‘Yes.’ Sheila looked pleadingly around at the other councillors. ‘There’s only three of us at the moment. And we’re stretched thin. So if anyone would like to join us …’
Nobody said anything. Several people shuffled their papers. One gentleman produced a hanky and blew his nose.
‘Perhaps you could ask customers at the shop,’ Bernie suggested. ‘There might be villagers willing to come on board. I’m on several committees already, otherwise I’d gladly lend a hand.’
Sheila threw him a grateful look. It was as plain as the nose on her face that the other councillors wanted nothing to do with her fund to help the needy. She’d have to look further afield for people to help with the committee work, that was all.
But her heart sank. If she couldn’t persuade a single one of these councillors to muck in with the arrangements, how on earth was she to recruit anyone else?
Bernie drove her back to Postbridge Farm once the council meeting had ended. Sheila was dog-tired after a long day on her feet in the shop, but at least the meeting had not run on like so many of them did, which meant she was still in time to sit down for supper with the others.
‘Thanks for the lift, Bernie,’ she said, peering out at the farmyard, where a few hens were still pecking interestedly at the cobbles, not yet having been encouraged into the coop for the night. ‘Have you bought a ticket to the HarvestSupper? Violet and the girls are helping out with the food. So it should be a nice spread this year.’
‘Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.’ His eyes paused on her face, softening. ‘Sheila, I’ve been meaning to ask … Where do you think all this is going, for you and I? We’ve been courting a good few months now, but I’m still not sure where I stand.’
‘You’re not standing anywhere. You’re sitting.’
He chuckled. ‘You can always make me laugh. I love that about you. But, seriously, if I was to give you a goodnight kiss right now, would I be risking a slap? I don’t want to overstep the mark.’
Sheila felt her cheeks warm. ‘Well, I never …’ She gripped her handbag tightly in her lap. ‘You won’t get a slap. Bit silly if you can’t give me a kiss when we’ve been walking out together all this time.’ But her voice wavered.
She was nervous, that’s what it was. Which was ridiculous, given that she’d been married and widowed twice now. She was hardly a spring chicken. And a kiss goodnight after a council meeting was surely not too much to ask for her own beau.
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Bernie hesitated, and then leant forward. She tilted her face to his, and their lips met and lingered. Sheila felt a thrill run through her, quite as though she were sixteen, not gone sixty. When he drew back, he was smiling. Getting out, he came around to open the car door for her with a gallant bow, as he always did. ‘Goodnight, Sheila.’
‘Goodnight then,’ she replied unsteadily. ‘I’ll see you at the Harvest Supper.’
He had already turned his car in the muddy farmyard and was motoring down the hill when she removed her headscarfand coat in the porch and let herself into the warm kitchen. The range was steamy with bubbling pans, kitchen windows misted up. The residents of Postbridge Farm were mostly gathered about the table, chattering noisily as Violet stamped back and forth, grumbling to herself as she prepared their supper.
Sarah Jane, Violet’s lively little daughter, was nowhere to be seen, so Sheila guessed she must have already had her tea and gone up to bed.
But Tilly and Caroline, the two Land Girls, were seated at the table, along with her widowed son-in-law Ernest, chatting about the weather. An unusually humdrum conversation for him. Ernest had spied for Britain during the war, mostly behind enemy lines, and had a funny, almost daft way of talking that often left people baffled. Still, her late daughter Betsy had adored him, as did his grown-up daughters, Lily and Alice, so that was enough for her. And since Ernest still worked for the government down in the valley at Eastern House – the wartime listening post – he was welcome to live here with them as long as he liked.
Joe emerged from the snug as Sheila bustled across to grab an apron and help her daughter serve dinner. Surprised, he raised his gaze from the newspaper he’d been reading. ‘I thought you were eating supper late tonight, Sheila,’ he rumbled, and then cleared his throat. ‘It’s good to see you back early. But there’s not been a place laid for you.’
‘I’ll sort that out for you, Mrs Newton,’ Caroline said promptly. A tall, bouncing, fair-haired girl, she’d been among the first Land Girls to come to Postbridge Farm early in the war, and had been living with them ever since, barring a few trips home to see her folks in Ealing. Other Land Girls hadcome and gone, but Caroline was almost one of the family now. She fetched a plate and cutlery from the crowded dresser and set them out for Sheila. ‘We’ve had a new Land Girl arrive,’ she added, her voice high-pitched with excitement. ‘Did you know? I was just about to call her down for supper.’
‘Yes, I met her when she was getting off the bus,’ Sheila admitted, helping Violet with the heavy oven door. ‘You’ll be glad to have another pair of hands about the farm, Joe.’
‘That I am,’ Joe agreed, sharpening the carving knife.
Caroline sniffed the air. Violet had roasted a chicken for dinner, the delicious smell now wafting through the kitchen.
‘What did you think of the new girl, Mrs Postbridge?’ Caroline asked.
Handling the chicken pan cautiously, Violet glanced round at her, thin brows arched. ‘She wasn’t what we were expecting, that’s for sure. Joe had a letter yesterday, telling us she was due today. Miss Grace Morgan was the name on the paperwork.Morgan.’ Violet pursed her lips. ‘We thought she was Welsh.’
‘She’s a Liverpudlian,’ Tilly said loudly.
‘Vi, do you remember a Welshman who used to come into the caff in Dagenham?’ Sheila threw in swiftly. She’d heard the creak of the stairs and guessed the new girl must be on her way down to supper. It wouldn’t do for the poor girl to hear them gossiping about her. ‘Dai, his name was, and he had a dog so small, he carried it around in his pocket.’ Sheila strained boiled greens into a colander while Violet carried the rather meagre-looking chicken to the table for Joe to carve, still sizzling in its roasting pan. ‘Though it was bigger than that bloomin’ bird. My goodness, Violet … Where’s the rest of that chicken?’
‘Just be grateful it’s not ox tongue again, Mum,’ her daughter muttered, and then everyone fell silent as the door opened and Grace Morgan stood on the threshold.
Joe gave his new Land Girl a welcoming nod, and then returned to his task of carving the chicken.
‘Hello again, love,’ Sheila said cheerfully and pointed to the empty space between Caroline and Tilly. ‘You must be exhausted, poor lamb. Did you come all the way from Liverpool today?’
‘Goodness, no. That would have wore me out, and no mistake.’ Giving her a nervous smile, Grace climbed over the bench to sit between the other two Land Girls, apparently oblivious to their fascinated stares, and poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the table. ‘I got a transfer from a farm upcountry. Just fancied a change of scenery, I suppose.’ She glanced at Caroline, jug still poised. ‘Care for some water? And you, Tilly?’
