Eight
It was Wednesday morning and that meant a certain gathering of women at Faith’s Fare. Esther Mitchelmore and Delia Newton were on duty in the Thrift Niche, and Belle Lawry and Agnes Pentecost were in attendance at the refreshment counter. The two sections of the hut were not partitioned: the cafe customers were sat at one of the three gingham-covered tables donated by Esther from her home and could freely socialize with the bargain hunters. Banter or gossip was often exchanged in deliberately loud voices so facts and speculation and downright nastiness soon circulated round the village.
At a table by the window (the glass scavenged from a greenhouse panel), waiting for cups of tea and home-made ginger biscuits were Dorrie, Verity and Jean Vercoe. Baby Eloise, on her first outing into the village, was cradled in her shawl in Dorrie’s arms. Jean had left her big pram, so rarely out of use, outside and had a twin son propped on her lap. The three women were cooing over Eloise. ‘She’s such a contented baby,’ Dorrie told Jean proudly.
‘I can see that. One or the other of these little blighters has me up most nights. Anyway, I think you’re an angel, Mrs Resterick, taking the whole family in under your roof while Merrivale is done up.’
A snort of something akin to disdain issued from Delia’s snooty nose. She was dusting the shelves of donated ornaments, ordered to do so by Esther, who was as usual taking charge of everything in her inarguable manner.
Verity glared at Delia. ‘You wouldn’t know she was in the house, Mrs Vercoe. It’s a joy to me to share in looking after her while Finn is busy working at Merrivale. It’s more comfortable for Mrs Templeton and she’s progressing slowly but steadily.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jean said, jiggling her legs up and down to make the chubby twins chuckle. ‘You’ve always enjoyed having a houseful, haven’t you, Mrs Resterick? Me too, couldn’t stand it for a minute if my place was quiet.’ She too shot darts of contempt at the pursed-mouthed Delia. ‘Some round here wouldn’t put themselves out for others, and some of them pack themselves into the front pews every Sunday. Faith without good deeds isn’t faith at all. They know it; it’s time they took note of it.’
Belle brought over the tray of refreshments. ‘Sam says Merrivale has been completely replastered, the woodwork repaired and the roof is now being re-tiled. I’ve seen for myself the outlook is altogether much lighter now the trees have been thinned out. The stream that runs through the bottom of the garden has been cleared and runs down to Shady Lane again. The gloominess seems all taken away. I’ve also seen Mr Carthewy labouring away and up to his knees and elbows in dirt. He’s given some hard-pressed men the opportunity of earning something extra, and good for him. Finn says that by and by he’ll get his mother to sit by the stream. Good idea, I told him, there’s nothing as soothing as the sound of pure running water. He also says he’s no longer daunted about the prospect of living there again.’
Running a gleaming white dishcloth over the scrap of cafe counter, Mrs Pentecost, short, nimble, thin and bony, in her seventies with long-lashed eyes always ready to smile, chipped in. ‘Rebecca says the little one is thriving. She was pleased as punch when you suggested the family move into Sunny Corner while Merrivale is being worked on. That poor woman would never recover with all manner of bangs and thumps going on around her. She’d have had no privacy, and all that dust would have been very bad for the baby. Rebecca says Mr Greg dotes on her and it amuses Rebecca when he talks to little Eloise as if she can understand him.’
‘Allow me to hold Eloise while you drink your tea, Mrs Resterick,’ Belle offered. Smilingly Dorrie relinquished her charge.
‘Bring the child over here,’ Esther ordered. She was filling in the inventory book of things for sale in the niche. People were used to Esther’s bossiness and only a few took exception to it. ‘I haven’t had a good look at her yet.’
Piqued over the reproving remarks Jean had aimed at her, Delia uttered under her breath, ‘You can bet Guy Carthewy isn’t lashing out all his time and money for nothing. It’s wicked.’ Then she stiffly turned her back and set her feather duster vigorously over a block paperweight. She hummed a tune in an indistinguishable drone to ensure she stayed excluded from the clucky gathering. Delia had three grown-up sons all ‘doing well in the city’ and all ‘far too busy to travel down so far to see Mr Newton and I.’ Thrice a year for a week, in turn, the Newtons visited their sons, and Nanviscoe bathed in the respite.
‘Mmmm, she is a pretty baby.’ Esther nodded approvingly. ‘Such deeply coloured eyes. I would have so loved to have had children, but it wasn’t to be.’
Honoria Sanders breezed in, clouding the air with a heavy tropical perfume and swinging her fox furs. The gold and diamonds on her fingers created prisms and stabs of sparkling light. Pearls circled her neck. ‘I’m delighted I never had any little sprogs, some of us aren’t cut out to be mothers, eh, Esther? But this child is very sweet, bless her heart. Is her mother here? I can see the answer is no. I hope she’s still recovering. Ah, Mrs R, I take it you’re in charge of the tiny mite. Must give you some silver for her. Here’s half a crown.’
‘Thank you for your generosity, Mrs Sanders,’ Dorrie said, grinning, for one couldn’t fail to delight in Honoria’s scintillating company.
Honoria chattered on. ‘Hello, Mrs Newton, I see you’re hiding away in there. Is that because the meeting about the hall didn’t go your and the Rev. Lytton’s way? We all know the vicar’s reason; he’s a lazy so-and-so who doesn’t even want a new church hall built because he wants only to spend time writing his memoirs. He never was much cop at vicaring, hardly knew how to offer a crumb of comfort to the bereaved before or during the war, nor since. But why you, eh? I didn’t attend the meeting but I’ve heard all about your objections – encourage loitering and rowdiness, a poor excuse indeed! There’s no one in Nanviscoe with the slightest interest in doing that; people are too intent on simply surviving.’ Honoria was in full flow and dramatizing her themes with flaunting circles of her silk gloved hands. ‘It’s time someone brought up the real reason and time you faced your pettiness, woman. Your resentment lies from long ago over Mrs Vercoe’s eldest sister Anita being chosen as school May Queen instead of you. I wasn’t residing at Sawle House then, of course, but I’ve heard the tale many a time. Your mother hinted to the former headmaster that she would make a generous donation for a new lavatory block for the school, while she had a dress made up for you. The vicar approved the appointment. But the headmaster wasn’t to be bribed, and his vote along with the vote of Mrs Mitchelmore’s late husband was cast for the prettiest and most honest eligible girl, Anita. And ever since then you have seethed and resented the fact that Anita’s reign was considered one of the best in Nanviscoe, haven’t you, shallow woman that you are? A village hall will be built, and sooner rather than later, for I have decided to give one hundred pounds towards the building costs so time and effort doesn’t have to be wasted on raising funds. With similar generosity pledged by my good sister here and Mr Jack Newton, Nanviscoe will have a hall fit to entertain the King and Queen in.’
A clamour of grateful and excited voices broke out but they were brutally interrupted. Delia threw down the paperweight and it thumped, denting the wooden floorboard, and clattered and spun noisily. ‘So I am to be mocked, am I? Held in the poorest regard in public and then no doubt to be scorned later in every household? No one has ever liked me. I’ve always been an object of ridicule and my work and ideas for the village always pushed aside in favour of anyone else’s, even the tramp and the gypsies that pass through Nanviscoe. Two weeks ago, that criminal’s son now living in our midst cut off my speech at the meeting under the oh-so-saintly Lawrys’ roof. The Templeton boy raised his hand and all attention was turned to him. What right did he have to be there? Come on, tell me that. He’s not one of us. Why did he dare to show his face when he and his mother chose at first to shun us? His words were, “May I say in view of all the kindness and acceptance my mother and I and my new sister have received I think a hall would be a brilliant thing. It’s the very thing where people can meet and enjoy mutual interests.” How dare he speak up when his own father is in jail for fraud while serving as a public servant! It’s too much that the boy’s opinion is sought and mine, a woman whose husband was born and bred in Nanviscoe, counts for nothing.
‘Well, build your damned village hall, let criminals and rogues infiltrate and corrupt you, but I’ll never, ever forgive you, any of you, for the contempt you’ve shown me, and you’ll all be sorry. I’ll make you sorry in a way you’ll never forget!’