Hearing a brisk knock, Sheila bustled to the shop door and opened it to let Mr Whitney in, along with the bright May sunshine. ‘You’re early,’ she told him, not without a hint of accusation. She still had her work pinny and headscarf on, and a broom in her hand, and had intended to make herself more presentable before his arrival. ‘I was just sweeping up behind the counter. I cleaned off all the shelves and it’s left the floor in a dreadful state. Well, you’d best come in.’ She eyed the man’s dirty boots, and he paused before wiping them on the boot scraper outside. ‘I’ll put a brew on. Then we can sit down for a nice chat in the back room.’
Mr Whitney was apparently a man who could ensure the shop was regularly supplied with seasonal fresh fruit and veg, plus eggs and dairy and so on, from all the farms thereabouts that had supplied Arnie’s shop before his death. She had found his home address in one of Arnie’s dusty ledgers behind the counter, and had sent him a note explaining what was required and asking him to meet at the shop for a discussion.
It had taken her four drafts to get the note right, despite being only five or six lines in length. But she’d not run a business in so long, she’d forgotten how to phrase things, and she wanted to start off on the right foot. In particular, she was keen to come across as professional, though not stuffy with it. That wasn’t the kind of businesswoman she’d been back in Dagenham. She preferred to keep things friendly and informal. So long as suppliers brought in what they were supposed to and everyone got paid on time, or accepted tick where required, depending on what Arnie had always called ‘supply and demand’, then why insist on paperwork in triplicate?
Mr Whitney looked like a farmer himself, and indeed during their brief chat about Joe’s farm and her family in general, he admitted to keeping a goat and some chickens. He removed a tweed cap to reveal a bald head, and shook hands with her. Then they sat down in the cosy back room for a cup of tea. The ‘back room’ was basically just an extension of the kitchen, with an old-fashioned wooden settle and a table and chairs, plus the armchair where Arnie had always sat while waiting for customers to jingle the bell over the door.
It had torn her heart out to remove Arnie’s tatty old rocking chair, and replace the stained antimacassar draped over the back of the armchair, a few silver hairs still pressed into the fabric where his dear head had rested. But if this was to be a fresh start, that meant putting her own mark on things. So, a brand-new armchair cover had been put in its place, a sturdy, blue-patterned cotton that would wipe down easily if it got dirty.
Over tea and biscuits, she thrashed out a deal with Mr Whitney and the gentleman declared himself happy with the arrangement, shaking her hand again. They then lapsed into idle local gossip until Violet appeared at the door, looking narrow-eyed at Mr Whitney, who promptly remembered another appointment and took himself off.
‘I’ll bring the first deliveries in a fortnight, Mrs Newton,’ he told Sheila on his way out, adding a wink that she’d never seen him give her husband. ‘We’ll soon have this shop back in business. Though I’ll miss my chats with Arnie, that’s for sure.’
‘Oh, I can chat as much as he ever did,’ Sheila shot in response, with a gurgle of laughter. ‘Sheila can talk the hindleg off a donkey, my husband used to say, bless his soul.’
After Mr Whitney had gone, she closed the shop door with a smile and turned to find her daughter glaring at her, arms folded across a heaving chest.
Sheila’s heart sank. She knew that look.
‘Your face looks like a slapped bottom,’ she remarked. ‘Small wonder you scared him away, poor man, with such a sour look. He probably thought you were about to snap his head off.’
Violet said nothing but her foot tapped menacingly.
‘Go on, spit it out,’ Sheila urged, her heart thumping. ‘Let’s hear what’s bothering you. Because I can see you’ll burst if you don’t share it.’
‘I hope to goodness you won’t be having any “chats” with that man, Mum,’ Violet exclaimed at last. ‘You’ve barely known him five minutes and the two of you are flirting like nobody’s business.’
‘Flirting?’ Sheila’s bosom swelled. ‘Excuse me? Who on earth do you think you’re talking to?’
‘My mum, that’s who!’
‘And I’ll thank you to remember it. I’ll speak to whomever I choose,’ Sheila told her with dignity and clucked her tongue, struggling not to let loose with a stream of angry words that would probably mean Violet never spoke to her again. And that would be awkward, given that they lived under the same roof. ‘Blimey, I’ve never heard the like. I’m trying to reopen the shop and here you are, warning me off chatting to people I need to do business with.’ She took an unsteady breath. ‘You’ll be dropping in soon to tell me not to talk to the customers.’
‘That’s not the same, Mum, and you know it.’
Stubbornly, Sheila shook her head. ‘No, I don’t have a bloomin’ clue what you’re going on about.’
Already a tall woman, Violet drew herself up even taller, a hoity-toity look on her face. ‘That man—’
‘Mr Whitney.’
‘Mr Whitney, then … He was a sight too familiar for my liking, that’s all.’
‘Now you listen here, Miss Know-It-All, you may have helped me out in the caff back in the old days, but you don’t know the first thing about running a business. Not a business where you’ve got to deal with people. It’s not about the price of fruit and veg. It’s about the customers. If they get a smile and a little natter, they’ll come back and buy more in future.’
Sheila saw her daughter’s brows rise and added testily, ‘Not that that’s why I like a little chat now and then. I’m not all about money. That caff I ran in Dagenham, that was about community. It was a place where people could go to talk to each other, air their grievances and say what’s what. I never judged any of ’em, any more than I’ll judge someone coming into this shop with an opinion. I’ll listen and yes, maybe I’ll have an opinion of me own, but I won’t say who can speak and who can’t. Because this is still a free country, see? We won the war so we could stay free.’ Her final words burst out in a rush, ‘And if I want to have a bloomin’ natter, you ain’t going to stop me.’
‘I don’t want to stop you having a natter, Mum,’ Violet insisted, looking flushed. ‘I just don’t want you getting married for a third time.’
Sheila stared at her daughter in astonishment. ‘You what?’
‘I saw you flirting with him. It’s indecent at your age.’
‘You’d best get out of my shop this minute, Violet Postbridge, otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do.’ Sheila’s voice shook with fury. ‘But you won’t like it, I can promise you that.’
‘For goodness’ sake—’
‘I said, out!’
With an angry shake of her head, Violet marched out of the shop. Trembling, Sheila shut the door behind her and locked it, then stormed back into the kitchen to wash up the cups from Mr Whitney’s visit. But she was in a blazing mood.
How dare Violet? Her own daughter, talking to her like she was a child. How bloomin’ dare she?
It took a long while for her temper to subside, and she managed to crack a perfectly good china cup against the tap before it did.
Later, as she was locking the shop door, a woman came up behind her in the street, asking breathlessly, ‘Hello, how d’you do? Mrs Newton, isn’t it?’
Pocketing her keys, Sheila turned and looked the woman up and down. She was a pale, skinny little thing in her mid-thirties, with untidy ginger hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days. She wore a faded frock without even a cardigan, and heavy clogs on her feet, so she hadn’t come far. A baby lay cradled in one of her arms and a chubby-faced toddler in a blue smock was perched on her hip, rubbing grimy hands together as he stared bolt-eyed at Sheila. Two more small children ran about her in the street, squealing and giggling, while a fifth child leaned against the grassy bank opposite, a boy of about fourteen with a pudding basin haircut and a surly expression. All five children had been blessed with the same crop of ginger hair, so there was no mistaking whose children they were.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, adding cautiously, ‘How d’you do?’
‘Oh, very well, thank you. I can see you’re busy and I’m sorry to disturb you, only I heard Arnie’s shop was opening up again, and I was hoping to talk to you about getting some work.’
‘I see. And who might you be?’ Sheila demanded, a mite flustered by this unexpected request.
‘I’m Mrs Treedy. I clean up at the vicarage twice a week.’ The woman shook hands with Sheila awkwardly, hampered as she was by children. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise, I’m sure.’ Sheila shook her head. ‘Look, I’m sorry. You can see for yourself, the shop’s empty – I’m still waiting on my first delivery – besides which, I won’t know for several months if I can afford to hire any staff.’ She saw dismay on the woman’s face and added more kindly, ‘For yourself, is it, love?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But you already clean at the vicarage?’
‘Well, that is, I used to. Only the vicar’s wife … She doesn’t need a cleaner anymore, she says.’
‘Gave you the push, did she?’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ Mrs Treedy said hurriedly.
‘I’m sure.’
‘But that’s why I’m looking for work. Only there’s not much to be had hereabouts.’
‘No, though I shouldn’t think you’d have much time for a job.’ Sheila frowned. ‘Not with all them little uns to care for. Who looks after the babies while you’re at work?’
‘I used to take them with me when I was cleaning.’
Sheila studied the two youngest children dubiously. One barely looked weaned. ‘I’m sorry, love. I can’t have kiddies underfoot, running about and making a racket while we’re working …’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t bring them into the shop.’ Mrs Treedy’s face brightened. ‘My boy Jack there,’ she went on, indicating the surly youth with a jerk of her head, ‘he’d look after them. I always leave them with Jack if I’m to be gone a few hours. He’s a nice lad and the kiddies like him.’ She hesitated, meeting Sheila’s gaze frankly. ‘To be honest, we need the money.’
‘I’m not surprised, with so many mouths to feed … But I’m afraid I don’t have nothing available for you.’
‘Please, Mrs Newton.’ Mrs Treedy swallowed, her eyes shiny with tears. ‘I’m a hard worker and I’ll do anything. Sweep up, wash windows, clean out the veg crates. I’m not proud.’
Sheila didn’t know what to say. She recalled women coming to the caff in Dagenham before the war, asking for work, and how difficult it had been to turn them away. She’d always hated having to say no, especially knowing how much difference a few pence extra a week could make to some families. But given the shop wasn’t even open yet, and she had no idea how much trade there’d be in a tiny village like Porthcurno, especially now the war was over and the listening post had lost its protective camp of soldiers, she wasn’t in any position to be promising work to villagers, however hard up they might be.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Treedy, but there it is. Good day.’ With an apologetic smile, she hurried up the hill, too embarrassed to look the woman in the face again.
Halfway up, she stopped to take a breather, and glanced back. The woman was trudging away along the village street, children still running about her. The boy Jack followed more slowly, kicking a stone along the road, his hands in his pockets. He and his mother both looked dejected.
Fourteen? Most lads his age took the bus to and from Penzance School every day, so she was surprised he’d managed to come home this early on a school day. The younger ones would be attending the local primary school, of course, which was nearer at hand. But maybe the boy had already left school in hopes of getting a job. Many children did leave school at fourteen these days. Times were hard now the war was over and there was less support for families.
Noticing the woman’s slumped shoulders, Sheila felt wracked with guilt again. There’d been something close to desperation in Mrs Treedy’s face.
Yet what could she do?
‘You need to develop a thicker hide, my girl,’ she told herself grimly, turning to tackle the steepest part of the hill that led to Joe’s farm. ‘Because now you’re opening a business again, that woman may have been the first to ask for work, but she won’t be the last.’
Halting wearily at the back door of the farmhouse to remove her dusty shoes, Sheila heard raised voices inside. Pushing the door, she found Joe and Violet glaring at each other across the kitchen, though the couple fell silent as soon as she walked in.
Joe bent to thrusting wood into the range and Violet washed her hands savagely, looking flushed and argumentative.
Sheila hung up her hat, eying the handsome meat and potato pie she’d made before leaving home that morning, which was now stood on the table covered with a fly mesh, and said lightly, ‘You not put that pie on to heat yet, Vi? We’ll be sitting down late for supper if it don’t go in soon.’
‘I’m getting around to it, Mum,’ her daughter replied with a snap, but fetched a tray for the pie and put it in straightaway.
Sheila filled the kettle and put it on the range to boil. ‘I’m having a brew,’ she said conversationally, aware of bristling tension in the room.
‘I need to go and check on Sarah Jane,’ Violet said shortly. ‘She’ll have finished her nap and be up to no good by now.’ With that, she left the kitchen, stamping upstairs with her usual dainty tread.
Sheila looked round at Joe, who’d shut the fuel door on the range and was studying its highly unreliable temperature gauge. ‘What was all that about?’
‘It’s Selina,’ he admitted, looking troubled. ‘She’s moving on. That means we’ll be down a Land Girl coming into the summer season.’
‘Selina’s leaving?’ Sheila was surprised. ‘But why? Because of that business over her fiancé?’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it. All I know is, I said we need another Land Girl to replace her, and Violet isn’t keen. She says we’ve too many mouths to feed as it is. The government gives us an allowance per girl, but with how tight things are, Vi’s not sure we can keep making ends meet. She says I can’t apply for another Land Girl, and that’s final.’
‘Vi’s just fussing. She’ll come around.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ He pulled a face. ‘And with young Tilly not fully trained up yet, I don’t know how I’ll cope. It’s a big farm for a man with one leg.’ He banged his stick against the false one, which gave a hollow clang.
Sheila made the tea and popped a cosy over the teapot. She didn’t know how he’d cope either.
‘It’s a pity Selina’s leaving,’ she mused. ‘I’ll miss her about the place. Oh, I know she puts on airs and graces, and she’s got a sharp tongue when someone rubs her up the wrong way, but she’s a nice girl and a hard worker.’ She fetched down mugs and poured a dash of milk into each. ‘Well, we must have a farewell supper for her. I’ll bake a cake. But what kind? Jam sponge or something fancier? What do you think, Joe?’
When Joe didn’t respond, she turned to find the kitchen empty.
‘Talking to meself,’ Sheila muttered with a grimace, and sat down to nurse her cuppa and dream of how Arnie’s village shop – her shop, now – would look once it was stocked and open for business again. Truth was, she was a little scared of what the future might hold. But she’d got used to being afraid during the war, and she’d be blowed if she would let fear stop her.