and sniffle until she was ready to sit down again.
‘So Julius has really hurt you?’ he asked soothingly, while wanting to put his hands round the man’s neck and throttle him for upsetting his precious Verity.
‘Everyone and everything has, Uncle Greg.’ She gave one last sniffle into her handkerchief then the old feisty gleam returned into her daring green eyes. ‘Especially Julius, heaven help him if I ever hear from him again.’
‘Still the same wonderful old place, I love being in Nanviscoe,’ Verity said, closing her arms round herself as if she was being comfortingly hugged. ‘Everything is always the same.’
Dorrie hooked her arm through Verity’s. The couple could not look more different. Apart from the age difference, Verity was a tall curvy brunette, with colourful and tasteful make-up on her angular face, with the self-assurance of a woman who had forged her own way in the world, and without a hint of Dorrie’s dainty homeliness. Verity’s dress, although far from new, had a cinched-in waist and matching jacket and looked crisp and chic. While Dorrie had gentle blue eyes Verity’s blazed like emeralds. Verity’s lace up leather walking shoes were quite new, whereas Dorrie’s were as old as the hills and had seen many repairs by jack-of-all-trades Denny Vercoe. ‘I don’t think I could bear to be away from the place now. Where to first, my dear? The Stores or the teashop or would you like to call on anyone in particular? Everyone will be so delighted to see you. It’s been a while since you were down.’
It was Verity’s first outing since she had fled to Sunny Corner four days ago, and Dorrie’s first time since the Templeton baby’s birth. They had emerged from Newton Road and were facing the church. St Nanth’s rested in the calm of solidity and spiritual continuity, its slate roof and square tower framed today by crystal blue sky and friendly hovering white clouds. It was roughly in the middle of the village, up on slightly raised ground, and the road meandered round it in a higgledy-piggledy oval shape. Facing the west door, set well back in its own grounds, was the Victorian built primary school. The separate playgrounds for the boys and girls were empty, all was quiet and Verity speculated: ‘The poor little souls must have their heads down over their arithmetic.’
She went on, ‘I’d really like to go to By The Way and see the Vercoe clan. I know they’re a bunch of scruffs but they’re such a hoot. People think Denny can be a bit of a brute but he just doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and why should he not retaliate when his family is insulted? I’ve always found him reasonable and kind, and I do like his bulky build, handlebar moustache and thicket of wild hair. He reminds me of past times. It should be remembered he and Jean lost two sons in the war. But let’s start at Newton’s Stores where I’ll get all the news from old Soames and the lippy Delia. I suppose she’s still treating her poor cousin Lorna like a dogsbody. Then we can retreat to Faith’s Fare and you can tell me the truth of what is said in uncoloured versions. Gird up your ears, dear Auntie, the Newtons chatter at the same time.’
They stepped on to the narrow granite slab pavement. As always when passing this side of the churchyard Dorrie looked towards where her little Veronica and Piers lay side by side among the dreaming headstones. She was one of the luckier war widows, to have got her husband’s body back for burial. The little family had been holidaying at Sunny Corner from their Hampshire home when Veronica had suddenly and cruelly been taken from them. Dorrie and Piers had intended to retire in Nanviscoe and the vicar had agreed to Veronica’s local interment. Inscribed on the church cross were the twenty-eight Nanviscoe sons who had sacrificed all in the two world wars.
Dorrie felt movingly proud that Nanviscoe’s newest inhabitant bore her daughter’s name as her second name.
‘Mum says she doesn’t want the bother of naming the baby,’ Finn had miserably told Dorrie when she had arrived the next day to give her promised continued help. He had been sitting downstairs on the only armchair, a sagging clumpy affair, giving the baby a feed. ‘Nurse Rumford says it’s post-natal depression but I think it’s deeper than that. She scares me, Mrs Resterick. She won’t eat and only sips at a