‘You’ll always be welcome at Postbridge Farm,’ Joe told him, and Violet nodded.
Ernest smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you both. No promises, mind you. I may be required to stay in London for some time. Regardless of the cheerful propaganda in the newspapers, I’m afraid Britain is in a fragile state,’ he added, his tone turning sombre, ‘and we are all skating on very thin ice, indeed.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Caroline swung through the kitchen door of the parish hall, bearing a tray of stew for Table 3, and almost bumped into Grace hurrying in the opposite direction, coming back for more. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she exclaimed, dancing out of her way. ‘That was close.’
‘Goodness, I nearly ended up with stew all over me best togs.’ Grace gave her a cheeky wink. She was wearing her hair up in a high, elaborate bun, her dress a glorious bright orange with brown bands at the hem and cuffs. She looked about as far from a Land Girl as it was possible to get, in Caroline’s opinion. It was hard not to stare. ‘By the way, have you seen old Mrs Newton with her boyfriend?’ she went on cheerily. ‘Both of them old enough to remember when Queen Vic was on the throne. I just saw them holding hands under the table … Young love, eh?’
‘Poor lady. She deserves a little happiness though,’ Caroline told her, hanging back in the doorway, the bowls of stew on her tray steaming deliciously in her face. ‘Mrs Newton only remarried a couple of years back, and her husband died notlong after. Her second time being widowed. It was very sad. And Mr Bailey’s a widower too. Only, fancy, they knew each other as kids in school, Mrs Postbridge says,’ she added in a discreet whisper. ‘Her mum was born in Cornwall, you see, before the family moved to East London. So it’s like their second chance at love.’
Grace’s eyes softened. ‘I didn’t realise … In that case, good luck to them both.’ She nodded to the stew. ‘Smells amazing, doesn’t it? I can’t wait to tuck in. Only we’ve at least another twenty bowls to dish out, and then there’s puddin’ after.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘If I’d known how many people come to this Harvest Supper lark, I’d never have volunteered to help out. We’re rushed off our feet here.’
And with that, she dashed on.
Caroline carried her tray to Table 3 and carefully handed out the bowls to the large family of villagers sitting there. The lady of the family was looking harassed. ‘Do you have any more paper napkins?’ she asked Caroline, jiggling a restless baby on her knee. ‘My little boy spilt his orange squash, and I had to mop it up. Now we’ve no napkins left for the meal.’
‘Of course.’ Caroline returned to the kitchen, and once again almost collided with Grace coming out. ‘Where’s Tilly gone? I thought she was helping too.’
Grace nodded across the crowded parish hall, and Caroline spotted Tilly deep in conversation with a young lad she recognised as Benny, a local farmer’s son. They were probably about the same age, she realised, and Tilly seemed flushed and happy, the empty tray under her arm quite forgotten. ‘Talking of young love …’ Grace murmured.
Caroline blinked, not having realised her fellow Land Girl was sweet on any of the local boys. ‘Oh golly.’
‘So it looks like we’re on our own back here, eh?’
Meeting the other girl’s amused gaze, Caroline felt herself suddenly tongue-tied. She tried to smile and only managed an odd, twitching grimace.
Embarrassment swept through her at Grace’s surprised look. What on earth was wrong with her? If she couldn’t sort herself out and be more careful, she would end up causing yet another awkward situation like the one she’d failed to avoid with Selina. Yes, she liked the new Land Girl – rather more, now she realised, than she ought. But she dared not let Grace see that. The thought of being rebuffed by another girl was almost too much to bear … Worse, if Grace were to become angry about it, maybe even to denounce her publicly, she would have to leave Porthcurno. And Postbridge Farm had become her whole life.
‘We’d best get on with it, then,’ Caroline muttered, and hurried into the kitchen for more bowls of stew, entirely forgetting the napkins she’d promised to fetch and had to dash back for them a moment later.
At last, the Land Girls were able to sit down at a table together and hurriedly eat the last of the stew before there was pudding still to serve. As soon as they’d eaten, they rushed around the parish hall, collecting up dirty bowls and doling out stewed apple and custard for pudding. Thankfully, they were not expected to do the washing-up themselves. The vicar and his wife had dragooned other volunteers into that job.
‘Goodness, this feels never-ending,’ Caroline groaned, passing Tilly on their way into the kitchen, their arms stackedwith dirty bowls and cutlery. ‘Remind me why we volunteered for this?’
‘Technically, I never volunteered,’ Tilly said, tipping used cutlery into the steel tray next to the sink. ‘Mrs Newton asked, wouldn’t you like to help out in a good cause? And I had a mouthful of food so couldn’t reply. Next thing I knew, my name was on the list.’
Grace, mopping up spilt water beside the cutlery washers, grinned. ‘She’s a canny old bird, Mrs Newton. But I have to admit, I put my hand up to sing. So I can’t blame that on anyone else.’
‘Yes, and you should stop cleaning up now,’ Tilly told her, snatching away the mop, ‘and get out there, ready to do your bit.’
‘I’d forgotten you’d volunteered for the entertainment too,’ Caroline admitted, looking round at her with awe. ‘You don’t look nervous. Are you?’
‘Not a bit, bless you.’ Grace laughed at them both. ‘I was always picked to do the solos in church when I was younger, so it’s second nature to me now. And it’s not difficult, singing. My old teacher used to say, all you have to do is open your gob and let the song come out.’
Caroline followed the other two girls out into the hall. The hubbub was deafening, everyone chattering merrily as they scraped away at their stewed apple and custard. Eventually, all the pudding dishes were gathered in for washing, and cups of tea handed out to everyone, with more squash for the kiddies.
There was a slight commotion at the door, and everyone turned to stare. Caroline saw Mrs Newton and her sister Mrs Chellew jump to their feet. She realised the man swayingtowards Mrs Chellew must be her estranged husband. He looked drunk and quite unpleasant.
‘Go home, Stanley,’ Mrs Newton exclaimed, shooing him away.
‘I want my wife,’ he growled, reaching for Mrs Chellew. ‘Come on with me, Maggie.’
‘I ain’t going anywhere with you, Stanley,’ Mrs Chellew said loudly into the silence. ‘You’re a brute and a drunk, and I don’t want anything more to do with you.’
In a matter of seconds, it was over. Mr Bailey and Ernest Fisher got to their feet and escorted Stanley unceremoniously out of the hall. Well,draggedmore than escorted. There was a quiet ripple of applause, and then everyone hurriedly returned to their conversations as though nothing had happened. Caroline watched the door for some time, and eventually the two men returned, bending to reassure Mrs Chellew with a few words.
After the vicar had stood to give his annual speech of thanksgiving for the harvest, the raffle was called. One of the parish councillors, a thin gentleman with spectacles and tweed jacket, drew the winning tickets, and everyone dutifully applauded as bags of potatoes, carrots and apples were won, along with the odd bottle of home-made wine. ‘The proceeds from the raffle go towards our community fund for the poor and needy,’ the vicar reminded them all, ‘kindly administered by Mrs Newton and her committee.’ After much lengthy applause, he nodded to his wife, and Mrs Clewson rose to take her seat at the piano. ‘Now, how about a sing-song to round off the evening? I believe we also have two new soloists this year, so please show them your appreciation.’
