Chapter Seven #2
The beef and potato pie provided by his housekeeper turned out to be excellent.
The pastry was light and flaky, even better than her own, and although there was more gravy than meat and potato, it was still tasty and filling.
Better yet, the vegetables were not stewed to mush, the way Violet preferred to serve them, and the pie was followed by a bowl of tinned fruit with condensed cream, one of her favourite sweet dishes.
Along with this feast, Bernie served a French red wine, from a crate of bottles he sheepishly admitted to having acquired on the black market during the war.
After she’d finished her fruit and cream, she pushed the bowl aside with a contented sigh. ‘That was lovely, Bernie, thank you. My compliments to the chef.’
‘I’ll tell Susan tomorrow that you enjoyed it.’
Sheila eyed him suspiciously. ‘How old is Susan?’
He grinned. ‘Half my age and happily married. So no need to look daggers at me.’
‘I never said a bloomin’ word.’ She lifted her glass of wine. ‘Happy birthday, Bernie. I hope it’s been a good one.’
He lifted his own glass for the toast, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘It’s a good birthday now you’re here with me, Sheila. Thank you for the fishing book, and for saying yes.’
‘I never turn down a free dinner,’ she told him, with more humour than truth.
She had in fact dithered over his invitation at first. It had felt like a big step to agree to an intimate dinner at his house, birthday or no birthday.
He had led her into the dining room, also wood-panelled, and furnished with a large, highly polished table and chairs.
He was playing classical music on the gramophone, while a fire crackled away merrily in the fireplace.
He had brought in the hot dishes himself and served her at the table.
It all felt rather domestic, perhaps even romantic.
But it was a far cry from her life at the farm.
To her surprise, however, she didn’t feel uncomfortable here.
Yes, the house was grand compared to Postbridge Farm, or where she’d lived in Dagenham, a narrow two-up, two-down terraced house that had probably been blown to kingdom come in the war.
But with Bernie sitting opposite her with that smile in his eyes, it was easier than she’d expected to forget where she was and focus on who she was with instead.
This man certainly had a knack for putting her at her ease.
Perhaps sensing her softening mood, Bernie set down his glass and reached for her hand instead.
‘Sheila,’ he began hesitantly, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.
I’m not usually a coward. But this thing has me on the back foot, so I’ve been putting it off.
But tonight’s as good a time as any to take the plunge. ’
Sheila narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. ‘I hope you’re not about to say something that will give me indigestion, Bernard Bailey. Because I’d rather not be upset.’
He was silent for so long that she thought she’d upset him. Then he said, with obvious difficulty, ‘I don’t want to upset you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I want you to marry me.’ As she stared, thrown by the question, he added softly, ‘Will you, Sheila?’
‘Oh my Gawd.’ Sheila felt her heart begin to thump heavily. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’
‘You could say yes.’
She withdrew her hand, feeling awkward and knocked off balance. ‘Or I could say no.’
He blinked at this, and stammered, ‘Of course, you don’t have to give me an answer immediately.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, perhaps a little tartly.
With a dull clunk, the lights in the dining room went out and the gramophone in its smart wooden cabinet died too, the lively big band music slowing to silence.
Exasperated, Sheila muttered something unladylike.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found herself staring across at her would-be next husband by the glow of firelight.
‘Damn government,’ he said, annoyance in his voice. ‘Another power cut.’
‘And there was me thinking you’d arranged for the lights to go out, to make your proposal more romantic.’
He gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’ve got a lamp in the hall. Hang on a tick.’
While he was gone, Sheila dropped her head into her hands and groaned.
They’d barely even exchanged a kiss, and here he was, proposing marriage already.
She’d seen it coming. But not so soon. She liked Bernie.
No, it was more than just friendship. But was it love?
And did that even matter at her age? The truth was, he was good company, and she wasn’t expecting a grand passion.
It might even be dangerous. But someone to laugh with, and chat about the old days, someone to hold her hand, and to share the long, lonely nights of winter … That wasn’t such a bad deal.
All the same, she couldn’t see herself saying yes to his proposal. Not yet, at any rate. She could only hope he wouldn’t be offended by a refusal.
He came back with a hurricane lamp that smelt of oil, its soft flame glowing through the glass. ‘That’s better.’ He placed the lamp on the table, and glanced at her hesitantly. ‘Can I pour you an after-dinner brandy? Or we could move next door and sit on the sofa.’
‘The sofa sounds more comfortable. Though I’d prefer a cup of tea. How about I put the kettle on the range? It doesn’t seem right, you doing all the work tonight.’
‘I could murder a cup of tea.’ He smiled, lifting the lamp to light their way. ‘But don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re up to, Sheila.’
‘Eh?’ She followed him into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But she knew perfectly well.
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’ Bernie sat down at the kitchen table, watching as she bustled about the room, busily filling the kettle and setting it on the range to boil. ‘I’m going to take it the answer’s no. Because if it was yes, you’d have told me by now.’
Embarrassed, Sheila hunted for teacups, finding them displayed on the dresser, and set them on the table next to the milk jug. ‘It’s not a no,’ she told him cautiously, ‘but it’s not a yes neither.’
‘That sounds cryptic.’
She spooned tea leaves into the pot, perhaps a shade too generously, given rationing. ‘Thing is, Bernie, it’s a no for now. I ain’t quite ready to get married again.’
‘I see.’
His voice was steady, but she sensed a churning emotion behind it. The kettle began to build to a whistle on the range.
‘With Arnie,’ she explained gently, ‘I was ready. I had nothing better to do than get married, frankly. He asked, and I said yes. There weren’t much more to it.’
‘And now?’
She fiddled with the teaspoons. ‘Now I’ve a bloomin’ load on my plate.
I’m a parish councillor, for Gawd’s sake.
I’m running this charity fund for the poor, and organising hand-me-down clothing for them as need it.
Plus, I’m dashing about all day in the shop, trying to keep on top of the paperwork.
Ration coupons, the tick slate, ordering in new stock, paying invoices to the suppliers … It’s never-ending.’
‘You could give up the shop,’ he suggested.
The kettle was now whistling madly. Snatching it off the range, Sheila glared round at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.’ While she made the tea, he sat studying his hands, not looking at her. ‘So, what are you saying? You want to break things off? Is this birthday dinner our last hurrah?’
‘Now you’re being daft,’ Sheila told him. ‘I enjoy our drives about the countryside, and seeing you down the shop. But I also like being a councillor and running my own shop. I’m not ready to give those things up so we can get hitched.’
His troubled look had disappeared. ‘But you’re not ruling marriage out altogether?’
‘I’m making no promises.’ Pouring the tea, Sheila went on, ‘Why can’t we just carry on as we are? Two old friends, enjoying each other’s company and not worrying about the future.’ She added a splash of milk to each cup. ‘Ain’t that enough for you, Bernie?’
‘I suppose it’ll have to be,’ he said with a grimace. ‘For now.’
‘Good.’ Sheila spotted a crocheted cosy on the sideboard and covered the teapot to keep it warm. ‘I’m glad that’s sorted.’
After her first husband had passed, she’d taken on running a busy caff in Dagenham to help make ends meet, and had loved every hectic minute of it.
When Arnie had died, leaving her his shop, she’d taken the risky decision to reopen it as sole proprietor, despite Violet’s misgivings about her age, and was now enjoying herself immensely as a village shopkeeper.
Bernie himself had cajoled her into becoming a parish councillor earlier that year, and helped launch her village fund for the needy too.
He was too mild-mannered to demand she give up those pursuits if they married, she felt sure.
But she might come under pressure to do so anyway, knowing what other villagers might say behind her back if she didn’t.
Despite the recent war, when women had pitched in to do even the toughest jobs, she knew the villagers could still be judgemental when it came to married women daring to have a life of their own.
Sitting on the council might be considered acceptable once she was Mrs Bernard Bailey, but running her own shop too?
She pushed his cup of tea towards him. ‘By the way, I’ll be going away soon.’
He stared at her. ‘How’s that?’
‘November is one of the quieter months up at the farm, so I’ve decided to take a break and visit my granddaughter Lily in Penzance.
We got a letter from her the other day, saying she’d be happy to put me up for a week or two.
I’ll be taking the bus next Saturday, most likely, and can’t be sure when I’ll be back. ’
The lights snapped back on at that moment, and from the other room she heard the gramophone begin playing again by itself, though not quite at the right speed yet.
Bernie gave a short laugh. ‘I suppose we should be grateful we’ve any power at all, the way things have been going since the war ended.
This country’s in ruins and Lord knows how long it will take to rebuild.
’ He picked up his cup and saucer. ‘I’d better turn off the gramophone.
Then shall we move into the front room?’
They went through and sat on the sofa together.
The fire was glowing embers now but the room was still pleasantly warm.
It was also over-tidy compared to the messy farmhouse snug where she and her family sat and chatted until bedtime most evenings, while Joe’s two working dogs stretched out happily in front of the fire, damp fur stinking out the place.
Sheila tried to imagine this posh house being her home instead, and had to hide a grin.
She’d soon have this room looking more homely, for starters, cluttered with balls of wool and knitting patterns and discarded cardigans everywhere, not to mention Sarah Jane’s toys strewn across the floor whenever her youngest granddaughter came to visit.
She wondered if Bernie realised how much his life would change if she accepted his proposal, and doubted it.
Bernie said abruptly, ‘Let me drive you to Penzance, Sheila. I have a cousin there. Friends too. People I haven’t seen in some years.
I could stay in the area and drive you back too.
’ He hesitated. ‘We’d be able to have lunch occasionally.
Perhaps walk along the front together or go to the picture house. I haven’t seen a film in ages.’
‘Me neither,’ she murmured, enchanted by the idea.
‘You said you enjoy my company,’ he pointed out. ‘And that you’d like us to keep on courting. So how about it?’
‘Violet would have fifty fits if you was to turn up in your car and take me to Penzance for two weeks.’ She chuckled, imagining her daughter’s outrage. ‘She’d think we was running away together.’
‘I’d like to run away with you, Sheila.’
Sheila decided to ignore that comment. ‘Saying yes doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about marrying you.’
‘Understood.’
‘Well, then,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘In that case, you may take me to Penzance, Mr Bailey. But no funny business.’
Bernie gave her a wry smile. ‘As if I’d dare …’