Bernie owned a house on the outskirts of Porthcurno, only a short drive away. Yet she’d never been there before, despite his repeated invitations. Truth was, she felt awkward about her growing friendship with a man she knew to be ofa higher social class, and so had resisted seeing his house in case it was too grand for her. She didn’t want to sit down to dinner with him, secretly embarrassed by Joe’s ramshackle farm and her own modest village shop.
‘Here we are,’ he murmured, turning off the engine outside a pretty whitewashed house with a thatched roof. It stood detached, overlooking the village, with a well-kept front garden still boasting a few late blooms. ‘This is my home, Three Chimneys. I asked my housekeeper to leave dinner for us warming on the range. I believe it’s a meat pie with gravy and vegetables.’ He opened the front gate for her. ‘Don’t worry, she doesn’t live in.’
‘I can serve the pie. Just show me where she keeps her pinny, and I’ll have dinner on the table in a brace of shakes.’
‘Nonsense. You’re my guest tonight, Sheila, and I’ll be serving the dinner.’
In the dark, wood-panelled hallway, Bernie took her hat and coat before ushering her into a cosy front room. It was set about with armchairs and a handsome sofa, the curtains already drawn and an elegant standard lamp glowing in the corner.
‘How about a drink before dinner?’ He began rattling bottles on the sideboard, where two glasses sat waiting. ‘Maybe a small sherry?’
‘Better make it a big ’un,’ she muttered, sinking into a deep armchair with green silk covers. Her heart was thumping, though she was determined not to show it. It would never do to show how overwhelmed she felt. It was all so posh. ‘I mean, yes, thank you very much.’
With a grin, Bernie poured them both a sherry and brought the glass over. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and they clinked glasses.
Sheila choked on the strong, sweet sherry, and managed to spill some. ‘Sorry.’ Embarrassed, she rummaged in her handbag for a hanky. ‘Meant to sip it and took a bloomin’ great gulp instead.’ She dabbed at her lips, hoping her face powder wasn’t ruined. ‘This is a nice room,’ she ended lamely.
‘Thank you.’ He sat back on the sofa, smiling at her. ‘It’s a lovely house. But I get lonely here. Especially now the evenings are drawing in.’ He took a sip of sherry and gazed thoughtfully about the room. A clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece in the silence. ‘I have to admit, I envy you.’
‘Eh?’ She wrinkled her brow, baffled.
‘Living at Postbridge Farm with your daughter and son-in-law. It’s such a busy place, with all the Land Girls too, people constantly coming and going … You’re never alone up there, are you?’
‘Well, you could put it like that, I suppose.’ Sheila turned her glass in her hands, not daring to drink any more in case she choked again. ‘Still, it was wonderful during the war … One big happy family. Whatever ’appened, however bad it was, you always knew you had each other.’ Sheila smiled mistily at the memory of those tumultuous days, though the war had been awful too at times. Such as when the German bombers had flown along the Cornish coast, hunting for key targets like Eastern House, which had thankfully been well hidden under camouflage. Before she herself had come to Cornwall, before Joe and Violet had even married, one bomb had hit Postbridge Farm, killing Joe’s mother and leaving a crater where the new barn now stood. Yet what she chiefly remembered were the good times … The knees-ups and the silly practical jokes they’d played to make life seem lessdire. ‘When times got tough, we had a good laugh and kept each other going.’
‘It must have been a comfort when Arnold died too, having your family around you for support.’
‘I would have been lost without them. Especially my lovely granddaughters, Lily and Alice … It’s wonderful knowing they got through the war unscathed.’ She pulled a face. ‘Not entirely unscathed. We lost their mum, Betsy, my eldest daughter, to the Blitz. And we thought they’d lost their dad too, Ernest. He was missing, presumed dead, for most of the war. Only then he turned up on the doorstep one day, right as rain.’
‘Incredible,’ he murmured.
‘That’s a story for another day,’ she told him, grinning. ‘He’s a wily one, Ernest. And he’s left us again now. Gone back to London to live with his daughter Alice. Oh, I do miss her. She has some funny ideas at times, but I love her to bits.’
‘You seem to love all your family,’ Bernie remarked. ‘It’s a wonderful quality, that capacity for love.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she admitted with a chuckle. ‘I was never fond of my sister’s second husband. I’d gladly see Stanley Chellew fall down a hole and never come out. I do have my favourites though. And my granddaughters are top of the list. I mean, I’m getting on a bit now, but my children and my grandchildren … They’re the future, aren’t they? They’re the ones our brave boys fought and died for, the ones we all sacrificed so much for, and they’re the ones who’ll need to put this country back together again, now it’s all over. And my Lily and my Alice … Them two girls will do a bang-up job of it.’
She came to a halt, realising belatedly that he and his wife had never had children, and therefore had no grandchildren to be proud of.
Taking another sip of sherry, his gaze moved to a framed photograph on a side table. It was a snap of him and his wife, presumably on their wedding day, the couple posed outside a church door. Clutching a bouquet, the bride looked pretty and vivacious, and a young, handsome Bernie had an arm about her waist, smiling proudly as he held her close.
‘Was that snap taken on your wedding day?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘Your wife looks lovely. Eugenie, you said her name was?’ Sheila had tears in her eyes, and didn’t know why. Or perhaps she knew but didn’t want to admit why her heart was aching. ‘It never gets easier, does it? Losing someone you love, I mean. You just learn to rub along with the pain. Because if you didn’t, you’d get nothing done.’
‘True enough.’ Bernie rose, putting down his glass. ‘Now, I’d better see about dinner. No, you stay there.’ He shook his head, overriding her protest with a good-humoured smile. ‘I may not be much of a cook, it’s true, but I’ve been fending for myself the past few years. I can don a pinny and wield a ladle when necessary.’
‘Wait, I’d like to give you this before I forget.’ Shyly, she reached into her bag and produced his birthday present. It was a small book on river fishing that she’d been offered by her supplier for sale in the shop and had instantly known would interest him, a keen fisherman. ‘Happy birthday, Bernie.’
Surprised, he took the book and turned it over in his hand. ‘How clever of you. This looks very interesting. I enjoy fishing.’
‘I know you do. You mention it often enough.’ She laughed at his chagrined expression. ‘No, it’s good for a man to have a hobby, especially one that takes him out of the house. I was always on at Arnie to take up fishing. But he wasn’t one for going out into nature much.’
‘I look forward to reading it, thank you.’
The beef and potato pie provided by his housekeeper turned out to be excellent. The pastry was light and flaky, even better than her own, and although there was more gravy than meat and potato, it was still tasty and filling. Better yet, the vegetables were not stewed to mush, the way Violet preferred to serve them, and the pie was followed by a bowl of tinned fruit with condensed cream, one of her favourite sweet dishes. Along with this feast, Bernie served a French red wine, from a crate of bottles he sheepishly admitted to having acquired on the black market during the war.
After she’d finished her fruit and cream, she pushed the bowl aside with a contented sigh. ‘That was lovely, Bernie, thank you. My compliments to the chef.’
‘I’ll tell Susan tomorrow that you enjoyed it.’
