Sheila eyed him suspiciously. ‘How old is Susan?’
He grinned. ‘Half my age and happily married. So no need to look daggers at me.’
‘I never said a bloomin’ word.’ She lifted her glass of wine. ‘Happy birthday, Bernie. I hope it’s been a good one.’
He lifted his own glass for the toast, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘It’s a good birthday now you’re here with me, Sheila. Thank you for the fishing book, and for saying yes.’
‘I never turn down a free dinner,’ she told him, with more humour than truth.
She had in fact dithered over his invitation at first. It had felt like a big step to agree to an intimate dinner at his house, birthday or no birthday. He had led her into the dining room, also wood-panelled, and furnished with a large, highly polished table and chairs. He was playing classical music on the gramophone, while a fire crackled away merrily in the fireplace. He had brought in the hot dishes himself and served her at the table. It all felt rather domestic, perhaps even romantic. But it was a far cry from her life at the farm.
To her surprise, however, she didn’t feel uncomfortable here. Yes, the house was grand compared to Postbridge Farm, or where she’d lived in Dagenham, a narrow two-up, two-down terraced house that had probably been blown to kingdom come in the war. But with Bernie sitting opposite her with that smile in his eyes, it was easier than she’d expected to forgetwhereshe was and focus onwhoshe was with instead. This man certainly had a knack for putting her at her ease.
Perhaps sensing her softening mood, Bernie set down his glass and reached for her hand instead. ‘Sheila,’ he began hesitantly, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. I’m not usually a coward. But this thing has me on the back foot, so I’ve been putting it off. But tonight’s as good a time as any to take the plunge.’
Sheila narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. ‘I hope you’re not about to say something that will give me indigestion, Bernard Bailey. Because I’d rather not be upset.’
He was silent for so long that she thought she’d upsethim. Then he said, with obvious difficulty, ‘I don’t want to upset you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I want you to marry me.’As she stared, thrown by the question, he added softly, ‘Will you, Sheila?’
‘Oh my Gawd.’ Sheila felt her heart begin to thump heavily. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’
‘You could say yes.’
She withdrew her hand, feeling awkward and knocked off balance. ‘Or I could say no.’
He blinked at this, and stammered, ‘Of course, you don’t have to give me an answer immediately.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, perhaps a little tartly.
With a dull clunk, the lights in the dining room went out and the gramophone in its smart wooden cabinet died too, the lively big band music slowing to silence. Exasperated, Sheila muttered something unladylike. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found herself staring across at her would-be next husband by the glow of firelight.
‘Damn government,’ he said, annoyance in his voice. ‘Another power cut.’
‘And there was me thinking you’d arranged for the lights to go out, to make your proposal more romantic.’
He gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’ve got a lamp in the hall. Hang on a tick.’
While he was gone, Sheila dropped her head into her hands and groaned. They’d barely even exchanged a kiss, and here he was, proposing marriage already. She’d seen it coming. But not so soon. She liked Bernie. No, it was more than just friendship. But was it love? And did that even matter at her age? The truth was, he was good company, and she wasn’t expecting a grand passion. It might even be dangerous. But someone to laugh with, and chat about the old days, someone to hold her hand,and to share the long, lonely nights of winter … That wasn’t such a bad deal.
All the same, she couldn’t see herself saying yes to his proposal. Not yet, at any rate. She could only hope he wouldn’t be offended by a refusal.
He came back with a hurricane lamp that smelt of oil, its soft flame glowing through the glass. ‘That’s better.’ He placed the lamp on the table, and glanced at her hesitantly. ‘Can I pour you an after-dinner brandy? Or we could move next door and sit on the sofa.’
‘The sofa sounds more comfortable. Though I’d prefer a cup of tea. How about I put the kettle on the range? It doesn’t seem right, you doingallthe work tonight.’
‘I could murder a cup of tea.’ He smiled, lifting the lamp to light their way. ‘But don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re up to, Sheila.’
‘Eh?’ She followed him into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But she knew perfectly well.
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’ Bernie sat down at the kitchen table, watching as she bustled about the room, busily filling the kettle and setting it on the range to boil. ‘I’m going to take it the answer’s no. Because if it was yes, you’d have told me by now.’
Embarrassed, Sheila hunted for teacups, finding them displayed on the dresser, and set them on the table next to the milk jug. ‘It’s not a no,’ she told him cautiously, ‘but it’s not a yes neither.’
‘That sounds cryptic.’
She spooned tea leaves into the pot, perhaps a shade too generously, given rationing. ‘Thing is, Bernie, it’s a no for now. I ain’t quite ready to get married again.’
‘I see.’
