Sam hangs his jean jacket over the back of a chair and rubs his hands. ‘Right, Princess Grace. Come with me.’
She follows him into the pantry. ‘I didn’t even know people still made their own spaghetti sauce. Why would you want to do that when you can just buy it in a jar and heat it up?’
‘Once you taste Becca’s and mine, you’ll never buy store-bought again.’
‘I never actually buy store-bought sauce. There’s a brilliant little Italian place on the King’s Road where I can call in an order from work and pick it up on the way home.’
Sam tosses a large onion and a head of garlic at Sophie. ‘I’m warning you, Princess Grace. Once you eat ours, you’ll never want to eat anyone else’s spaghetti and meatballs.’ He grabs a punnet of tomatoes off the shelf and several jars of dried herbs. ‘Grab that olive oil, will you?’
Sophie takes a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil off the shelf and follows Sam back into the kitchen. ‘What now?’
Sam hands her a wooden cutting board. ‘Chop up the onion and three cloves of garlic nice and fine. I’ll get the ground meat and an egg and we’ll mix it all together with Becca’s breadcrumbs.’ He pats Becca’s head. ‘That’s enough breadcrumbs, honey,’ he signs. ‘We’ll soon have enough to stuff the Thanksgiving turkey. Find Florie’s big bowl and dump them in there.’
Sophie looks up from the lumpy bits of chopped onion and wipes at the tears welling up in her eyes. She watches Sam boil an electric kettle and pour the boiling water into a large pot on the stove with a handful of salt, then move around the kitchen and Rupert’s panting body, gathering, mixing and chopping ingredients for the spaghetti sauce with his daughter. She’s never had a boyfriend who’d cooked. She’s never had a boyfriend who’d had a child, either. She likes it.
Hold on, Sophie. Why are you thinking about boyfriends? You don’t even like this guy. He’s bloody irritating.
Sam sets a plate down on the table. ‘Right, Princess Grace. Meatball time. Let’s show her how it’s done, Becca.’
Becca pushes the large bowl into the centre of the table and dumps the breadcrumbs over the ground meat. She holds up an egg to Sophie and cracks it perfectly in two on the rim of the bowl.
‘Add the garlic and the onion,’ Sam instructs Sophie, gesturing to the bowl. He sprinkles in dried sage, basil, thyme and marjoram. ‘Salt and pepper, Becca.’ She grinds in the pepper and salt from two shakers shaped like sailors.
‘What next, Becca-bug?’
Becca holds up a spoon and, scooping out a spoonful of meatball mix, she rolls it into a perfect ball and drops it onto the plate.
Sophie smiles. ‘Well, Bob’s your uncle, Becca!’
Becca looks up at her father and signs, ‘What?’
‘She wants to know what Bob’s your uncle means,’ Sam says.
‘Oh, right. Uh. It means, “There you go”.’
Sam nods. ‘Bob’s your uncle. You learn something every day. Wait till I tell Florie that one.’ He hands Sophie a spoon. ‘I need two dozen perfect meatballs. Bob’s your uncle.’
Sophie watches Sam skirt around Rupert and head back to the stove.
Yes, she likes it. She likes it a lot.
Chapter 22
Norwich, England – 7 December 1941
‘Come in here, George. Ellie’s still getting ready.’
George shucks off his shoe rubbers and hangs his coat and scarf on the hallway coat stand. A melody of something vaguely familiar tinkles from the piano in the drawing room. Entering the room, he heads over to Dottie, who is frowning over the piano keyboard as her fingers fly over the keys. She shifts over on the bench without looking up and he sits down beside her, turning the pages of the sheet music when she nods at it with her chin.
Dottie taps out the final notes, as pure as crystal, and sits back on the bench.
‘That was lovely, Dottie,’ George says. ‘What was that?’
Dottie rolls her eyes. ‘Debussy, of course. ‘Clair de Lune’. I’m practising it for my Grade 6 piano exam. I’m going to be a concert pianist.’
‘I thought you were going to be an actress? You told me you wanted to be the next Gene Tierney just this summer.’
Dottie shakes her head impatiently, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. ‘That was ages ago. I mean, I still like acting. I’m auditioning for the role of Cecily in The Importance of Being Earnest for the Easter play at school. Did Ellie tell you? I’m up against Beatrice McCormack.’ She makes a face. ‘I’m sure I’ll get it. I’m much more talented than she is.’
A cough and a clearing of a throat. ‘That’s not a very charitable attitude, Dottie.’ Picking up the Eastern Evening News, Henry Burgess settles into his favourite overstuffed armchair with a sigh and rests his feet on the matching ottoman.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy.’ Dottie shrugs, the lace collar of her blouse rising and falling. ‘But it’s true.’ She looks sideways at George and smiles. ‘You think I’m a good actress, George, don’t you?’
‘You are indeed, Dottie. Your Viola was the best I’ve ever seen.’
A slender tortoiseshell cat pads into the room and leaps onto Henry’s corduroy-clad legs, settling in the groove between his knees. ‘I hadn’t taken you for an expert on Twelfth Night, George.’
‘No, sir. I’m not. I’ve only seen it the once at the school.’
‘Flattery corrupts both the receiver and the giver, George.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘That wasn’t me, by the way. That was Edmund Burke.’
‘Edmund Burke, sir?’
Henry coughs. ‘Never mind, George.’
George turns back to Dottie. ‘I’m sorry, Dottie. I shouldn’t have flattered you. Though your Viola
