‘For supper, yes. Though you can remind my daughter not to wait for me but to leave my supper on the range if I’m late. I’ve a council meeting first, you see.’
Sheila gave her clear directions to the farm, and she and Mr Faragher watched as Grace trudged off up the sunny hill in her sturdy, new-looking boots.She’ll be getting blisters in those, Sheila thought wisely.
The old man cleared his throat, catching her eye. ‘Did you happen to get that new delivery of baccy in yet, Mrs Newton? That nice leaf I like?’
‘I did, Mr Faragher,’ Sheila agreed, and led him into the shop.
As Sheila was closing up, half an hour earlier than usual, she turned to her sister Margaret, who now lived above the shop and helped her run the place. ‘I hope that new Land Girl will fit in all right.’ She had already told Margaret about the young woman with the strong Liverpudlian accent. ‘You should have seen old Mr Faragher’s face … He won’t keepit to himself, of course. The whole village will be talking about her by tomorrow, you mark my words.’ She flipped the hanging shop sign from OPEN to CLOSED. ‘Thing is, he didn’t mean any harm by staring. We don’t see much excitement down here, do we? And Porthcurno’s been bloomin’ quiet this year.’ She grinned, remembering the chaos of her first few months in Cornwall, keeping house for her daughter Violet and her orphaned nieces Lily and Alice, the three of them somehow always getting into trouble. ‘Though we had our hands full during the war, didn’t we?’
‘It must be a year at least since the soldiers left who were guarding Eastern House.’ Margaret put away her broom. Her face was wistful. ‘I don’t miss the war. Who could? A government listening post on our doorstep, Germans bombing us nightly, and never knowing if we were about to be invaded and rounded up by men in jackboots … But it wasexciting, I’ll say that for it. These days,’ she added defiantly, ‘the most excitement I get is when that nice Mr Lister comes in for a few rashers of streaky bacon.’
Sheila flashed her a look but didn’t pass comment. Her sister was in the middle of seeking a divorce from an abusive husband, but she wouldn’t be free to look elsewhere for some years if Stanley Chellew continued to ignore her solicitor’s letters.
‘When I was running that caff in Dagenham,’ she recalled, ‘we had a Jamaican family just down the street from us. They were always coming in for a nice cuppa and a slice of my home-made ginger cake. Oh, they were lovely people. In fact, the grandma, Judith, used to share family recipes with me. I’ve still got ’em somewhere. Spicy, mind you. But tastywith it.’ She smacked her lips with nostalgia. ‘Gawd, it must be years since I made a proper Jamaican dish.’
‘You said she was from Liverpool.’ Maggie looked mystified.
‘Yes,’ Sheila said patiently, ‘but her looks are Caribbean, by my reckoning. I could be wrong. But I’m sure Grace will tell us all about herself and her family once she’s settled in at the farm.’
Unfastening her work apron, her sister nudged her. ‘Hullo, look at that.’ A car had just pulled up outside the shop. ‘That’ll be your fancy man, come to whisk you away for another evening of pleasure.’
Sure enough, Bernie had arrived in his swish Daimler and was parking opposite. Hurriedly, Sheila patted her wayward greying hair and reapplied her lippy in the mirror. ‘Hardly pleasure, Mags,’ she hissed. ‘He’s taking me to the council meeting tonight, then driving me home afterwards. He’s a gent though, ain’t he? I don’t mind a good walk, as you know, but it’s been getting too bloomin’ cold lately, and we likely won’t be finished before it’s dark.’
‘What on earth do you councillors find to jar on about for so many hours? Sounds like a dead bore to me.’
‘The posh ones do love to talk,’ Sheila admitted. ‘La-di-da this, la-di-da that. Sometimes I have to pinch meself so I don’t nod off. Still, we get a few good things done for the community, despite all the airs and graces,’ she added, dropping her lipstick back into her handbag as her suitor came strolling across to the shop. ‘And that’s why I’m there, ain’t it? To help all of us villagers. Not for the bleedin’ cake.’
With a shy smile, Sheila opened the door to Bernie. She still wasn’t sure if their courtship was serious or not. Both widowed, both past sixty, they ought not to be messing aboutlike a couple of kids. But even at school she’d liked Bernie – before her parents had dragged her away to Dagenham, leaving her older sister behind to get married – and he still had the same gentle way about him. Besides which, he was always punctual – a strong point in his favour. But then, the old boy was retired, unlike her. If he had a village shop to run, he’d probably look a sight more flustered … Like she did, in fact.
‘Nice to see you again, Bernie. This is very kind of you. Though I haven’t had time to do my hair properly,’ she added awkwardly.
‘You look marvellous, as always,’ Bernie assured her. ‘Just the thing.’
Margaret rolled her eyes but said nothing.
Sheila pulled on her coat, said a prim goodbye to her sister, and followed him out to the car, knotting a headscarf under her chin.
Bernie was looking his usual smart and dapper self in a charcoal-grey, double-breasted suit, though it wouldn’t do to tell him so. They might be courting, but she didn’t want him taking liberties. Or getting the idea she was sweet on him. She was, of course. But that washerbusiness.
At the council meeting, Sheila and Bernie walked in together but sat a few seats apart from each other. This was a policy she’d insisted on after being co-opted onto the council earlier that year. It wasn’t a secret that they were stepping out together. But she didn’t feel they ought to be rubbing people’s faces in it by sitting next to each other at council meetings. Bernie was Chair of the Parish Council, and she herself was now chairing the newly formed Community Committee,tasked with administering a fund for the poor and needy thereabouts.
The local fund was her own idea, and she was bloomin’ proud of it. But she didn’t want folk getting the wrong end of the stick. It would be too easy to assume she’d wheedled her way onto the council because Bernie was her beau. And her daughter Violet, a stickler for ‘respectable’ behaviour, would be livid if she thought villagers were gossiping behind their backs …
‘Mrs Newton, how are plans coming along for your charity event?’ Mrs Brewer asked when the agenda turned towards the ongoing work of Sheila’s special Community Committee.
The ‘charity event’ in question was due to be held in December, though the date was still a bit woolly.
‘Erm, not too bad, thanks,’ Sheila replied croakily, conscious of all eyes turning to her, and cleared her throat.
To her embarrassment, she’d caught herself using a less Dagenham accent when at council meetings, overawed by the posher ladies with their big hats and flashy jewellery. But Bernie had assured her it was perfectly reasonable to want to fit in, confiding that he’d been doing the same for years, concealing humble origins with a smart suit and a cut-glass voice like one of them BBC presenters off the wireless.
‘It’s meant to bring people together,’ she went on, ‘and a chance for us to talk to them in need … I mean,thosein need without intruding by going to their homes. We ain’t … That is, wehaven’tmanaged to find a suitable venue yet,’ she said, straining to sound her ‘h’ properly, like the others did. ‘But we’re still asking around.’
‘And what will the event entail?’ Mrs Brewer asked.
Sheila said awkwardly, ‘Well, we ain’t exactly sure … I mean to say, wehaven’tmade a decision on that yet.’
‘I believe you need more volunteers to sit on the committee,’ Bernie put in, his smile encouraging. ‘Isn’t that right?’
