Читать книгу The English Wife - Adrienne Chinn - Страница 14

Dottie Burgess leans her elbows on the vanity table, watching her sister pucker her lips into the mirror and slick on red lipstick.

‘Can I try?’

Ellie laughs at the reflection of her sister’s inquisitive face in the mirror. Sharp-chinned and curious, just like their cat, Berkeley Square. ‘You’re not even twelve yet.’

Dottie reaches out for the lipstick. ‘Please?’

Ellie twists the tube closed and slides on the brass cap. ‘No. It’s my last lipstick and Buntings hasn’t got any more in stock right now.’ She waves the brass tube at her sister. ‘This might have to last me till the end of the war.’

‘Milly’s mum’s started using beet juice. Her fingers are all stained red from it.’

‘Well, that’s just silly, isn’t it?’

‘Milly’s mum says “Needs must”.’

Ellie taps Dottie on her nose with her powder puff. ‘Here, have a go with this. Powder your nose.’

Dottie leans into the mirror and dabs the powder puff over the three freckles on her nose. ‘I thought that meant you had to go to the loo.’

‘It does. It’s a euphemism.’

‘A eupha—eupha—’

‘Euphemism. You say it so you don’t have to say “toilet” or “loo”. It’s more polite.’

‘But it’s a fib. Father McAuley says fibs are a sin.’

‘Well, it’s only a little sin. Say two Hail Marys and you’ll be fine.’

Dottie hands back the powder puff and picks up the large white-bristled brush with its gleaming mother-of-pearl handle. Edging onto the stool beside Ellie, she unclips her pink plastic hair buckle and drags the brush through her long brown hair.

Ellie watches her sister in the mirror. Dark hair and eyes. So like their mother. Wilful like their mother too. Ellie had loved watching their mother, Winnifred, brush her long, chestnut-coloured hair with the same brush in the evenings. One hundred strokes. Always one hundred exactly. They’d count together.

‘Here, Dottie. Let me do it.’ She stands behind Dottie and runs the brush through the fine brown strands until her sister’s hair gleams.

‘Is George picking you up?’

‘If he’s finished his shift at the ack-ack guns in time. Otherwise I’ll meet him and Ruthie at the hall.’

Dottie frowns into the mirror. ‘I don’t like this war.’

‘Nobody does, honey.’

‘Don’t you worry about George being by the guns? He’s awfully brave, isn’t he?’

‘George is very brave indeed. There’s no need to worry about him. He’s very careful. He’s lucky he didn’t have to go over to Europe with the others. I feel much safer knowing he’s here, don’t you?’

‘I always feel safe if George is around. He’s my guardian angel.’

Ellie chuckles as she snaps the pink hair buckle back into Dottie’s hair. ‘Is he now? How’s that?’

‘Well, Sister Marguerite Mercy said we all have guardian angels who’ve been sent to protect us. Nothing bad will ever happen when your guardian angel is nearby.’ She shrugs. ‘So, George is my guardian angel. I decided.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell him. He’ll get a kick out of that.’

Dottie spins around on the stool and grabs the sleeve of Ellie’s pastel blue dress. ‘No! Please, don’t! It’s a secret.’

‘How can he be your guardian angel if it’s a secret?’

‘Oh, he knows it in his heart. He just doesn’t know it in his head.’ Dottie yanks on the thin blue cotton. ‘Please don’t say anything, Ellie. Promise.’

Ellie kisses the locket around her neck and holds it in the air. ‘On Mummy’s locket, I promise I won’t tell George. My lips are sealed.’

Dottie’s face breaks into a beaming smile. ‘Now can I try some lipstick?’

***

‘Ellie! Over here!’

Ellie cranes her neck over the heads of the dancers shuffling around the glossy wooden floor of the Samson and Hercules dance hall. She spies Ruthie waving at her from in front of the stage, where a band of men in white dinner jackets plays a seductive version of ‘Begin the Beguine’. A short, ginger-haired man in a khaki green uniform stands next to Ruthie, clutching a glass of beer in one hand and flapping the other around like a broken sail as he yells into Ruthie’s ear. Ellie dodges past the dancers’ thrusting elbows and squeezes through a bottleneck of sweaty bodies.

‘Hi, Ruthie. Crumbs, that’s a crush.’

Grabbing Ellie’s elbow, Ruthie shouts into her ear. ‘This is Charlie. He’s from the 57th Newfoundland Heavy Regiment.’ She smiles over at Charlie. ‘Did I get that right?’

‘That’s it exactly, duck.’ The young soldier thrusts out his hand. Ellie extends her hand and he pumps it like he’s jiggling a stubborn bottle of brown sauce. ‘Charlie Murphy from Ship Harbour, Newfoundland,’ he says, drawing out the last syllable. ‘Newf’nland like understand.’

Ellie raises her eyebrows as she rescues her hand. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘That’s how you pronounce it. Like “understand”. I tells you, it’s like chalk on a blackboard whenever I hears people say NewFOUNDland.’

Ellie grins at Ruthie. ‘That’s us told then.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry, duck,’ Charlie says, his green eyes twinkling under his ginger eyebrows. ‘I wasn’t havin’ a go at you. Ruthie’s told me all about you. Says you’re an artist.’

‘Just starting out, really.’ She smiles weakly and glances at Ruthie. ‘Have you seen George?’

Ruthie shakes her head. ‘Not yet. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’

‘All right. I’ll go get some Cokes.’

‘Now, don’t you be doing that, maid,’ Charlie says. ‘Where’s my manners? My mudder’d give me some smack. Two Cokes is it? I’ll be right back. Least I can do for campin’ out in your backyard.’ Gulping down the rest of his beer, he heads into the crowd.

‘You’ve got yourself a live one, there, Ruthie.’

‘I think he’s a doll. He looks like Mickey Rooney.’

Looking towards the crowded entrance, Ellie frowns. ‘I wonder what’s taking George so long?’

‘Oh, Ellie. I wouldn’t worry. The sirens haven’t gone off.’

‘They didn’t go off last week when they dropped the bombs on Heartsease Lane.’

‘That was just one aeroplane. The pilot was probably lost and thought he’d take a pot shot at poor old Norwich on his way home.’

Ellie sighs. ‘I don’t know why I’m so wound up. It’s probably all Dottie’s talk about guardian angels tonight. It made me think of Mummy. How people can just …’ Ellie’s voice catches.

Ruthie slides her arm around Ellie and gives her a squeeze. ‘Accidents happen, Ellie. That’s not to say George’s been in an accident … Oh, Ellie, you know what I mean. George is probably drinking tea and playing cards with the other Home Guard chaps over by the castle. I hear they’ve all gone mad for Whist.’

Ellie presses her lips together and nods. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’m just being silly. I’m all nerves about starting at Dame Edith’s studio on Monday. I wasn’t able to sleep a wink last night. I must look a wreck.’

‘You look fine. You could wear my grandfather’s pyjamas and you’d look amazing. If I wore my grandfather’s pyjamas I’d look like my grandfather.’

Ellie laughs. ‘That’s absolute rubbish, Ruthie, and you know it.’

‘Here we go, duckies.’ Charlie holds out two tall glasses of Coke.

‘Thanks, Charlie,’ Ruthie says as she takes the warm glass. ‘What about your beer?’

‘I’s got that all sorted out. There he is now.’ Charlie waves at a tall, slender soldier in the same khaki green uniform holding two glasses of beer aloft as he weaves through the dancers towards them. ‘Tom, b’y! Over here!’

The soldier breaks through the crowd. ‘There you goes, Charlie,’ he says, handing Charlie a beer. He smiles at the two young women, his pale grey eyes lighting up. ‘Looks like you found us the best spot in the house.’ He extends a hand to Ruthie. ‘Thomas Parsons. Call me Tom. Everyone does but my mam.’

Charlie takes a swig of beer. ‘I’d say the sun’s shinin’ on us tonight, wouldn’t you, Tommy?’

Ruthie’s cheeks dimple and she holds out her hand. ‘Ruth Huggins. Call me Ruthie.’

Charlie taps Thomas on the shoulder. ‘This here is Ruthie’s friend, Milly.’

Thomas spins around, his hand outstretched for a handshake. Ellie’s glass goes flying, Coke splashing a brown deluge over her blue dress.

Ruthie gasps. ‘Oh, Ellie, your dress! It’s your favourite!’

‘Oh, Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,’ Charlie swears. ‘What has you done, b’y?’

Thomas tugs a white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and offers it to Ellie. ‘I’m so sorry, Milly.’

Glaring at the abashed soldier, she takes the handkerchief and rubs at the spreading stain. ‘It’s Ellie. Not Milly. Ellie.’

A hand presses onto her shoulder. ‘Sorry I’m late, Ellie. Good grief, what happened to you?’

Ellie nods at the tall Newfoundlander, whose long, handsome face is drawn into an expression of deep remorse. ‘George, this is Thomas Parsons. Thomas, this is my fiancé, George Parry. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to powder my nose.’