He leans into her, pressing kisses, as light as a breath, along her neck.
She swallows. ‘I’m leaving soon, Sam. Today. I’m leaving today.’
‘I know,’ he says as he traces kisses along her jaw.
‘I’m … I’m not sure this is a good idea.’
‘Do you want me to stop?’
She shudders as a buzz runs up her body. ‘No. No, I don’t.’
***
Sophie stands at the window and sips her coffee as she rubs the flannel sleeve of one of Sam’s plaid shirts. Outside, just visible beyond the wooden railings of a deck and over the tops of the spruces growing below the hill, a sandy beach curves along the shoreline, framed by a green-black backdrop of conifers. Tickle-aces duck and glide over the choppy water, peeling away like Spitfire pilots when a bald eagle spins into the cove, claws outstretched, and plucks a squirming fish from the water. If only I could stay. But I can’t. I just can’t.
‘I see you found the coffee pot.’
She turns around. ‘Yes. I had to step over Rupert in the kitchen to get to it. Much better than the coffee in the store.’ She nods towards the wood burner. ‘Fire’s out.’
Sam walks barefoot out of the bedroom in his jeans and T-shirt, towelling his wet hair. He drops the towel onto the sofa and comes up behind Sophie, wrapping her in his embrace. The scent of soap lingers on his body as his warmth envelops her.
‘How’s that?’
‘Better.’ She turns around, and reaching her arms around his neck, pulls him into her kiss.
A crash of glass from the kitchen. Rupert’s deep woof.
‘Becca?’
Becca stands by the kitchen counter, her eyes wide, a river of orange juice snaking across the wooden floor between islands of shattered glass. Spinning around, she dashes towards the porch. The slam of the screen door.
‘Becca! Becca, wait!’ Sam races out of the room after his daughter, Rupert galloping behind barking.
Sophie stands on the braided rug, shivering as the chill of the unheated cottage filters through to her skin. Her stomach jolts and drops, like she is falling through air. Bloody hell, Sophie. What have you done now? She sets the mug down beside the photo of Sam and his family, and stumbles across the braided rug into the bedroom.
Chapter 46
Norwich, England – 11 August 1944
‘Good heavens.’
Dottie spins around on the stool at Ellie’s vanity table, the cardboard lipstick tube primed and ready in her fingers. ‘I was just going to use a little bit.’ Her eyes widen. A wet patch spreads out over the Persian rug between Ellie’s slippered feet.
‘I think my water just broke.’
Dropping the lipstick tube on the vanity, Dottie leaps to her feet. ‘Is the baby coming?’
‘Yes. Yes. It’s coming.’ Ellie picks at her wet dressing gown and holds it away from her body. ‘You need to call the midwife. The number’s by the phone.’
‘The phone’s not working. They still haven’t fixed the line since the storm.’
Ellie cups her belly and shuffles over to the bed. ‘Hand me a towel, Dottie. Then go over to the school and use their phone.’
Dottie eyes her sister as she tosses her a towel. ‘Are you scared?’
‘A little. I wish Thomas were here.’
‘What if he—?’
‘Don’t even think it, Dottie. Thomas’s fine. One of these days he’s going to walk through our front door.’
‘But you haven’t had a letter for ages.’
Ellie presses her lips together. ‘Which is a good sign.’
‘You could always marry George instead, like you were supposed to.’
The fine line between Ellie’s eyes deepens. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m married to Thomas.’
‘I mean if Thomas—’
Ellie’s eyes widen and she clutches at her belly. ‘Oh, my word.’ She pants through the pain. ‘Tell the midwife the contractions have started. Hurry, Dottie.’
***
George skirts the bicycle around an enormous pothole in the road outside St Bartholomew’s School and brakes beside a telegraph boy on his black Post Office bike who is squinting at the headmaster’s house behind the gate.
‘Are you looking for the Burgesses?’ he asks as he parks the bike by the flint wall.
The boy’s pillboxed head shakes. ‘No, M-M-Mrs P-P-Parsons.’ He peers at the front of the telegram. ‘Mrs T-Thomas P-P-Parsons.’ He glances up at George. ‘It’s from the W-War Office. I h-hate these ones.’
‘I’m going in there now. I can give it to her.’
‘I-I’m supposed to w-wait for a r-r-reply.’
‘Why don’t you wait here by the gate, and I can let you know if there’s a reply?’
The boy’s pale face, coloured with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, floods with relief. He thrusts the telegram at George. ‘T-thank you.’
George takes the telegram and heads through the gate. Ignoring the broken doorbell, he knocks on the door and reads the address as he waits. Mrs Thomas Parsons. How did that happen? How did he ever let that happen? He’d always thought he and Ellie would be together, forever. He sighs and slips the telegram into his pocket. The War Office. My poor Ellie.
The door swings open. ‘George!’ Dottie throws her arms around George’s neck and hugs him. ‘You arrived fast! It’s a boy!’
George disentangles himself. ‘That’s wonderful, Dottie. How are they? How’s Ellie?’
‘They’re all fine. Nurse Blackmore said she’d never seen a firstborn in such a hurry to be born. He’s a tiny little thing. She had to give him a really good spanking to get him to cry.’ Dottie purses her lips. ‘Ellie’s called the baby Emmett Thomas. What kind of a name is Emmett?’
‘Emmett? That’s a perfectly nice name. It’s my middle name, after Joseph.’ Flipping open the flap of his satchel, he takes out a box of Mcklintock’s chocolates. ‘Give these to Ellie for me, would you, Dottie?’
Dottie takes the chocolates and grabs George’s hand, tugging him across the polished brass threshold. ‘Why don’t
