His voice was steady, but she sensed a churning emotion behind it. The kettle began to build to a whistle on the range.
‘With Arnie,’ she explained gently, ‘I was ready. I had nothing better to do than get married, frankly. He asked, and I said yes. There weren’t much more to it.’
‘And now?’
She fiddled with the teaspoons. ‘Now I’ve a bloomin’ load on my plate. I’m a parish councillor, for Gawd’s sake. I’m running this charity fund for the poor, and organising hand-me-down clothing for them as need it. Plus, I’m dashing about all day in the shop, trying to keep on top of the paperwork. Ration coupons, the tick slate, ordering in new stock, paying invoices to the suppliers … It’s never-ending.’
‘You could give up the shop,’ he suggested.
The kettle was now whistling madly. Snatching it off the range, Sheila glared round at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.’ While she made the tea, he sat studying his hands, not looking at her. ‘So, what are you saying? You want to break things off? Is this birthday dinner our last hurrah?’
‘Now you’re being daft,’ Sheila told him. ‘I enjoy our drives about the countryside, and seeing you down the shop. But I also like being a councillor and running my own shop. I’m not ready to give those things up so we can get hitched.’
His troubled look had disappeared. ‘But you’re not ruling marriage out altogether?’
‘I’m making no promises.’ Pouring the tea, Sheila went on, ‘Why can’t we just carry on as we are? Two old friends, enjoying each other’s company and not worrying about thefuture.’ She added a splash of milk to each cup. ‘Ain’t that enough for you, Bernie?’
‘I suppose it’ll have to be,’ he said with a grimace. ‘For now.’
‘Good.’ Sheila spotted a crocheted cosy on the sideboard and covered the teapot to keep it warm. ‘I’m glad that’s sorted.’
After her first husband had passed, she’d taken on running a busy caff in Dagenham to help make ends meet, and had loved every hectic minute of it. When Arnie had died, leaving her his shop, she’d taken the risky decision to reopen it as sole proprietor, despite Violet’s misgivings about her age, and was now enjoying herself immensely as a village shopkeeper. Bernie himself had cajoled her into becoming a parish councillor earlier that year, and helped launch her village fund for the needy too. He was too mild-mannered to demand she give up those pursuits if they married, she felt sure. But she might come under pressure to do so anyway, knowing what other villagers might say behind her back if she didn’t.
Despite the recent war, when women had pitched in to do even the toughest jobs, she knew the villagers could still be judgemental when it came to married women daring to have a life of their own. Sitting on the council might be considered acceptable once she was Mrs Bernard Bailey, but running her own shop too?
She pushed his cup of tea towards him. ‘By the way, I’ll be going away soon.’
He stared at her. ‘How’s that?’
‘November is one of the quieter months up at the farm, so I’ve decided to take a break and visit my granddaughterLily in Penzance. We got a letter from her the other day, saying she’d be happy to put me up for a week or two. I’ll be taking the bus next Saturday, most likely, and can’t be sure when I’ll be back.’
The lights snapped back on at that moment, and from the other room she heard the gramophone begin playing again by itself, though not quite at the right speed yet.
Bernie gave a short laugh. ‘I suppose we should be grateful we’ve any power at all, the way things have been going since the war ended. This country’s in ruins and Lord knows how long it will take to rebuild.’ He picked up his cup and saucer. ‘I’d better turn off the gramophone. Then shall we move into the front room?’
They went through and sat on the sofa together. The fire was glowing embers now but the room was still pleasantly warm. It was also over-tidy compared to the messy farmhouse snug where she and her family sat and chatted until bedtime most evenings, while Joe’s two working dogs stretched out happily in front of the fire, damp fur stinking out the place.
Sheila tried to imagine this posh house being her home instead, and had to hide a grin. She’d soon have this room looking more homely, for starters, cluttered with balls of wool and knitting patterns and discarded cardigans everywhere, not to mention Sarah Jane’s toys strewn across the floor whenever her youngest granddaughter came to visit. She wondered if Bernie realised how much his life would change if she accepted his proposal, and doubted it.
Bernie said abruptly, ‘Let me drive you to Penzance, Sheila. I have a cousin there. Friends too. People I haven’t seen in some years. I could stay in the area and drive you back too.’ He hesitated. ‘We’d be able to have lunch occasionally.Perhaps walk along the front together or go to the picture house. I haven’t seen a film in ages.’
‘Me neither,’ she murmured, enchanted by the idea.
‘You said you enjoy my company,’ he pointed out. ‘And that you’d like us to keep on courting. So how about it?’
‘Violet would have fifty fits if you was to turn up in your car and take me to Penzance for two weeks.’ She chuckled, imagining her daughter’s outrage. ‘She’d think we was running away together.’
‘I’d like to run away with you, Sheila.’
Sheila decided to ignore that comment. ‘Saying yes doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about marrying you.’
‘Understood.’
‘Well, then,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘In that case, you may take me to Penzance, Mr Bailey. But no funny business.’
Bernie gave her a wry smile. ‘As if I’d dare …’
