‘What’s changed this time?’
‘Me. I’ve changed.’
The screen door slams and Toby Molloy bolts into the room with Becca, her cheeks flushed as she chokes on sobs.
‘It’s Ellie! Mr Byrne, she’s dead!’
Chapter 79
Tippy’s Tickle – 24 September 2011
On the hill of St Stephen’s Cemetery, the crowd slowly files past the weather-beaten headstones on its way to Kittiwake. In the distance, the aluminium spire of St Stephen’s Church shines on its spit of land, pale grey against the blue September sky. Clouds scuttle like seed tufts across the vast blue, and, here and there, black-legged tickle-aces keen and dive for fish in the undulating ocean beyond the village. Sophie wanders over to the stone cross beside the newly dug grave and rubs her hand along the top as she reads the inscription.
Thomas Augustus Parsons
17th March 1915 – 19th June 1954
Always loved
‘I always knew they’d end up together in the end.’
Sophie looks over at Florie. ‘She loved you too, Florie.’
Florie adjusts the black felt fedora that Becca had decorated with purple ribbon and seashells for the funeral. ‘Oh, I knows it, maid.’ She looks out at the ocean, its water glistening a deep blue under the September sky. ‘She was the love of my life, just like Thomas here was hers.’ She shrugs. ‘It goes like that sometimes.’
‘You made her happy. Isn’t that what’s important, in the end?’
‘Well, Sophie duck, you’ve changed your tune. I thought you were all about work, work, work. Didn’t you once tell Ellie that relationships were a distraction? What’s happened to you?’
Sophie glances over to Sam, Becca and Toby at the far end of the cemetery.
Florie nods. ‘Ah, say no more. Sam Byrne.’
Sophie smiles. ‘I didn’t come back here to rekindle anything with Sam. It was all about my career, Florie. I tried to convince the consortium to find another spot along the coast, but they loved the pictures I’d taken of Tippy’s Tickle and Kittiwake the last time I was here. This was the place they wanted. I sold my soul to the devil, all because I wanted to be a partner in the firm.’
‘You’re not paintin’ yourself a good picture, duck.’
‘I know.’
‘So, what changed?’
‘Ellie got me drawing again. I loved that when I was a child, but my mother always considered it a waste of time.’ She nods towards Becca. ‘Becca changed me too. Her zest for life. Her boundless creativity. Her independent spirit.’ She shrugs. ‘I wish she liked me more. It’s better than it was, but …’
‘She just has to get used to the idea of sharin’ her dad with another woman. She’ll come around.’
‘I’ve got a lot to think about, Florie. Sam. And … and Ellie told me some things I need to get my head around. I’m going back to New York in a few days.’
Florie digs into the pocket of her black pea-jacket and takes out a small blue box.
‘What’s this?’
‘Ellie wanted you to have it, duck. Open it later, when you’re on your own.’ She nods towards Becca who is walking between the headstones towards them. ‘I think someone wants to have a natter with you.’ She turns to leave. ‘You haven’t seen Emmy, have you? Haven’t seen him since the service.’
‘No, afraid not.’
‘All right, then. I’ll sees you at the house. I’ve got bakeapple cheesecake at the house. I knows you likes it.’
‘Best kind, Florie.’
Florie laughs. ‘We’ll makes a Newfoundlander out of you yet, duck.’
Sophie watches Becca approach, a slender sprite in a 50s navy polka-dot dress that she’d obviously liberated from one of Ellie’s old trunks in the attic. She places a posy of wildflowers on Ellie’s grave.
‘Is everything okay with your father?’ Sophie asks, fumbling with the sign language.
Rising, Becca signs. ‘Dad’s going to take on Toby in the workshop. He’s going to teach him how to make furniture.’
‘That’s wonderful, Becca!’
Becca nods. ‘We’re moving in with Florie. I’m going to make clothes for the shop.’
‘That’s just brilliant, Becca. I’m so happy for you.’
Becca looks at Sophie, chewing her lip. ‘I’m sorry I was awful to you,’ she signs. ‘I didn’t want Dad to forget Mom.’
‘He won’t forget her.’ Sophie looks over at Sam, who’s in a deep discussion with Toby. ‘I have to go back to New York, anyway.’
‘Don’t do that,’ Becca signs, her hands flying. ‘This is your home. We’re your home.’
Sophie shakes her head. ‘Thank you, Becca,’ she signs. ‘I appreciate that, but I still have to go.’
***
Sophie takes the blue box out of her pocket and walks over to a window in Emmett’s store. She wiggles the lid off the box. Inside, a gold locket sits on a cushion of white satin, its fine chain curled around the gold heart. Setting the box on the worktable, she lifts out the locket and holds it up to the window. A fine filigree of tendrils decorates the dull gold. She opens the locket. There’s no mistaking the pretty girl on the left: Winny, her perfect oval face framed by hair the colour of wheat in golden morning light.
She squints at the face looking back at her from the right side of the locket. A little girl of about five, her face sweet but ordinary, her brown hair cut into a blunt Dutch-boy bob. She holds the locket up closer, her eyes widening. It’s her. On her fifth birthday.
Setting the locket on the table, she lifts the cushion out of the box. A small piece of paper is folded into a neat square. She opens it up and reads.
Dearest Sophie,
This was your grandmother Winnifred’s locket.
I can’t think of anyone to whom I’d rather give it than you.
All my love, always.
Your mother, Ellie
‘So this is where you escaped to, Princess Grace.’ Sam stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the sharp white light of the late September afternoon.
‘It was too noisy at the house. I thought I’d come look for Emmett. He’s missing Florie’s bakeapple cheesecake.’
Sam enters the
