Sweet, faithful, reliable George, who’d once got Picasso confused with a piccolo. He was nothing like Tyrone Power, but maybe that was all for the best.
***
A poke in the ribs. ‘C’mon, Sleepy. We’re home.’
Ellie blinks and rubs her eyes with her gloved fingers. The bus lurches to a stop. She yawns and rises from her seat.
‘Sorry. I wasn’t snoring, was I?’
‘Fit to beat the band. You must’ve been dreaming about divine Tyrone. He’s absolutely gravy, don’t you think? I just love his little moustache.’
Ellie looks over at her friend’s broad, friendly face, the cheeks flushed bright pink from the warm summer air. Under her navy felt beret, Ruthie’s carefully rolled brown hair sits unravelling on the collar of the summer dress she’s remade out of her mother’s old floral dressing gown.
‘Last week it was all about Clark Gable. You’re as fickle as they come, Ruthie.’
Ruthie Huggins prods Ellie down the bus’ stairs. ‘Hurry up, Ellie. It’s late and I’m starving. Mum said she’d save me some shepherd’s pie.’
‘Shepherd’s pie? Where’d she get the lamb?’
‘Uncle Jack’s old ewe kicked the bucket last week. He’s been divvying it up. Dad’s taking the train up to Fakenham tomorrow to get some more.’ She presses her forefinger against her lips. ‘All strictly hush-hush.’
They jump off the platform onto the pavement. Ruthie grabs Ellie’s arm and pulls her back sharply as a bicycle whips by in front of them.
‘Crumbs!’ Ellie exclaims. ‘That was close.’
Ruthie tucks her hand into the crook of Ellie’s arm. ‘You’d think they’d be more careful in this blackout. Margery Roberts’s cousin got run over by a bicycle in London last week.’ She reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a white handkerchief, waving it into the inky night as they pick their way across the road.
They hurry past the boarded-up windows of Mr Pilch’s greengrocer’s and down the road, stopping at an iron gate in the cobbled flint wall of St Bartholomew’s Catholic School for Boys. Ellie jangles her key in the lock. The gate swings open, screeching like a gull. Ruthie reaches over and gives Ellie a hug. Their arms intertwined, the girls gaze up at the sliver of moon in the sky. A lone cricket chirps from somewhere in the school’s new vegetable garden.
‘Do you suppose they’ll come back, Ellie?’
‘I hope not. But they probably will.’
‘It’s been quiet since the nineteenth. And that was only one plane. They’ll probably go after London before us. There’s nothing much here but mustard and chocolate.’
‘There’s the munitions works down by the riverside, Ruthie. They shot that up the other day.’
‘I know.’ Ruthie sighs and leans her head on Ellie’s shoulder. ‘I like to think they’d ignore us. I don’t want things to change.’
Ellie brushes her hand against Ruthie’s soft hair. ‘Everything changes.’ The night air, humid with the promise of rain, is like a velvet cloak around them.
‘That’s such great news about working for Dame Edith, Ellie. Your dad’s going to be so chuffed.’
‘I’m over the moon. But it’ll probably mean I won’t see much of George.’
‘You barely see much of him now!’
‘I know. The Home Guard takes up all his time when he’s not at Mcklintock’s. He takes it very seriously. I think he feels bad about being rejected because of his eye.’
‘No one wants a half-blind pilot.’
‘No one wants a half-blind anything. He’s not even allowed to man the ack-ack guns by the castle. He keeps the shells stacked and ready for the gunners.’
‘At least he’ll be safe in Norwich, Ellie. I doubt they’ll target Mcklintock’s any time soon. I don’t expect chocolate factories are high on their list. Why don’t you just get married? Then you’d see plenty of him.’ Ruthie giggles and pokes Ellie in the ribs. ‘At least at night.’
‘Ruthie! Honestly! I think Tyrone Power has addled your brain. Anyway, George is meeting me at the dance at the Samson tomorrow night. You’re coming, aren’t you? You know he hates to jitterbug and you’re the best.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for a handsome Newfoundlander. My cousin Sheila in Yarmouth said she’s seen Newfoundlanders all around town. They’ve just been stationed somewhere near Filby.’
‘To protect the coast, I imagine. Pops says the Germans would have a clean sweep into England if they landed up on Holkham Beach. It’s as flat as a pancake up there for miles.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they start showing up in Norwich. Filby’s not far.’
‘Well, I hope they can dance.’ Ellie disentangles herself from their embrace. ‘George stomps about like an ox.’
‘George is solid. When you’re married you won’t have to worry about him running off with a barmaid.’
Ellie gives her friend a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’m only turning eighteen in September. I’m in no rush to marry. Besides, I’m too busy. I’ve got art classes and the painting to work on for the summer exhibition next month, and now I’ve got the job with Dame Edith. George’ll just have to wait.’
‘Oh, he’ll wait. George adores you. The way he looks at you … it makes me jealous.’
Ellie shuts the gate behind her and wraps her fingers around two of the black iron rails. ‘Don’t be silly, Ruthie. He’s just a boy. You’re my best friend.’ She slides her hand through the gate and extends her little finger. ‘Friends forever?’
Ruthie slides her little finger around Ellie’s, then grasps Ellie’s hand. ‘Friends forever, Ellie.’
Chapter 5
En Route to New York From London – 11 September 2001
Sophie ducks under a luggage strap hanging like a noose from an overhead storage compartment and dodges an elbow as she inches her way past the other passengers. She eyes her window seat and spots two barrel-chested men in crumpled navy suits in her row. Their faces are flushed a sticky red and their voices cut through the din of the embarking passengers.
‘Gary’s gotta do something about the way he holds his club. We lost it on the eleventh hole, I tell you. Downhill from there.’
‘Yeah. ’Least the boss was happy. You don’t wanna be too good, if you know what I mean. Gotta keep the main man and his clients happy. We got a good deal outta that day.’
Sophie shifts her Longchamp shoulder bag to her opposite shoulder, careful not to dent the thick pad of her new green Escada crushed-velvet jacket, and rests her new carry-on case on the aisle. Checking her ticket, she groans inwardly. Fabulous. Eight bloody hours on the London flight to New York beside an overweight, drunken salesman who’ll hog the armrest and manspread into my leg space.
Shifting aside her new digital camera, she tugs a stack of blueprints out of a pocket of her case. Someone behind her pokes her in her shoulder. She turns around and smiles apologetically at the impatient woman. Tucking the drawings under her armpit, she wedges her case into the overhead locker and shuffles past the two salesmen. As she slumps into her seat, several blueprints fall into her neighbour’s broad lap.