Chapter Four
Sheila couldn’t believe how her life had changed since she’d taken over running her late husband’s village shop.
It wasn’t just how busy she always was, nor the new skills she’d acquired in terms of ordering stock, dealing with suppliers, and making sure her customers always went away happy.
No, it was how the shop had become a focal point for the village in ways she didn’t recall from when her dearest Arnie had run it.
Everyone had respected Arnold Newton, but he’d had a sharp tongue and it had made him a few enemies over the years.
When she had to be sharp, she tried to be funny too, finding people preferred a smile over a scowl.
That Saturday morning, Sheila was not only selling fruit and veg to the villagers and overseeing Margaret’s dusting and rearranging of the magazine shelves, but also teaching Jack Treedy to read and write.
A task which required her to smile more than usual, coaxing the reluctant lad to learn his letters.
Jack was one of the village youngsters, a boy who’d left school early to help out at home.
About to turn sixteen, he was the eldest son of Mrs Treedy, a doughty, reed-thin woman with a parcel of hungry-looking kids, all ginger-haired like herself, who’d come round asking for a job when the shop had reopened.
Unable to give her work, Sheila had found Mrs Treedy a position at Eastern House instead.
The listening post was not as busy as it had been during the war, but they always needed cleaning staff.
Sheila’s own daughter Violet had worked there as a cleaner when they’d first come to Cornwall in the early forties, and later as housekeeper too.
That had been before her marriage to Joe Postbridge though, and Sheila had to admit that Violet suited being a farmer’s wife much better than being a housekeeper.
Now she was trying to help the woman’s son as well.
‘I can’t do it, Mrs Newton,’ Jack complained, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning away from the book she had been showing him.
He stared moodily through the shop window at the sunlit village street.
‘I couldn’t learn me letters in school and I can’t learn ’em now. I don’t have that kind of brain.’
‘Now you listen to me, young man,’ she told the boy firmly.
‘There ain’t nothing wrong with your brain, even under that mop of hair which you could have done with combing this morning.
’ She nodded to his unruly ginger curls, cut pudding-basin style above pale brows.
‘If you hadn’t left school early to help your mum, you’d have learned to read and write like everyone else.
It ain’t hard, you just need a little confidence in yourself. ’
Sheila tapped the simple alphabet book again, refusing to let him give up. She couldn’t stand idly by when a lad in her own village was being held back simply as a result of not knowing his letters. He had left school far too early and never been chased up for it, on account of the war.
‘Come on, let’s start again at the letter A.’
Reluctantly, Jack returned to the shop counter, where they’d been poring over the book for almost an hour now, and peered down at the page.
‘A is for apple,’ he recited, looking bored, so that she wondered if he’d be more interested by something less obviously for children.
He often talked enthusiastically about news he’d heard on the wireless, so maybe she could help him spell out a few newspaper headlines once he knew his alphabet, and show him how useful reading could be.
‘Good lad,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Now, pick up the pencil and write me the letter A in a capital and lower case.’
Gritting his teeth, Jack obeyed, holding the pencil like a fork in his left hand. The squiggly effort looked more like a doodle than any letter she could recognise, but at least he was trying.
‘Hmm, well, it’s more important that you can read than write,’ she said, seeing him glare down at his handiwork in frustration. ‘Did you never try to write with your right hand?’
‘The teacher used to smack me with the ruler when I didn’t use my right,’ he admitted, ‘but I still couldn’t get the hang of it. Everything’s just easier with my left.’
‘Gawd,’ she muttered, furious at the idea of this boy being punished simply for being left-handed. But she gave him a strained smile. ‘Well, practice makes perfect. Read through the alphabet every day, and you’ll get there in the end.’
‘Every day?’ Jack sounded horrified. ‘I’ve got the little ’uns to look after while Mum’s at work. She’s even got me cooking and cleaning now too. I’ve no time for lessons.’
Folding her arms, Sheila stared at him in exasperation. ‘You don’t want to be stuck here for years, looking after your brothers and sisters, do you?’
His mother had struggled to feed her large family since losing her husband in the war. Not having a job himself, Jack had been lumped with caring for his youngest brothers and sisters who weren’t in school yet and had brought the whole family with him for his reading lesson that Saturday morning.
Thankfully, the youngest child went to work with Mrs Treedy, lying in a pram at Eastern House while she mopped and dusted, as the poor thing wasn’t fully weaned yet.
But the rest were left to entertain themselves when she had work on a Saturday.
Two ginger-haired girls were perched on the wall opposite the shop, kicking their legs as they chattered and giggled in the sunshine, their older sister looking after a toddler.
And the three younger boys were inexpertly kicking a ball back and forth out there, and occasionally falling into fisticuffs, at which point Jack would stride outside to break them apart.
‘I suppose not,’ he admitted, his look sullen.
‘Right, then let’s try B for ball.’ She pointed to the next page.
‘Which you’d rather be kicking down the road with your brothers out there than reading about in this book, I daresay.
’ She chuckled at his embarrassment, and he laughed reluctantly too.
‘At least they’re behaving themselves nicely now, though.
’ She nodded across at the oldest girl, who had a toddler with flushed cheeks balanced precariously on her hip and was trying to quieten its whimpers by crooning a song.
‘Looks like that little one is teething again. I’ve a bottle of gripe water you could have on tick if you like. ’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Newton,’ he said gruffly, ‘but we’ll be fine.’
It was clear that Jack loved his siblings very much, and he had his mother’s pride in not asking for handouts.
But Sheila’s heart ached for the boy. He was lively and quick-witted, despite a lack of education, and not cut out for a job as a labourer or farmhand.
Yet he was unlikely to make something of his life if he couldn’t even read, not here in rural Cornwall.
The door jangled, heralding a new customer. Margaret turned, duster in hand, to see who it was. Sheila herself looked up and smiled, recognising the new Land Girl who had come to work for her son-in-law Joe.
‘Good morning, Grace,’ she said cheerily.
Behind Grace Morgan came the other two Land Girls, young Tilly Coombes with her sweet smile and shining red hair, and Caroline Ponsby in sturdy boots and taupe uniform jacket, looking happier than she’d done in a long while, poor girl.
She’d been at a loss since her best friend had left the farm.
Still, Caroline was clearly making friends with Grace instead, who seemed a nice girl and funny too.
Sheila much preferred people with a strong sense of humour to dour types who never got a joke …
‘Good morning, Caroline … Tilly.’ Sheila nodded. ‘What can I do for you young ladies?’
‘Morning, Mrs Newton. I’ve come for my weekly sweet ration.’ Grace produced a folded ration book from her pocket, and the other two girls followed suit.
‘Of course, love.’ Sheila turned for her sweet scoop, beaming round at them.
Grace having recited her order, Sheila unscrewed the jars and set about weighing out the sugary treats.
‘No picture house today?’ The Land Girls often caught the bus into Penzance for their Saturday entertainment, visiting the shops as well as the cinema, especially when there was a good matinee showing.
‘We decided to have a quiet Saturday instead,’ Tilly said, looking unimpressed.
‘Only because it’ll be the Harvest Supper soon,’ Grace added with a wink, ‘and we’re saving our pennies in case there’s some exciting vegetables for sale there.’
Sheila chuckled, enjoying the new Land Girl’s sense of humour.
Jack had been gawping at Grace ever since she’d walked into the shop. Now Grace turned her gaze on the boy, asking casually, ‘Is there something on my face?’
‘N-no,’ Jack stammered, blushing fierily. ‘I’m sorry if I was staring. But I’ve never seen you before. We don’t get many new people in Porthcurno.’
‘You mean, people who look like me?’ But Grace was smiling. ‘I’m Grace Morgan, from Liverpool.’ She held out a hand, which he shook, muttering his name. ‘Jack Treedy? Mrs Newton said she’s been teaching you to read. Is that right?’
Jack looked mortified. ‘I can read, it’s just—’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ Grace said hurriedly. ‘It took me ages to learn anything at school. Teacher used to say, in one ear, out the other. That’s why I took up as a Land Girl when the war started. Not much use for reading and writing when you’re digging a hole, is there?’