.’
Ellie hurries down the stairs after her father and sister. ‘I saw a bomb come down. It looked like it was near Ruthie’s house.’
‘Don’t worry, Ellie Mae. They’ve got the Anderson shelter. They’ll be fine.’
***
Ellie runs past the red-brick church at the bottom of the road and rushes around the thick hornbeam hedge into Victoria Terrace. The cobbled street and neat rows of terraced Victorian cottages she knows so well are coated in a thick sheet of grey dust. A smoking mountain of rafters, smashed roofing slates and charred furniture sits in the space where Numbers 43 to 51 once stood. The once proud oak trees behind the cottages are nothing but skeletons, their leaves blasted off by the force of the bomb. The acrid smell of burning sap seeps up her nose and scrapes against her throat as she swallows.
She hurries towards the empty space where Ruthie’s cottage should have been, her feet crunching on broken glass hidden by the dust. She coughs as the brick dust settles in her throat. A team of men in the tin helmets and navy overalls of the Auxiliary Fire Service sift through the debris, pulling at pieces of rubble as they lean into the pile, listening. A frazzled-looking young woman in a navy AFS uniform is unloading a tea urn from the back of a staff car by the kerb.
Ellie stumbles over to her, leaving a trail in the grey dust. ‘Excuse me. Do you know where the people living here are? I’m looking for my friend Ruthie. She lives here with her brother and her parents. They have an Anderson shelter.’
The young woman’s pale blue eyes sweep over Ellie. She has a round, friendly face under her tin helmet. She shifts her gaze back to the tea urn and shakes her head. ‘They didn’t find anyone in the shelter.’
‘But if they weren’t in the shelter …’
The young woman looks back at Ellie. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She reaches out and squeezes Ellie’s arm. ‘They wouldn’t have known what was happening.’
Ellie’s heart jumps in her chest. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She can hear her voice rise. ‘What do you mean? Maybe they went to a neighbour’s—’
‘There wasn’t any siren. There was only one plane. It took everyone off guard. They would have been sleeping. I’m so very sorry.’
Chapter 11
Tippy’s Tickle, Newfoundland – 12 September 2001
The motorcycle bumps down a potholed road running alongside a narrow inlet, which pokes into the rocky landscape like a giant finger. On a spit of rocky land to the left, a white clapboard church with an aluminium steeple sits with its back to the churning ocean. They round a hill and pass the chain-link fence and steel gates of a cemetery. St Stephen’s is spelled out in black letters across 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.