‘Bit more to the left,’ Sheila suggested, waving her hand vaguely. ‘And a dab higher, maybe?’ At last, she gave Margaret the thumbs-up. ‘Stop right there, Maggie. That’s bloomin’ perfect.’
Having positioned the large poster on the inside of the shop window to Sheila’s satisfaction, Margaret pressed hard to make sure the glue worked, and then stepped back, wiping sticky hands on her work apron.
‘Well, your poster’s gone up. Now to see if anyone fancies putting their hand in their pocket for a good cause.’
‘I should hope so,’ Sheila said frankly. ‘Else I’m wasting my time with this council malarkey, ain’t I?’
She nipped out of the shop and stood, hands on hips in the warm Cornish sunshine, to admire the poster. A bold pink with deep blue lettering, it invited villagers to donate clothing or contribute financially to the Porthcurno neighbourhood fund, a good cause that would benefit ‘local people in need’. One of the councillors had arranged for posters and leaflets to be printed at minimal cost and displayed in a few prominent locations throughout the village and in some outlying areas too. The council, needless to say, was also contributing. Sheila had made sure of that at the very first committee meeting she’d attended.
‘It does my heart good to see that there,’ she told her sister, who’d also come out to admire her handiwork. ‘Now let’s hope I have time to deal with the donations, what with everything going on at the moment.’
‘Hmm,’ was all her sister said to that, clearly still sceptical that anyone would bother rooting through their old clothes for poorer folk. And maybe she was right. But Sheila refused to let doubt cast a pall over her plans for the village. She believed in the goodness of people’s hearts and was sure donations would soon come rolling in …
‘Right, back to work. That spilt flour won’t sweep itself up.’ Sheila smiled at an old lady approaching with a shopping basket over her arm. ‘Morning, Mrs Padgett.’
Margaret obligingly fetched the broom. But as soon as the customer had left, she stopped work again, more keen to gossip than complete her chores. ‘So you were telling me about that Land Girl … You weren’t serious, were you? She didn’t really spend last night in the hayloft with that young man of hers, did she?’
Sheila sighed, wishing she’d never mentioned the shocking episode with Joan and Arthur. But after hearing Violet’s outraged shrieks that morning as she hurried out to work, it had still been on her mind when she reached the shop and found Maggie waiting for her. She’d let slip a few juicy details before realising she probably ought not to have said a word. Now it was obvious her sister wouldn’t rest until she’d winkled the whole story out of her.
‘Young people make mistakes, don’t they?’ she said awkwardly, for she liked Joan and didn’t enjoy the idea of gossiping about her. ‘Least said, soonest mended.’
‘But Joan … It’s true I’ve only seen her once or twice in the shop, but you’ve always said she’s such a well-behaved, quiet little thing. I can’t believe she’d do something like that.’
‘They do say it’s the quiet ones you need to watch though, don’t they?’ Sheila screwed the lid back onto the lemon sherbets and replaced the heavy glass jar on the shelf. ‘Maggie, I’ve told you before, don’t leave these jars open after weighing out sweets, it attracts the wasps. Mrs Pearson left twenty minutes ago. This should have been put away by now.’
‘Sorry, Shee.’ Her sister finished sweeping the floor where a flour sack had spilt before straightening up. ‘I must have got distracted putting up that poster of yours.’ She put away the broom in its cubby hole behind the counter. ‘So, what’s Violet going to do about Joan? I suppose she’s told the girl to leave. Can’t be having that kind of carry-on in a respectable household.’
Sheila threw her sister an irritated look. Maggie had always been a bit uptight, and Violet wasn’t exactly relaxed about such doings herself. She’d been much more open-minded as a young woman, it was true, but now she was settled at the farm, a housewife and mother, she seemed to have changed her tune.
‘Violet was all for throwing her out on her ear at once, but Joe stepped in. Thing is, they’re desperately short-handed at the farm. It’ll be harvest-time in a few weeks and he needs more help, not less.’
‘She’s staying on, then?’ Maggie was amazed.
‘I don’t think anything’s decided. But she’s in the doghouse with Violet, for sure. Especially given that the young man had a funny turn after Alice’s wedding, so heaven knows what problems he has.’ Seeing a familiar figure looming in the doorway, Sheila felt an odd little flutter in her chest. Hoping it was silly girlish excitement rather than a heart problem, she patted her hair before hurrying forward. ‘Hello, Bernard. How are you?’
The councillor shook her hand as though they were mere acquaintances. But his smile told a different story. ‘Hello, Sheila. Very well, thank you. And look who I found in the street.’ He nodded over his shoulder, and Sheila realised that George Cotterill was with him. ‘An old friend of yours.’
‘Hello, George,’ she said quickly, shaking hands with him too and hoping he wouldn’t notice how flustered she was. ‘How are you? And Hazel and the kids?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Dickie sleeping through the night yet?’
George gave a chuckle. ‘Not even close. But we’re coping. It’s our next-door neighbours I feel sorry for,’ he added, grimacing. ‘He’s got quite a pair of lungs on him.’
She introduced her sister, and they spoke for a while, exchanging pleasantries about their families and the weather, before Bernard said abruptly, ‘Look, Mrs Newton, I’ve been telling George about your plans to tackle poverty in the area. And he’s willing to lend a hand with the organisation.’ He clapped George on the back. ‘In fact, I’ve persuaded him to join our working group. Good news, eh?’
‘Blimey, yes.’ Sheila felt gratified that so many villagers were willing to volunteer. She had feared people might be snooty or resistant to the idea of helping the poor, preferring to keep things as they had been before the war. But times had changed since then, everyone more aware now of the need to pitch in and help their neighbours. ‘Thank you, George.’
Outside the shop, she saw Mrs Treedy hurrying past with her family, the youngest ones looped together with string to stop them wandering off. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, and seized George by the sleeve, earning herself an amazed look from both him and Bernard. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, ‘’Ere, George, do you need a cleaning lady down at Eastern House? Because I know someone who’s desperate for work. Got a large family to support all on her own, hard worker, nice lady …’ She was overselling Mrs Treedy, perhaps. But she knew how it felt to need money, and she couldn’t offer the woman a job herself, having only just enough work in-hand for her and Maggie. ‘What do you say?’
George pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. ‘Cleaning lady? We already have one. But,’ he added uncertainly, seeing her pleading expression, ‘she’s getting on a bit, it’s true, and could probably do with an assistant. Who is this hard-working lady who’s after a job, anyway?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Sheila said promptly, and dived out of the shop. ‘Mrs Treedy?’ she called after the woman, who turned with a look of trepidation as though fearing someone was about to slap a Final Demand notice on her. ‘Could you spare a minute, love?’
When Mrs Treedy came into the shop, Sheila introduced her to George, saying, ‘This is Mr Cotterill, who runs Eastern House.’ As they shook hands, she added, ‘George is looking for a cleaning lady, and I recalled you saying you might be interested in work like that. Are you still free?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Treedy said eagerly, and smoothed down her hair, turning to shoo her youngest children out of the shop. ‘Wait for me outside, petal,’ she told one tearful-looking girl, whose filthy smock was torn, the hem trailing. ‘Now be a good girl for Mummy and stop blubbing, there’s a dear.’ She shot Sheila and George an embarrassed look. ‘I’m ever so sorry … She’s grazed her knee, poor thing.’
‘Oh dear,’ George said sympathetically.
Sheila went after the weeping child and scooped her up in her arms, carrying her into the shop and setting her on the counter. ‘Maggie,’ she told her sister, ‘could you fetch us a bowl of warm water, a clean cloth and the bottle of TCP? It’s under the sink.’ She winked at the girl. ‘Now, what’s your name, poppet?’
‘Eunice,’ the girl whispered shyly, no doubt shocked out of her weeping fit by being snatched into a strange place by a strange lady. She glanced at her mother, who told her to behave herself, and seemed reassured by this instruction. ‘Only I don’t like antiseptic, if you please.’
‘Stings, don’t it?’ Sheila said kindly, nodding. ‘But it stops the germs getting into your blood. You wouldn’t like germs in your blood, my love.’ Margaret had returned with the bowl, cloth and antiseptic. Sheila cleaned the dirty knee as gently as she could while the girl sucked in her breath, wriggling. Then she shook the bottle of TCP and applied a dab to the cloth. The girl shrank back at the smell, her nose wrinkling. ‘Sharp sting coming … But you’ll get an aniseed ball if you sit very, very still,’ she added, and swiftly pressed the cloth to the grazed knee.
Perhaps enticed by this exciting offer, Eunice obediently froze, though her face screwed up and her little hands balled into fists.
‘Brave girl,’ Bernard said approvingly, who had been watching all this while Mrs Treedy and George were discussing the terms of the job at Eastern House. Sheila’s daughter had done that same job herself, of course, on first coming down to Cornwall, so she had a good idea what it would entail. And she knew George would be a fair boss, understanding and tolerant.
She lifted the little girl down from the counter, fetched her an aniseed ball, and then one for each of her siblings too, taking them out of her own sweet ration for the week so the books would balance, and smiled as Eunice ran away with the paper bag of sweets clutched to her chest. Outside in the village street, the other kids gathered about her in wonder, to discover what had been done to her inside and exclaiming over the goodies she’d brought back with her. Even the pork pie thief, Jack, had been provided with an aniseed ball and was soon sucking on it ruefully, his hands in his pockets.
Now that Sheila knew why he’d taken the pork pie, and since he’d turned up as agreed to clean her shop windows until they gleamed, she didn’t hold a grudge. If she could have found him work, she would have done. But there were limits. Besides, Jack would be needed to keep an eye on his younger brothers and sisters while their mother was down at Eastern House, cleaning out the big house and no doubt the tunnels behind it too, which still apparently housed the rows of fiendishly complicated machines used to intercept messages from friend and foe alike during the war.
Bernard had been standing outside, studying the poster in the window. After George had left, having agreed working hours with a gratified-looking Mrs Treedy, he wandered back into the shop. ‘Impressive handiwork, and a worthy cause. I’m sure the villagers will soon respond with donations.’
‘Thank you,’ Sheila said, pleased that he approved.
‘Mrs Newton,’ he said, removing his hat and turning it in his hands, ‘I was wondering if you were free to join me for lunch and a walk today? My car’s parked just down the road. I could drive us into Penzance, perhaps. Or out along the coast road, if you prefer?’
‘Do you have enough fuel for that?’ she asked bluntly.
Bernard laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ he said, and glanced at Margaret, who was serving a customer at the counter. ‘If your sister can hold the fort for a few hours, that is?’
She was a working woman, Sheila told herself sternly, and ought to say no. Besides which, what did he mean by it, asking her out to lunch like they were a courting couple? Her heart thumped and she didn’t know where to look, warmth in her cheeks as she struggled against the urge to say yes. It wasn’t right to be going out to lunch with a gentleman when she’d only recently lost her Arnie.
‘Oh yes,’ Maggie said with a smile, having got rid of the customer as quickly as she could, ‘you go, Sheila. I can run things here. And I’ll cash up and lock the shop if you’re not back before closing time.’
Sheila glared at her sister silently. But there seemed little point in resisting, so she soon found herself seated beside Bernard in his large white car – a Daimler, he told her proudly, as though this should mean something to her – as it bowled along the narrow lanes towards Penzance. It was a warm summer’s day and all the windows were open. She wasn’t wearing her best, only a workaday dress and a plain headscarf to keep her locks in place. But then she hadn’t expected to be whisked away on an adventure with this man by her side, had she?
‘Are you cross with me?’ Bernard asked.
‘Eh?’ Sheila turned her head to stare at him, astonished. ‘Why on earth would I be cross with you?’
‘Putting you on the spot like that in front of your sister. It wasn’t very polite of me, but, to tell the truth, I was worried you’d say no if I asked you out to lunch in private. And I know it’s not been that long since … since you lost Arnold. The last thing I’d want to do is make you uncomfortable.’
Sheila’s heart thundered. So, she hadn’t imagined his interest in her. It was romantic, not just him being polite. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. But she didn’t want him to know that either.
‘Uncomfortable?’ she repeated scornfully. ‘I’m too old for all that nonsense. And a spot of lunch with an old mate from school days … What could be more natural? Blimey, no need to make a bloomin’ mountain out of a molehill.’
She was fishing, of course. And reeled him in.
‘An old mate? I’m hoping for rather more than that, my dear Sheila,’ he said, his gaze on the road. ‘Though I’ll perfectly understand if you find anything more impossible. I count myself lucky to have met you again.’ He paused, then added lightly, ‘But I’ll be a lucky fellow indeed if you consent to my courting you.’
Oh my gawd, Sheila thought, knitting her fingers together in her lap, completely thrown by his openness.
‘One step at a time,’ she replied, and pointed hurriedly out of the windscreen. ‘Look at that … A peregrine falcon, ain’t it?’
He smiled, letting her change the subject without protest. ‘I believe so.’
‘I do love Cornwall.’ Sheila sucked in a lungful of fresh air. ‘You know, much as I miss Dagenham at times, all them busy streets and me old neighbours, I’m not sure I could ever live there again. Not now I’ve put down roots in such a beautiful part of the world.’
His gaze rested on her face for a few seconds before he looked back at the road. ‘I’m very glad to hear that,’ he murmured. ‘Now, lunch in Penzance, then a walk along the seafront?’
‘Sounds like heaven,’ she agreed.
They had a lovely afternoon together, eating lunch in a busy seafront restaurant in Penzance, followed by the promised walk along the prom. Bernard talked about his volunteer work as a fire warden during the war, and his long-standing friendship with George Cotterill – something they had in common – and Sheila nattered on about her family mostly, all the marriages and births they’d enjoyed in recent years, and how different all the babies were. He seemed interested, or at least politely pretended to be. The drive back went ever so quickly, but it was still gone closing time by the time they pulled back into the quiet village of Porthcurno.
‘I’ll drive you up to the farm,’ Bernard said gallantly.
Checking along the street though, Sheila was amazed to see her sister only just locking up the village shop.
‘Could you ’ang on a tick, Bernie?’ she begged him, and jumped out of the car, running along to the shop. ‘Maggie? Why are you so late closing up?’ Then she saw her sister’s tear-ravaged face and gasped. ‘Oh gawd, what is it? What’s the matter, love?’
Margaret put her hands to her cheeks, moaning, ‘Oh, Shee … The worst possible thing …’ Her chest was heaving. ‘Stanley came to the shop while you were gone.’
‘Stanley?’ Sheila blew out an angry breath. Bernard had followed her from the car and was listening intently. ‘Her husband’s been round, causing trouble no doubt,’ Sheila told him in an undertone before turning to hug her sister. ‘What did he say to you? I swear, if Stanley’s made a bloomin’ nuisance of himself, I’ll go round to Chellew Farm meself and give him what for.’
‘He said he knows where I’m living. Yes, and that I’m working at the shop. And he’s going to come round every day until I agree to … to go back to living with him.’
‘Finally got sick of cooking and cleaning for himself, has he?’ Sheila said shrewdly.
Bernard was frowning. ‘Forgive me for interfering, Mrs Chellew, but are you planning to seek a divorce?’
‘A divorce? I hadn’t thought much about it,’ Margaret admitted, looking embarrassed that he’d overheard her troubles, for like many women she didn’t enjoy airing her dirty linen in public. ‘Getting divorced, after all these years together … Oh, I don’t know. It’s such a big step.’
Sheila chewed on her lip. ‘But it might be the only thing that’ll stop the evil beggar from coming around bothering you,’ she pointed out. ‘Your friend … That lady who’s letting you kip on her sofa, I doubt she’ll want a nasty bloke like Stanley knocking at her door every five minutes, demanding his wife back.’
Margaret shook her head miserably. ‘She already said if he comes around, kicking up a fuss, she’ll have to show me the door. She doesn’t want the neighbours talking.’
There was only one thing for it. ‘Don’t you fret, love,’ Sheila said, giving her sister an impulsive hug. ‘You can move in here.’
‘Here?’
‘There’s a flat upstairs where Arnie lived before he moved up to the farm with me.’ She gave her sister a wink. ‘If you don’t mind living above a shop, it’s yours.’
‘Oh, Shee …’ Margaret burst into fresh tears, burying her face in her apron skirt. Her shoulders heaved with strong emotion. ‘After everything I done wrong with Violet and Lily,’ she choked, ‘I … I don’t deserve your kindness.’
‘Don’t get soppy too quick, Mags. You ain’t seen how pokey it is up there,’ Sheila told her frankly, but grinned. ‘What are sisters for, eh?’
But she gave Bernard a worried look behind her sister’s back, for she knew Stanley Chellew to be a cruel and persistent bully, and dogged at getting whatever he wanted.
It would take more than a broom and a few hard words to send a man like that on his way.