‘Now you’re pulling my leg!’ Sheila chuckled, and even went so far as to dig the former MP in the ribs. ‘I ain’t posh enough for that. Blimey, I wouldn’t even know what fork to use at dinner. They’d throw me out soon as look at me.’
‘You’d be surprised the kind of people who run for parliament, Mrs Newton. I can assure you that you’ve already done good work as a parish councillor and should be commended for your efforts. There are many members of Parliament who haven’t done anything even remotely as useful as that, and yet there they sit, in the House of Commons, passing laws to line their own pockets.’ The lady shook her head, her look disapproving. ‘We need more people like yourself on those benches. Not more people like them.’
By then, they’d emerged into the gloom of the late November afternoon. ‘I still think you’re joking about merunning for Cornwall Council,’ Sheila stammered, shaken off balance. ‘But thanks for talking to me. And for your speech. I can’t wait to try some of these ideas out on the Parish Council.’
The former MP shook her hand again, smiling. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Newton. And I’m happy to help. In fact, my assistant will give you my home address, so you can contact me with any questions you might still have. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.’ And with that she swept away, climbing into the back of a sleek black car that had pulled up at the kerb while they were talking.
Her assistant, a stout woman in early middle-age, handed Sheila a printed card without a word, before following Mrs Newbury-Holmes into the vehicle.
Just as the car was pulling away, Lily came dashing up breathlessly. ‘Was that her?’ she hissed, excitement in her eyes. ‘Blimey, I bet that fur coat is worth a fortune … She must be very rich.’
‘She might be rich, but she’s ever such a nice lady. She talked to me for bloomin’ ages.’ Her head still reeling from everything they’d discussed, Sheila showed Lily the card. ‘And she gave me this so I could write to her.’
Lily was astonished. ‘Writeto her? Whatever for, Gran?’
‘In case I have any questions she didn’t cover in her talk.’ She took a deep breath, adding proudly, ‘Also, she said I should run for election to Cornwall Council. For parliament too one day. She said as how I’ve done more than most MPs do for the poor.’
‘Sounds to me like she was having a laugh.’ Lily was looking dubious.
Sheila was offended at this lack of confidence, but decidednot to scold her granddaughter, given that she was staying in her house. ‘Anyway, I took ever so many notes. Now I just hope I can read my own handwriting!’
‘Come here, love, and sit on your old great-gran’s knee,’ Sheila urged little Morris, who dropped his toy and scrambled onto her knee at once, beaming. Her great-grandson was happy, inquisitive and intelligent, and rapidly becoming her pride and joy. She cuddled him, and he squirmed, giggling noisily. ‘Do you know any Christmas songs?’
He nodded, waiting in expectation.
‘Christmas is coming,’ she chanted, ‘and the goose is getting fat …’ Then paused to let him join in.
‘Pwease put a penny in the old man’s hat,’ he responded, though getting a few of the words wrong, and then threw back his head with a roar of laughter that reminded her strongly of his father, Tristan, who also had a good sense of humour.
Tristan had not always been so prone to laughter, of course. Her young grandson-in-law had come back from wartime service with terrible burns, deeply depressed by what he’d considered to be his failures, and Lily had nursed him back to health. Eventually, he’d joined the fire service in St Ives where they’d been living and worked his way back to happier times. Like the birth of his son.
‘If you haven’t got a penny,’ she went on with an encouraging nod. ‘A ha’penny will do. If you haven’t got a ha’penny …?’
‘God bwess you!’ he cried.
‘That’s right,’ Sheila chuckled, holding him tight. ‘Aw, bless you too, little man.’
Lily bustled past with an armful of freshly laundered clothes. ‘These are for you, Gran.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We’ve been collecting hand-me-downs from folk hereabouts,’ her granddaughter said, placing the stack on the table. ‘These are all in good repair, and I’ve washed and ironed them, ready for your charitable fund.’
‘Gawd, you didn’t need to do that,’ Sheila exclaimed, letting Morris wriggle free. ‘You must be rushed off your feet already, what with the boy and this farm.’
‘That’s all right. Besides, Demelza helped me with the laundering,’ Lily told her, smiling. ‘And Mary too.’
Sheila’s brow wrinkled. ‘Mary?’
‘I think you met her once. She was a trainee nurse like me, one of my closest friends at the Convalescent Home for Wounded Servicemen in St Ives. She’s Mrs Jeffries now, though.’ Lily knelt with a hanky to clean Morris’s face. ‘She married a teacher and they moved to Penzance this summer so Dick could take up a new position here at the school. Anyway, he put up a poster at the school last week, asking for clothing donations for your fund, and these came in from parents, so they’re mostly children’s clothes. I’ll pop them in a bag to take back to Porthcurno.’
Sheila was touched by such a kind gesture. ‘Thank you for taking the trouble … And Demelza too, especially given her condition.’
She hadn’t seen much of Lily’s sister-in-law during her stay. The poor thing had been ‘indisposed’ with morning sickness, despite having already produced an infant less than a year ago – a baby girl called Teresa with plump cheeks and strawberry-blonde wisps of hair, whom she’d heard bawling for a feed occasionally.
‘If you give me their address,’ she added, ‘I’ll write Mary and Dick Jeffries a thank-you note too.’
‘You can thank them in person.’ Lily grinned at her. ‘They’re coming to dinner tonight.’
