To Sheila, it seemed an age since the fun and excitement of Alice’s wedding, when in fact it had been only a few days. Yet the worry of having to talk to the council had driven all other thoughts from her head …
‘Now, we move on to any other business,’ Bernard said, as Chair of the Parish Council, and shuffled his papers. ‘Ah, yes.’ He looked expectantly at Sheila, seated in the front row, who was feeling nervous enough to throw up her tea, which she’d gobbled down hastily on her way out that evening. ‘I believe we have a petition from a member of the public, Mrs Newton, whom some of you will know as proprietress of our village shop, following the sad demise of her husband, Mr Arnold Newton. I’m sure we’d all like to offer once more our heartfelt condolences on the loss of your husband, such a well-respected member of our community for so many years.’
There was a rumble of assent around her, and even one ‘Hear, hear,’ from the back. It was a small parish hall and a little stuffy on this warm summer’s evening. Sheila wished someone had thought to open the windows, and felt her heart pounding as everyone looked her way.
The six councillors were seated in an intimidating row at the front of the room. There were usually at least seven, but Bernard had told her they’d been finding it hard to recruit a new councillor since the death of Mr Jackson, a landowner from over Trethewey way.
‘If you could stand up, Mrs Newton?’ one of the other councillors suggested, an elderly geezer wearing a flat cap and tweed jacket, despite the heat. When she stared, he gestured at her in an imperious way. ‘Come on, we haven’t got all night.’
Biting back a retort, Sheila got to her feet. She looked about herself uneasily, clutching the short speech she’d written. But as soon as she glanced down at the first line, her hand began to tremble. She swallowed, lowering the paper again. She wasn’t about to stand there like an idiot, looking like she was swatting a fly rather than reading a speech. Besides, she had trouble reading without glasses these days, unless she held the print so close to her nose that nobody could see her face, and she’d left her reading glasses at home.
If only she could have persuaded Violet or Joe to come with her. But now that Alice’s wedding was over, all their extended family having returned to their own homes, preparations for harvest had begun in earnest on the farm. And Caroline was still absent, having gone off to visit Selina, which meant everyone was working harder than ever. Besides which, they both heartily disapproved of her plan. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate already, Mum,’ her daughter had insisted. ‘You’ll make yourself ill taking this on as well.’ And Joe had agreed.
‘Good evening, everybody,’ she began in a quavering voice, and was abruptly aware how different her voice sounded to everyone else there, not being posh or even Cornish. But that wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. She had been born here, after all, even if she’d gained a Dagenham accent after years living there. Bernard Bailey was nodding at her in an encouraging way. ‘Thank you for letting me speak at your council meeting tonight. I ain’t too good at giving speeches …’
There were a few titters from the audience, and a man behind her cleared his throat noisily, a sure sign of impatience. Her heart began to thud more violently. Why on earth had she agreed to come to this meeting in the first place, let alone to stand up and speak? She wasn’t cut out for this malarkey. She’d only just got used to running a shop again and dealing with members of the public. Now here she was, making a fool of herself in front of all these people …
‘The thing is,’ she went on, groping for what she’d wanted to say, ‘being a shopkeeper, I’ve seen how people are struggling since the war ended. Probably since before the war, to be honest. Back in them days, we closed our eyes to it a bit more. Not our business, was it? But the war taught us to stick together and watch out for our neighbours … To be more of a community, I suppose.’ At this, Bernard smiled, tapping his empty pipe on the table, a small sound of solidarity that echoed about the room. Heartened by this, she added, ‘Not to mince words, we’ve got poor people in our village. People who are struggling to make ends meet and put food on the table. Right here in Porthcurno. And we ought to do something about it. Not next week or next year, for gawd’s sake. We should do something about it right now.’
As she paused, trying to remember what she’d been intending to say next, and not quite daring to look down at the paper in her hand, someone called out clearly, ‘Yes, agreed, but what can we do?’
It was one of the councillors who had spoken, a large, pink-cheeked lady in a flowery dress, probably only a few years older than Violet.
‘No one is denying there are poor people in Porthcurno,’ the lady went on in her penetrating voice. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it, Mrs Newton. Dealing with issues of poverty is not what the Parish Council does. That is the purview of the government.’
‘The pur … What?’ More laughter around her made Sheila blush. ‘Look, if you mean the new government should be dealing with problems like that, I’m sure they will,’ she told the lady, maybe a little too forcefully, ‘but you know governments … They don’t do nothing in a hurry. Meanwhile, them villagers are suffering. And we could help them. So why don’t we?’ she pleaded with the room. ‘As a community?’
‘What precisely are you suggesting, Mrs Newton?’ It was the flowery dress woman again. ‘That we should hand out largesse to the populace? Go house-to-house with baskets of goods for the great unwashed, perhaps?’ She smothered a laugh, glancing at her other councillors. ‘The days of noblesse oblige are long gone. I’m sure you mean well but most people are too proud to accept charity, Mrs Newton. Indeed, they may consider us interfering do-gooders. And frankly, we had enough of do-gooders during the war. It’s high time people were allowed to get on with their own lives.’
‘Well, missus, that’s all well and good, but I don’t agree. Anyway, it ain’t a question of handing out food baskets or whatever. I thought we could raise some money for a community fund. Then we could approach a few people, the ones most in need, and ask them to apply for help. That way, nobody need know who’s getting extra help.’
‘A community fund,’ Bernard mused, looking about at his other councillors in the silence that followed. ‘Sounds like an excellent idea to me.’
Emboldened by his support, Sheila went on. ‘I’m planning to put a poster in the shop window too, asking folk to donate unwanted clothes and footwear in good condition. I’m sure we’ve all seen them poor little kiddies running about the village threadbare and without shoes, and we can’t keep turning a blind eye to them forever … That wouldn’t need to be part of the council fund though,’ she added nervously, seeing a few frowns. ‘I’d be happy to sort out donations at the shop and administer that side of things myself.’
‘Hand-me-downs are all very well, but who’s going to organise and administer this fund?’ the grouchy old man in the flat cap demanded. He took out a large hanky and blew his nose noisily. ‘I’m already on the Summer Fete Committee. Yes, and the Harvest Festival Committee too. I can’t take on any more work.’ He pulled a face, adding, ‘My wife would have words if I did.’
‘Perhaps a working group?’ Bernard suggested gently, ‘bringing in members of the public for a wider view of the topic, and to provide liaison with those in need. And while we’re discussing this, we’re down a councillor since Randall’s death, aren’t we?’ He paused, smiling at Sheila. ‘In which case, I propose we co-opt Mrs Newton to sit on the council at the earliest possible opportunity.’
There was an astounded silence.
Sheila stared at him, too stunned to speak. Had Bernard lost his bloomin’ marbles? Her, a councillor? That would be the day.
Flowery Dress stuttered, ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Bailey? Did I hear you correctly? Co-opt Mrs Newton? To be a parish councillor?’
‘Why not?’ Bernard shrugged. ‘She’s been a villager for some years and is a local businesswoman. Arnold himself was on the council for a few years.’
‘That’s a matter for the full council,’ the second woman on the council said, frowning. She was nearer Sheila’s age, with steel-grey hair cut short and a neat jacket that matched her hair.
‘We are the full council, Mrs Brewer,’ Bernard countered.
‘Point of order, Chair,’ one of the other councillors threw in, a thin man who often dropped by the shop mid-week with his wife for sliced meats and cheese, and sometimes a jar of pickles.
‘Yes, Tom?’
‘Shouldn’t we check the rules with the parish clerk first? The council may need to put this appointment out to a proper election.’
‘We announced the vacant post last month,’ Bernard pointed out calmly, ‘and nobody came forward to stand. So, from a technical point of view, you could say an election has already been called. But your point of order is worth making, so I’ll check with the clerk before moving forward with this. However, in the absence of another suitable candidate, I believe the rules allow us to co-opt Mrs Newton.’ He looked at Sheila significantly. ‘If she’s willing, that is.’
Again, everybody looked at Sheila, who opened her mouth to say no, and then found herself saying, ‘Yes, I’m willing.’ Her heart leapt at this madness, but she went on stubbornly, ‘If that’s what I need to do to help people, then I’ll become a councillor.’
Bernard smiled. ‘Any other comments or objections?’
Sheila glanced about the meeting room, heart pounding fiercely. She expected to see half a dozen hands go up, at least.
But it seemed nobody objected.
‘The clerk’s laid up with gout,’ Bernard continued, making a note on the paper in front of him, ‘but I’ll go round and see him in a day or two, and report back on what he says for the next meeting. In the assumption that your co-option is in order, Mrs Newton, may I welcome you to the Parish Council?’
Oh blimey, Sheila thought, sitting down again heavily, shaken by the speed of events. Whatever had she gone and done? More to the point, what on earth would Violet say when she found out?
‘Have you gone completely barmy?’ was what Violet said, staring at her, hands on hips. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’re on the Parish Council? What do you know about being a councillor? How are you meant to fit all that around your work at the shop? Some of those meetings are in the evenings too. It’s all very well in the summertime, but what about in the autumn? I can’t have my mum wandering the lanes on her own in the dark. Or cycling back and forth. Which means Joe will have to pick you up. Yes, and drop you off. Because I can’t. I’ve got Sarah Jane to look after.’
‘Nobody’ll need do nothing for me,’ Sheila replied, nettled by her daughter’s strong reaction. ‘Bernard says he’ll fetch me down the hill for meetings, and take me back too.’ Originally, confessing what had happened, she’d intended to be apologetic and to play down what it would mean. She half agreed with Violet, after all; it was far too much to be taking on. But faced with Violet’s sharp words, a contrary spirit urged her to take the opposite tack. ‘Any road, it ain’t none of your business what I get up to. You’re not my mother. In case you ain’t noticed, love, it’s the other way around.’
Violet pursed her lips. ‘Is that so? Funny way you ’ave of showing it … Out till all hours with a complete stranger. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Mum, but I don’t like it.’
‘You may not like it, Missy, but you can lump it. This is my life, and I’ve still got plenty of years left in me. I’m not about to start acting like I’m in my dotage, thank you very much. Anyway, there’s another lady on the council about my age. If she can do it, so can I.’
‘Well!’ Violet turned to Joe, who’d been listening to all this silently while they had a last cup of tea before bedtime. ‘What do you make of this, Joe? You’re the one who might be called on to ferry Mum about the countryside, if her new fancy man don’t turn up one night.’
Fancy man?
Fulminating, Sheila forced herself to bite her tongue. Best let her daughter work out her bad temper without adding fuel to the flame.
Joe rubbed his chin. ‘If this Bernard fella’s willing to do all the ferrying about, I’ve nothing to say to it. None of my business, is it?’ With that, ignoring his wife’s furious exclamation, he got up and began to collect the mugs for washing. ‘I’m away to bed now. Early start tomorrow.’
While he was noisily rinsing the cups, Sheila took advantage of the opportunity to escape. ‘I’m dead on my feet too. Night, all.’ And she hurried away before Violet could dream up more reasons why she shouldn’t be a parish councillor.
* * *
Next day, she tried to put the whole unpleasant business out of her head, concentrating instead on running the shop. It was delivery day, and Mr Whitney turned up late with the week’s supplies, so Sheila and Margaret had to work like the clappers to unpack the crates and get everything stored in the cellar or out on display before the lunchtime rush.
Then a large black Labrador got into the shop in the afternoon and caused chaos, grabbing at food on the counter and knocking over a display with his violently wagging tail, before a red-faced owner turned up, a length of rope in hand and muttering apologies, to drag the unrepentant creature away.
So, it was almost closing time before her mind returned to the thorny issue of becoming a councillor.
She told Margaret what had gone on at the council meeting the night before, and her sister gaped. ‘You’re going to be a councillor? You?’ She looked concerned. ‘You know, Stan’s friendly with one or two of them councillors. I hope he won’t make trouble for you.’
‘He won’t … Though if he does, I’ll make sure everyone knows what kind of man he is, treating Lily the way he did.’
‘You can hardly do that. Not without exposing poor Lily to gossip,’ her sister pointed out, looking shocked. ‘I doubt her husband would like it much either, if he knew people were talking about what happened to her before she was married.’
Sheila thought Tristan too nice a man to react like that, but realised her sister was probably right about local gossip. ‘It’s not fair,’ she said angrily, ‘that men can behave like that and get away with it, just because they know women don’t like their private business talked about.’
‘People are funny about anything like that,’ Margaret said unhappily. ‘I saw a woman in the village the other day. Known her twenty years. I said, “Morning, Barbara,” and she looked the other way. Didn’t say a single word to me. All because I’ve left my husband.’
‘Silly cow,’ Sheila said scathingly.
They were so deep in conversation, neither of them noticed the jangle of the shop door opening until it was too late, and Violet was standing there, glaring at her aunt in astonished outrage.
‘What in gawd’s name is she doing ’ere?’ Violet demanded, striding forward. Then she noticed Margaret’s pinny and her eyes widened. ‘What on earth? Is she working here? Mum? Tell me you ain’t given Aunty Margaret a job.’ Her chest was heaving. ‘Because if you have, I swear …’
‘Yes, I have,’ Sheila threw back at her daughter, losing her patience at last. This was her shop, not Violet’s. ‘And what’s it got to do with you?’
‘You know what she done to us,’ Violet gasped. ‘Her and that bloomin’ husband of hers. Threw me and the girls out after I told her what Stanley did to our Lily.’
‘That’s not true,’ Margaret said hastily. ‘I never threw you out. You left.’
Violet’s eyes bulged. ‘Was I supposed to stay after what he done? With you calling her a hussy too, and gawd knows what else?’
‘I’m sorry I did that. It was wrong of me. But I didn’t rightly understand. I thought she was making it up. She was only a girl at the time, and I knew she didn’t like us.’ Margaret’s face was flushed with shame and horror. ‘If I’d realised … I’m sorry, Violet. And if you’ll give me the chance, I’ll say sorry to Lily too.’
‘He’s still your husband though,’ Violet said shrilly.
‘Aye, but I’ve left him. It took me a few years, yes, but I realised in the end what kind of man he is … and I walked out.’ Margaret started to weep. ‘Please don’t be angry. I’m sleeping on someone’s sofa, love. If your mum hadn’t offered me a job, I’d have nothing.’
‘Don’t cry, Maggie.’ Sheila gave her sister a hug, upset and annoyed at the same time. She glared back at Violet. ‘I know what you and Lily went through, and I’m sorry about it, but Maggie’s my flesh and blood, same as you, and she came into the shop asking for help. So I gave it her. And if you don’t like that, tough.’
Without another word, Violet turned and stalked out, her back stiff.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ Sheila called after her. ‘I was going to tell you, but I knew how you’d feel about it.’ She got no reply.
‘Oh, this is all my fault,’ Margaret wailed, reaching for a hanky and dabbing at her eyes. ‘Now you’ve fallen out with your daughter over me.’
‘There, there, we’ll get through this,’ Sheila said soothingly, though on the verge of tears herself. Pulling out her own hanky, she gave a gusty sigh and glanced at her sister’s tear-streaked face. ‘You and me together, Maggie, landing ourselves in hot water … Just like old times, eh?’