Sheila was spooning hot oats into breakfast bowls when Caroline came into the kitchen looking pale and red-eyed. ‘’Ere, what’s up, love?’ she asked with a frown, scraping the last of the porridge oats into her own bowl. Not quite a full helping maybe, but she’d been picking at the lemon sherbets and pear drops lately, bored in the long, dreary intervals between customers at the shop, and needed to watch her figure. ‘You look like you lost a shilling and found a sixpence.’
The Land Girl took an envelope from her pocket – the letter she’d received in yesterday’s post, by the look of it, and laid it on the table beside her bowl. ‘Dreadful news from Selly,’ Caroline mumbled, sitting down with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. Sheila thought she’d never seen the girl so miserable since the day her friend had left. ‘Her sister’s died.’
‘Oh no,’ Violet exclaimed, setting the brimming milk jug down so hard it spilt on the table. ‘Poor Selina … So soon? Why, it feels like barely five minutes since she went off to Bodmin.’
‘Aye, that’s bad news,’ Joe agreed heavily, tucking into his porridge with a hearty appetite.
Having put the dirty pan to soak in cold water, Sheila poured a little cream into her bowl, along with a dollop of honey. A soul still had to eat, she thought defensively.
‘Remind me, how many kids did her sister leave behind?’ Violet was asking, stirring a small amount of porridge into some cold milk for Sarah Jane.
‘Three,’ Caroline said, staring down at her breakfast without touching it. ‘And the youngest only four years old.’
‘Oh, poor lambs,’ Violet said feelingly. She turned to fuss with her daughter’s bib as the child sat kicking chubby legs back-and-forth in the high chair. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of my little Sarah Jane left all alone without her mum.’
‘It’s very sad, but you should still eat up, Caroline,’ Sheila said stoutly. It was well past dawn, and the Land Girls were due out in the lower fields with Joe soon, to check the growing crops for weeds and pests. It was a back-breaking task that often took most of the day. ‘I know you’re unhappy about your friend but you won’t help anyone by wasting away.’
Tilly snorted, presumably at the idea of Caroline, who’d always been on the big-boned side, wasting away. But she lapsed into silence when Sheila shot her a quelling look.
‘Talking of wasting away,’ Violet said with a frown, pointing her spoon at Sheila’s bowl, ‘what size portion d’you call that, Mum? I’ve never seen you eat so little. That wouldn’t keep a sparrow alive.’
All eyes turned to Sheila.
Embarrassed, she replied testily, ‘Don’t fuss, Vi. I’ll have a pasty for my lunch. That’ll do me, and handsome.’
She laid aside her spoon, having already emptied the bowl. Perhaps her breakfast had been on the meagre side, she thought, licking her lips and gazing hungrily around as the others continued to eat.
Ernest strode into the kitchen with a briefcase and stopped to study the breakfast table. ‘Porridge again, is it?’
Sheila looked at her son-in-law suspiciously but there was no hint of accusation on his face. ‘It’s cheap,’ she said flatly, ‘and we’ve no bacon. Not until them piglets grow a little bigger.’
Joan sucked in a sharp breath, looking round at her wide-eyed, and even level-headed Tilly shuddered.
Sheila shook her head pityingly, taking a gulp of lukewarm tea. What on earth did these girls think the pigs were for, if not eating?
‘I’m afraid there’s no porridge left.’ Violet half rose, grimacing. ‘Would you like me to find you something else?’
‘No need,’ Ernest said, grabbing his coat and hat. ‘I’m on the early shift today, so I’ll eat in the canteen at Eastern House, assuming I get time.’ He ruffled Sarah Jane’s hair and strode out on his way to work with a nod to everyone else.
Ernest rarely talked about what he did down at the listening post in Porthcurno but since they’d grown accustomed to such secret work during the war, nobody dared ask for details anyway. It was still miraculous to Sheila that Ernest had come through the war years unscathed, given he’d been a spy in foreign territory all that time, as a native German speaker. The tragedy was that he’d been away from home when they’d lost his wife Betsy, and with everyone thinking he was ‘missing, presumed dead’ – the government’s official story for his disappearance – her grieving granddaughters had wrongly believed they were orphans. She could see the reasoning behind it now, but blimey, them had been tough years for Alice and Lily. For all of them, indeed.
At least Ernest had chosen not to go back to London after the war, preferring to be nearer Lily and his young grandson Morris in Penzance. He’d been a good father since his return, Sheila had to give him that.
‘Would you like some of my porridge, Mrs Newton?’ Caroline offered wanly. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to finish it.’
‘Very kind but no thanks,’ Sheila insisted, rising to freshen the teapot with some hot water. ‘The truth is, I’m trying to watch my weight.’ As a chorus of protests – and a rumble of laughter from Joe – broke out behind her, she confessed, ‘I’ve been helping myself to the sweet jars at the shop, ain’t I? Now my waistband’s too tight, that’s all.’
‘Mum!’ Violet looked shocked.
‘You could get into trouble doing that,’ Joe remarked placidly. ‘Rationing regulations being what they are. I recall Arnie having to account for every last bean to the ration officer.’
‘Blimey, Joe’s right,’ Violet breathed, going pale. ‘You’ll have to make it up, Mum. Or you could be done for fraud.’
‘A jailbird mother-in-law.’ Joe reached for his tea mug with a quirk of his mouth. ‘Don’t fret, Sheila, I’ll visit you in jail. And bring you a file in a cake, if I remember.’
Tilly snorted again. Seeing Violet’s glare, the girl got up hurriedly to carry her bowl to the sink.
‘That ain’t funny, Joe,’ his wife snapped.
Joe raised bushy brows. ‘What makes you think I was joking?’
‘Fiddlesticks.’ Sheila thought guiltily of the pork pie she’d given to Mrs Treedy. But she shouldn’t have to account for her actions to anyone, least of all her own daughter, she thought impatiently. ‘Nobody’s goin’ to cart me off to the magistrates over a handful of missing sweeties.’
Thankfully, little Sarah Jane dropped her spoon at that moment and began to wail, so that Violet had to turn to comfort her daughter, while Joe stared glumly into his tea.
Sheila worried the couple must be having problems, for they were increasingly short with each other, and in public too. But Sarah Jane was still keeping them up nights, so that might also account for it.
Joan, who’d asked Caroline earlier if she could read Selina’s letter, handed it back with a sympathetic look. She was a serious girl and rarely smiled, though she spoke up in company more often these days than she used to. Sheila thought it was good to see her coming out of herself. ‘Will you go and visit her on Bodmin Moor, Caroline? I see she asks if you’ve any holiday leave coming up.’
‘I’d like to.’ Caroline looked hopefully across at Joe, who shook his head.
‘Sorry, can’t spare anyone. Not when we’re so short-handed.’
Caroline’s face fell.
Feeling sorry for the girl, and glad of the distraction, Sheila asked quickly, ‘What about after Alice’s wedding? I daresay things will be topsy-turvy around then, Joe, so you won’t notice one body less about the farm.’
‘But won’t Selina be coming back for the wedding too?’ Tilly pointed out.
‘Yes, she wants to be at the wedding,’ Caroline agreed, her gaze still on Joe’s averted face. ‘But I could go back with her afterwards. Just for three or four days. It would mean ever so much to me, Mr Postbridge. Selly’s had such a hard time lately, she badly needs a friend to talk to. She’s lost her sister, and now she’s got three grieving children to look after …’
Violet glanced at her husband. ‘Joe?’
There was a wealth of meaning in that one word.
‘I promise to work ever so hard when I get back,’ Caroline added in a small voice. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘Well, when you put it like that … I suppose I could spare you for a few days after the wedding,’ Joe grumbled. ‘Seeing as how it’s apparently a matter of life or death.’
‘Oh, thank you so much, Mr Postbridge, I won’t let you down. I’ll be back before you’ve missed me,’ Caroline said eagerly.
‘I doubt that.’ Joe pushed aside his tea and got up, peering out of the kitchen window. ‘Well, time to get moving. Come on, girls. We’ve a full day’s work ahead, and it looks like it might rain later, so we’d best get out there while the weather’s still with us.’
When they’d all pulled on their boots and trooped out of the kitchen, Violet bent to wipe her daughter’s porridge-encrusted face, then began to clear away the breakfast things. ‘So, how’s the shop going these days, Mum?’
The question sounded deceptively innocent.
‘Perfectly fine, thank you,’ Sheila said, and turned to the sink. ‘I’ll wash these dishes before I head down into the village, shall I? To save you a job later.’
‘Thanks.’ Violet rolled up her sleeves to wipe down the kitchen table, the pungent smell of her home-made vinegar and baking soda cleaning mix filling the air. ‘Aunt Margaret not shown her face again, I take it?’
Sheila sucked in a breath, hands plunged deep in soapy water. Thank goodness Vi couldn’t see her guilty expression, she thought. ‘Erm, your aunt? Goodness me, no. You saw her off last time, good and proper.’ She rinsed suds off the bowls as noisily and hurriedly as she could. ‘Blimey … is that the time? I’ll be late opening the shop at this rate.’
‘Do you need me down there today?’ Violet asked, wiping her hands clean before turning to pick Sarah Jane up out of her highchair.
‘Oh no, love. I’m getting along just fine on me lonesome,’ Sheila assured her, and hoped to goodness that Vi wouldn’t think to spring a surprise visit on her.
It was just as well, Sheila thought, puffing as she hurried down to the shop, that her daughter didn’t know about Margaret having asked for work. Not just asked but been given it.
‘For a trial period of one month,’ Sheila had told Margaret as firmly as she could, aware that it might be harder to fire her sister than hire her. Blood, as her sister had rightly said, was thicker than water. And the older Sheila got, the more she missed having people around her who’d known her when she was young. She and Maggie knew things about each other. Nothing important, only the silly little things siblings knew that nobody else did. But that had to count for something, didn’t it?
Margaret had spent an afternoon at the shop a few days before, learning how to work the till and deal with ration books. Sheila had intended to tell her family that she’d offered her sister work, but, in the end, she’d decided to leave it for now, in case things didn’t work out between her and Maggie. That way, nobody would be any the wiser.
Having given her sister a spare key, she found the shop open by the time she arrived, with Margaret already behind the counter, chatting away merrily as she boxed up a Victoria sponge for the wife of one of the parish councillors.
‘Be sure you only charge Mrs Bottomley half price,’ Sheila told her sister, taking off her hat as she bustled in. When the lady threw her a grateful smile, she added quickly, ‘Them cakes is still good and tasty, Mrs Bottomley, don’t worry. But they were made two days ago, so you shouldn’t be paying full price.’ She put down the large cake tin she’d carried in under her arm. ‘I’ve two fresh here, if you’d prefer today’s batch.’
Mrs Bottomley smiled, shaking her head. ‘I’m perfectly happy with a half-price cake, thank you, Mrs Newton,’ and gave Margaret the correct change. ‘Good day to you both,’ she added on her way out of the shop.
Margaret looked at Sheila anxiously. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Me opening the shop early without you, that is. I wasn’t sure if you’d been delayed, you see. So I thought it best to make a start. And you did give me a key.’
‘Now, Maggie, don’t get worked up over nothing. Of course I don’t mind. That’s why I gave you the key in the first place.’
‘Right.’ Her sister looked relieved. She prised off the lid of the large cake tin and carefully removed the two Victoria sponges, setting them neatly side by side on the counter, with a fly cover over each. ‘Ooh, they look delicious. You’re ever so good at baking, Shee.’
And you, my girl, are ever so good at buttering me up, Sheila thought. But she said nothing. It felt strange to be doing her sister a favour, when for most of their lives, the boot had been on the other foot. Strange but satisfying. Though, to tell the truth, she was glad enough of the company. Now the novelty of running a shop had finally worn off, it meant she’d have someone to chat to when there were no customers to serve, or to hold the fort while she took herself off for a walk.
As she checked the coins in the till drawer, and made a note of the total in Arnie’s old cash ledger, her sister hovered. ‘Yes?’ she said at last, raising her head. ‘What is it, Maggie?’
‘Have you told your Violet about me yet?’
‘I ain’t found the right moment,’ Sheila admitted with a grimace. ‘But I shall, when the time’s right. Not that it’s any of Vi’s business, mind. This is my shop and I’m in charge here. If I say my sister can work the counter, it’s not Violet’s place to stick her oar in.’ She paused, suddenly uneasy. ‘Though you won’t tell her I said so, will you? There’s no need to be causing trouble.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Shee.’
After work that afternoon, once Margaret had returned to the friend’s house where she was staying until she could afford proper digs, Sheila set the shop sign to ‘Closed’, and walked across the valley to the churchyard under grey skies. She was clutching a bouquet of lilies that were on their last legs, not having sold. Shame to throw them out, she’d thought, wrapping them in a twist of paper. Not when they’d do nicely for Arnie’s grave. Never one to waste surplus either, he would have appreciated the sentiment.
There were two elderly draymen in the village, delivering kegs to the pub, noisily rolling each barrel down the ramp behind the truck and shouting to each other. One of them whistled as she passed, the cheeky beggar, and she gave him a sharp look. But at least it was peaceful and still in the graveyard. Sheila passed through the gates and wandered the short rows of headstones under the watchful gaze of a stone angel. Stopping at Arnie’s grave, she placed the lilies in pride of place, and sat on the grass, which was thankfully still dry, the threatened rain having held off so far.
‘Well, here I am again, love,’ she said conversationally. ‘This time I have some proper news for you. Not just village tittle tattle. So buckle up.’
Pausing now and then to pluck a few daisies from the grass and thread them expertly into a chain, Sheila told her late husband all the latest news from the shop, including the theft of the pork pie, leaving out none of the details, for Arnie had always enjoyed a good tale well told. After she’d laughed herself to tears, even though it hadn’t been that funny at the time, she dried her eyes and expressed a wish to help people like Mrs Treedy. She did feel a little uneasy at having taken on her sister at the shop, and not Mrs Treedy. But she couldn’t have left her own sister to starve now, could she? All the same, guilt pricked her on to wonder how best she could help that unfortunate woman and all her brood …
‘Nobody’s looking out for folk like Mrs Treedy,’ she told his headstone, ‘that’s what worries me. Oh, they get a few handouts from the government. But that’s no way to live, is it? Now the war’s over, most of ’em seem to have been forgotten about. And that ain’t right.’
At that moment, an idea popped into her head, and Sheila’s voice faltered as she stopped to consider it. What if she could help them struggling people, not with a pork pie here and a handful of sweets there, but with more substantial, long-term help? How about if she could somehow use her position as shop proprietor to encourage better-off villagers to help those in need? Modest it might be, but Arnie’s village shop had always been the heart of the community. Her husband had held summer fete raffles there, selling tickets from behind the counter, and sometimes a Christmas collection for charity too, and both had been well-subscribed. Now she was running the shop, there was no reason why that tradition of charitable giving shouldn’t continue. Though a raffle couldn’t hope to solve such a major issue, she thought gloomily, as costly prizes would have to be donated, plus it would be a one-off event.
‘I’d dearly like to do something to make their lives better. Though I don’t have a bloomin’ clue what,’ she admitted, feeling defeated. ‘All pie in the sky, I daresay. Oh, I wish you was here to advise me, Arnie.’
Perhaps she could have a chat with Margaret about it though. Two heads were better than one, weren’t they?
Coming to the most problematic part of her news, she told him about her sister coming to work at the shop, and how she was keeping Margaret’s presence hidden from Violet and Joe for the time being. Her late husband would never have understood her decision, given how the two sisters had been at daggers drawn while he was alive.
‘No doubt you’ll think I’m barmy, love. But times change, don’t they? And who have we got but family, when all’s said and done?’ She got up at last, brushing grass off her skirt. ‘Maybe it won’t work out. And maybe it will. But it’s good to have someone in the shop who can take over when I need five minutes’ break or to put my feet up in the back room with a nice cuppa.’ She laid the ragged daisy chain along the top of the headstone, touched her fingers to her lips and transferred the kiss to the stone. ‘Bless your soul, Arnie … I love you dearly and I’ll come again soon. Tatty bye, my darlin’.’
As Sheila turned to go, she realised there was a gentleman doing much the same as her a few graves down, standing under an old sycamore, apparently talking to the air. He had silver hair brushed back and was dressed nattily in a tweed jacket and smart tie. He’d been picking old leaves and blossoms off the headstone in front of him, where a rose bowl held pink rosebuds, freshly cut by the look of them.
Taking another few steps in his direction, she stared at the man’s profile in disbelief.
‘Blimey,’ she whispered. ‘It can’t be …’
She and her sister had been born down here in Cornwall while old Queen Vic was still on the throne. They’d lived in a row of rural cottages not far from Penzance, where they’d gone to school. But their parents, both East Enders by birth, who’d moved down to Cornwall after their marriage in search of greenery, had later returned to Dagenham, on the eastern outskirts of London, where her father had been offered work as a mechanic during the Great War.
Her sister, having just left school at the time, had stayed behind to marry her first husband, Fred, deaf to their mother’s entreaties.
Sheila, on the other hand, had willingly left Cornwall, for she’d had her heart broken by a young man with ‘more hair than sense’, as her mother had put it, and was keen to start afresh somewhere new. Until she’d moved back to Cornwall during the war, partly to escape the bombing, but also to be reunited with Violet and her granddaughters.
Now here he was again … the man who had broken her heart all those years ago.
The old gent looked her way, and his eyes widened. Eyes from a distant past she’d all but forgotten. ‘Good God,’ he said, staring back at her, and removing his hat in a daze. ‘Sheila?’
‘’Ello, Bernard,’ she replied hoarsely, and her heart gave a funny little hop, which she put down to indigestion. ‘Small world, ain’t it?’