Chapter Nineteen
Sheila thoroughly enjoyed Christmas Day at Postbridge Farm, which was as raucous as ever, despite Grace and Caroline being ‘missing in action’, as Joe insisted on putting it, his face dour as he and poor Tilly were forced to undertake all the usual jobs on their own, and in such bitter weather too.
Given the cold, the family decided not to venture down into the village for the Christmas Day service, which was a disappointment, as Sheila had grown to enjoy singing hymns and rather missed it.
She would have liked Bernie to come calling, as she’d knitted a soft red scarf for him.
But Violet pulled a face at this suggestion, so Sheila arranged for them to have lunch together on Boxing Day instead, weather permitting.
Christmas Day lunch went well, and the four of them played cards together in the snug afterwards, gambling with dried beans instead of coins, just for fun.
Since they’d already had a glass of wine with their lunch, Sheila brought out her home-made sloe gin, and after they’d all enjoyed a tipple, she fell into a light doze beside the fire.
When she woke up, it was nearly dusk and the fire in the snug had burned low. Tilly was reading a magazine with Sarah Jane cuddled on her lap, but Joe and Violet had disappeared.
‘You been stuck with the kiddy?’ Sheila asked the girl, surprised.
‘Mr and Mrs Postbridge asked me to look after her while they had a nap,’ Tilly told her innocently. ‘They were both feeling tired.’
Having carried the bottle of gin and the dirty glasses out to the kitchen, Sheila had just begun scraping dirty dishes into the pigswill pail when she heard a creak from upstairs. Violet and Joe in their bedroom, presumably.
Gone for a nap?
With a chuckle, she ran the tap and began to wash up the pots and pans as noisily as she could, singing an old Christmas carol at the top of her voice for good measure.
It seemed the Postbridges were having a very merry Christmas, and good luck to them, she thought with a grin.
On Boxing Day, Sheila persuaded Joe to take her to Bernie’s house on the tractor, since it was too icy to drive an ordinary vehicle down the steep track from the farm.
Her son-in-law agreed, saying he needed to speak to the vet about the shire horse, who’d developed what Joe felt might be equine influenza.
‘Most likely not serious,’ Joe insisted, pulling on his gloves, ‘but I’d prefer to have the vet’s advice, all the same.
Pity the GPO haven’t installed that telephone line yet …
That would have saved me the trip. But I suppose the snow’s held them up. ’
Sheila felt a tug of concern for the old shire horse, but Joe had already assured Tilly that most horses pulled through flu unscathed, so she tried not to worry. ‘I’m sure the GPO will be up here as soon as the roads are clear again,’ she told him reassuringly.
‘Merry Christmas!’ Bernie greeted her on the doorstep, smart in a suit and tie, as though they were going out for lunch somewhere posh, not staying in. ‘Am I allowed to say that on Boxing Day? It’s past Christmas now.’
‘I don’t think there are any rules, and even if there are, stuff ’em,’ Sheila said. ‘Merry Christmas, Bernie.’
He raised a hand to Joe, who was turning his tractor in the narrow lane. ‘Good of Joe to drop you off, but I could have driven up to fetch you.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Sheila told him affectionately, taking off her hat and coat in his hallway. ‘You’d only have got that lovely car of yours stranded in a ditch.’
‘I hope my driving’s a little better than that,’ he said mildly, closing the front door. Then he turned and kissed her on the lips, which left her a little breathless.
‘Cheeky!’
Bernie chuckled. ‘A chap needs to take his chances where he can. Besides, I’ve no time to waste on asking permission. Lunch is ready.’
The dining table was set with gleaming silver and glassware, the white linen cloth topped with a red runner, a Christmas log as its centrepiece, bristling with holly and red berries.
Sheila was impressed. ‘Oh, I say …’
He pulled out her chair. ‘If Madam would care to park herself here, I’ll fetch the first course.’
‘Silver service, no less,’ she murmured.
‘Of course.’ Bernie inclined his head. ‘To match my hair,’ he replied, and they grinned at each other.
The meal was delicious, a dish of cold partridge with stewed veg, and a pudding of rich, sweet lemon meringue pie, and she savoured every mouthful.
‘You certainly know the way to a woman’s heart, my lad,’ Sheila told him as they sat relaxing after lunch with a small glass of sherry each. ‘That was sumptuous.’
‘I had a little help from my housekeeper’s brother in obtaining the partridge,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘But the lemon meringue pie was my own creation.’
‘And very tasty it was too.’ Sheila raised her glass in a salute.
They talked of weather and politics for a while, and the parish fund.
Then he asked how Christmas Day had gone at Postbridge Farm, and she gladly told him, leaning back on the sofa with a smile as she regaled him with tales of Sarah Jane’s excitement on Christmas Eve, waiting up to listen for Santa Claus until she fell asleep on the stairs …
‘Christmas is for the kiddies, I always say. But we grown-ups are allowed a little fun too. Talking of which, I nearly forgot …’ Sheila fished his present out of her bag. ‘Merry Christmas, Bernie.’
Bernie unwrapped the scarf and smiled down at it. ‘Thank you. Very handsome. And knitted by your own industrious hands, I daresay.’
‘You’re getting to recognise my handiwork, I see. But do you like the colour?’
‘Absolutely.’ He draped the berry-red scarf about his neck. ‘It’ll be perfect for when I become a socialist.’
Sheila choked. ‘You? A socialist?’ She saw his grin and tutted under her breath. ‘You teaser … I’m never sure when you’re jokin’,’ she complained.
‘That’s because I like to keep you on your toes, Mrs Newton.’ Getting up, he fetched a slender jewellery box from the sideboard repetition. ‘This is for you, my dear. I hope you like it.’
A little flustered by his affectionate tone, Sheila bit her lip. ‘I’m sure I will, whatever it is.’ But she gasped on opening the box to find a gleaming pearl necklace inside, nestled on a bed of silk. ‘Oh, Bernie … Oh no … This is too much.’
‘Nonsense.’ He perched on the edge of his chair opposite, watching her with a light in his eyes. ‘I saw it in a jeweller’s window in Penzance and knew at once it was the perfect gift.’
Sheila’s mouth trembled. She’d never worn a pearl necklace in her life.
To her mind, it was the kind of jewellery only posh women wore, like the well-heeled, middle-class women on the Parish Council who looked down their noses at her.
It wasn’t a necklace for someone like her, Mrs Sheila Newton, who spent her days in an apron behind the counter of the village shop.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she muttered, closing the box.
Bernie’s smile faded and he sat back. ‘You don’t like it?’ He seemed perplexed. ‘I … I’m sorry, Sheila. I thought you would like pearls. I seem to have made rather a stupid gaff. Offended you, perhaps.’
She reached for him in quick reassurance, shaking her head. ‘No, bless your heart. Of course I ain’t offended. Nobody’s ever give me such a lovely gift before, that’s all.’ Moved to the verge of tears, Sheila choked as she added, ‘They’re beautiful, Bernie. Thank you.’
‘I thought they were a match for your beauty, Sheila.’
Tears spilled from her eyes. ‘Don’t.’
‘You are beautiful, Sheila,’ he insisted, and took her hand. ‘I love you, and I know you said I wasn’t to ask you to marry me again. But I want you to know that if you change your mind, I’ll happily ask you again whenever you say the word.’
He lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes intent on her face. She thought she’d never seen something so romantic, and it fair took her breath away. ‘You deserve those pearls, Sheila. Merry Christmas, my darling.’
Sheila gulped, unable to say a blessed word.
He leant forward and kissed her on the lips again. Only it wasn’t a cheeky kiss like out in the hallway earlier, but it wasn’t demanding either. It was a lovely kiss, just right for Christmastime, and she wished it could go on forever. But that would be asking for trouble.
Pulling back, Sheila wiped away her tears. ‘I don’t know why I’m blubbing … Making a fool of meself.’
But she did know why. She was more vulnerable than she cared to admit.
And she was beginning to feel something suspiciously close to love for this polite, well-dressed gent, even if at times he seemed very different to the boy she’d known when they were growing up together.
Could she be mistaking loneliness for love, though?
She didn’t want to give up her new-found independence just because he was good company …
No more was said about the pearls, and after another glass of sherry, Bernie checked the time and conscientiously insisted on driving her back to the farm, despite the poor weather.
‘Goodnight,’ he said deeply as she got out in the darkness, and it felt like a significant moment, especially when she found herself unable to reply.
As he headed off again, Sheila turned away into the farmhouse, trying to decide what to do for the best.
Violet was making a suet pudding at the table, and Joe was standing beside her, his arm looped about her waist. The couple were giggling and whispering but jumped hurriedly apart when she came in out of the cold.
‘Evening, Sheila.’ Joe thrust his hands into his pockets, his ears turning pink. ‘You’re back early. Bernie gave you a lift up the hill, did he?’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to walk. Not in this weather.’ Primly, her gaze shot to Violet, who instantly bent her head, focused on the suet. ‘Making a pudding, love?’
Violet’s eyes flashed but she said calmly enough, ‘I fancied something stodgy for a change. How was Mr Bailey’s cooking? Or did his fancy housekeeper do everything for him?’
‘She weren’t there, and besides, it don’t matter who cooked what, it was delicious,’ Sheila told her loftily, and drew out the box containing her gift.
‘Bernie gave me this for Christmas.’ Opening the lid, she displayed the gleaming pearl necklace.
‘Beautiful, ain’t it? Though not as beautiful as me, according to Bernie.
’ And she couldn’t help beaming, still bowled over by his compliments.
‘Well, I never …’ Violet gasped, staring at the pearls.
Joe’s bushy brows soared. ‘He’ll be asking you to marry him next.’
‘He already did ask, thank you very much, and I said no.’ Sheila winked as the couple gaped at her in silence. ‘For now, at any rate. But I might change my mind one day. It’s a woman’s prerogative, after all.’
After Joe had gone outside to close up the pigsty for the night, Violet set the suet pudding aside in a mixing bowl with a clean damp cloth over the top. She washed her hands, looking round at Sheila thoughtfully. ‘So, you think you might accept him one day?’
Sheila poured herself a cup of tea from the pot, mulling it over.
‘I do like him, Vi. There’s something about the man that …
’ She stopped, not sure what she wanted to say, and shook her head.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m no spring chicken, let’s face it, and neither is Bernie.
If I’m going to marry for a third time, I should probably quit faffing about and get on with it.
’ She chewed on her lip. ‘Only I need more time to think about it, and maybe get to know him better. Does that sound daft?’
Violet put an arm about her shoulders. ‘Of course not, Mum. You should do whatever you feel is right.’ She hesitated, releasing her. ‘Though, if you’re interested in our opinion, Joe and I think he’s a nice chap, too. I certainly wouldn’t mind him for a stepdad.’
Sheila was surprised. Violet had always been opposed to the idea of her remarrying, even back when she and Arnie had been courting. ‘You like him, then?’ She frowned. ‘He ain’t nothing like Arnie. Nor your dad neither.’
‘That’s for bloomin’ sure. I loved Dad to bits, but he wouldn’t have known what to say to your Mr Bailey.
Though the likes of them two would never have met, would they?
Different worlds …’ Violet pulled a face, and checked the pot with the back of her hand before also pouring herself another cuppa.
‘But if you like him, none of that matters. Besides, you could do worse. He’s a proper gent.
And life’s too short, ain’t it? We need to grab all the happiness we can before it’s too late. ’
‘Talking of happiness, you and Joe seem to be getting on rather better these days.’ When Violet bit her lip, looking embarrassed, Sheila nodded wisely.
‘I’m glad to see it, love. You and Joe had me worried for a while.
It’s not right for husband and wife to be forever backbiting.
And it weren’t good for Sarah Jane, bless her.
Oh, I know she don’t say much, but that little girl sees more than you think … She’s got sharp eyes, that one.’
‘Gawd, don’t I know it?’ To her surprise, Violet didn’t appear offended by this frank discussion of her marriage.
Making up with Joe had clearly left her in a mellow mood.
‘She’s quiet on account of being an only child, that’s what I think.
But maybe she won’t always be so lonely.
’ She flashed Sheila a mischievous smile that reminded her of a younger, more carefree Violet, long before their wartime evacuation to Cornwall.
‘And that’s all I’m prepared to say on the subject. ’
Sheila’s heart lightened. ‘Mum’s the word,’ she murmured, and hid her own smile, adding more briskly, ‘You know, we ain’t had suet puddin’ in ages. But it’s just right for this nasty cold snap.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking.’ Violet glanced towards the kitchen window, where a few solitary snowflakes could be seen whirling about in the dark.
Outside, they could hear the clank of the pigswill bucket and the muffled tread of Joe’s boots across the snowy yard.
‘All this frost and snow, though … It makes me nervous.’
‘Me too, love.’ Sheila shivered, wondering what the coming new year would bring, and if 1947 would be any better or worse than 1946. Though it would have to work bloomin’ hard to be worse, she thought, cradling her tea to warm her chilly fingers. ‘Me too.’