Lily grinned. ‘You should tell Joe to have one installed at Postbridge Farm. Then we could telephone each other any time we liked. No need to wait for a letter to arrive.’
‘Fancy that.’ Sheila pulled on her gloves, checking her reflection in the hall mirror. ‘We never had a telephone in Dagenham. But then, we never needed one. If we wanted to speak to someone, we put on a hat and coat and walked around to their house.’
The sound of ringing stopped. Demelza’s husband Robert could be heard speaking in a booming voice.
‘Robert paid to have it put in,’ Lily whispered as they headed out to the car. ‘He organises the local Quaker meetings, so it’s been invaluable for him. But it’s useful for us too, especially when livestock goes AWOL.’
They drove into Penzance, a growing seaside town with pretty shopfronts and a beautiful vista over the bay, where St Michael’s Mount rose mistily out of the sea like a fairytale castle. But Sheila also noticed signs of deprivation: gaunt-faced women pushing filthy prams up and down the steep, cobbled lanes from the seafront, and gangs of kids roaming about in clogs and ragged clothing despite the cold weather. It seemed even bustling Penzance had a problem with poverty.
‘I’m glad to see they’ve removed the beach defences,’ Sheila remarked as Lily was parking down by the harbour. ‘I couldn’t stand all them ugly, brutish lumps of concrete littering the beach. And the mines just scared me silly. Now, come summertime, people will be able to swim and build sandcastles again.’
‘We had to secure the coast against the enemy back then,’ Lily reminded her. Having found a place to park the farm van they’d borrowed for the day, she got out and went around to the back to fetch her shopping basket. ‘Better ugly lumps of concrete and a few mines than an invasion force,’ she added cheerily.
‘I daresay,’ Sheila said, climbing laboriously out of the van. ‘But it’s still prettier without ’em.’
‘True enough. Now, Gran, where’s this talk being held?’
‘Here’s the address, love.’ Sheila handed over the cutting she’d taken from the newspaper. ‘The lady who’s giving the talk is called Mrs Ethel Newbury-Holmes. Bit of a mouthful, ain’t it? I expect she’s posh. Used to be a Member of Parliament too, so maybe I won’t understand a word she’s saying. But I’ve heard good things about her. And I’ve got paper and a pencil, so I can take notes on what she says.’
‘You’re taking this very seriously, ain’t you, Gran?’ Lily gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘You always were a kind soul. I was surprised, I admit, when I heard you were a councillor now. Tristan and I weren’t sure at first whether it would suit.’
‘You mean, you weren’t sure I was up to the job? You thought grandmothers are only good for knitting, not turning up to the Parish Council every month and listening to men in suits droning on about this and that.’ She joined in with Lily’s laughter. ‘Oh yes, I know what you was thinking, my girl. But Bernie said being on the council was the only way to get things done. And it turns out he was right. So, here I am, hoping to learn how to get things done from this Mrs Newbury-Holmes.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Look, I know where this address is, so I’ll walk over there with you. But I can’t promise to stay for the talk,’ Lily admitted, settling her shopping basket on her arm. ‘I’ve got a few errands to run while I’m in town. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t. Anyway, I’ll be scribbling notes the whole time, so I wouldn’t be good company. You do your shopping, love. Just don’t forget to come back for your ol’ gran, will you?’
They walked round to the hall together, where there was already a long queue of people waiting to hear the former MP speak. Lily stood with Sheila awhile, chatting about little Morris and his latest antics, and how he was coming on in leaps and bounds. As the queue shortened, though, people shuffling into the hall at last, her granddaughter excused herself and hurried away to do her shopping, promising to call back in an hour.
Feeling shy, Sheila followed the others into the hall, notmeeting anyone else’s eye, and found a seat near the back where she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. It was cold and draughty. She set her notebook on her knee and waited. After a while, a portly gentleman shuffled onto the raised platform and gave a rambling introduction to the former Member of Parliament. There was a polite round of applause, and a tall, hawkish-looking woman stood up, smiling at the audience. It was so cold in the hall, the lady was still wearing her fur coat and hat. She was in an old-fashioned pale blue twinset with pearls, her skinny legs clad in nylons, a pair of posh heels on her feet. She thanked the compère politely and then gave a speech which ran for some forty-five minutes, without notes and without once hesitating or losing her train of thought.
Sheila struggled to take it all down, since every few minutes the former MP would produce a statistic or suggest a solution to the issue of poverty that made her mutter, ‘Oh blimey, yes,’ under her breath and scribble these ideas down frantically.
Not everyone enjoyed her speech, though. One man got up and walked out halfway through. Another demanded to know how the lady had voted in some government bill during the war, which Sheila barely remembered. But then, she’d been too busy during the war to sit reading about Parliamentary Bills and so on. She’d had her caff to run, and her family to look after in the Blitz, and once in Cornwall, she and Arnie had been courting. She’d had no time for politics. Now though, it was all she could think about, even wary of accepting Bernie’s proposal in case she’d have to give up her new-found interest and go back to being a housewife.
When the talk was over and everyone had left, Sheilafound herself still scribbling, trying to complete her notes. A shadow fell across her, and she glanced up. It was Mrs Newbury-Holmes, with another lady behind her.
‘You’ve taken copious notes there, madam,’ the former MP remarked, peering down at her with raised brows. ‘Are you a journalist?’
Sheila jumped up, embarrassed. ‘Gawd, no, bless you,’ she exclaimed, fumbling to put away her notebook. She hesitated, then recalled what Bernie had said once about taking her work more seriously, and drew herself up, putting out a hand to the other lady quite as though they were equals. ‘I’m Mrs Newton and I’m a parish councillor.’
‘Are you indeed?’ They shook hands in a friendly way, which put heart into Sheila.
‘Yes, and I’m running a fund to help the poor and the needy in our area. It’s very rural, and there’s not enough work to go round. And some of the women – I mean,ladies– they’re war widows, and they’re struggling to make ends meet.’ Sheila hesitated. ‘I’m not saying the government’s failed them. But, like you said, these are difficult times, and someone’s got to help out. We can’t walk by on the other side and watch people starving and kiddies running about barefoot.’
‘Oh, quite,’ Mrs Newbury-Holmes agreed, watching her.
‘Only I’ve never done anything like this before, see? So I thought I’d come and hear your ideas, and take a few notes, so that I won’t forget what you said by the time I get home,’ she finished lamely, realising that she’d been rambling on, and the lady and her companion were both staring.
‘Not at all,’ the former MP said politely. ‘Whereabouts are you a parish councillor? Here in Penzance?’
‘Oh no,’ Sheila said with a laugh, and fell in beside her as they walked towards the exit. ‘I live in Porthcurno and run the village shop. It was my late husband’s shop, but I took it on after he passed away. It’s a tiny place, though, and it’s coming on for winter, and some of them folk are in dire need. That’s why I set up a fund to help them, and a donation centre for clothing and shoes, so nobody has to go without.’
Mrs Newbury-Holmes was listening with interest. ‘Sounds to me as though you should run for Cornwall Council in the next elections.’
Sheila stopped dead, flabbergasted. ‘Me? Run for election as a Cornwall councillor?’
‘Why not? It’s a good stepping stone if you’re interested in politics. After all, once you’re a councillor, you could run for parliament.’
