Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,16
member, had operated from there, among other things, rolling bandages and making up parcels for prisoners of war. ‘Faith’ was because it was by faith that the tea, coffee, milk and scones, buns and cake would be donated from all manner of means and the villagers, rich and poor alike, had never failed to come through. Now it was being run in the same manner, with unwanted things being sold in one corner called the Thrift Niche and the proceeds going to servicemen’s charities, all at Mrs Mitchelmore’s insistence, overriding any other suggestion.
First, however, Newton’s Stores had to be passed by and Verity let out a gasp of horror. ‘Oh no! Auntie, read the headlines on the billboard.’
JAILED COUNCIL MAN’S WIFE IN BABY DRAMA. DELIVERED BY NEIGHBOUR.
The headlines from a local rag shouted out to Dorrie. ‘Damn,’ she hissed crossly. ‘So someone’s been digging around in the Templetons’ lives. Not Nurse Rumford, of course. Delia Newton herself, I’ll warrant my last ration coupon on it. She’s used a lot of ink and precious paper on these unusually large headlines. If my name is in the newspaper . . . Right, let me see to this first, Verity, and then we’ll go next door for tea.’
‘After you then, Auntie.’ Verity grinned in gleeful anticipation as she followed Dorrie over the worn-down granite threshold of the Stores. Dorrie’s head was up high and her blue eyes were threaded with sparks – what Greg called ‘her sergeant-major look’. When Dorrie had said ‘see to this’ she really meant ‘see to her’, the denigrating Delia Newton, daughter of a civil servant and not born in the parish. She thought herself as refined, declaring her marriage to Soames Newton, second cousin to Farmer Jack Newton, as love across the class divide, which was ridiculous as the Newtons were once squires of the parish, yet she delighted in boasting that the general shabbiness of the shop premises were due to her thriftiness at not spending unnecessarily while the rationing was still on. The door, incorporated with stained-glass panels at the top, was open to let in the fresh air and kept in place by an old iron weight. When the door was opened by a customer a bell shot out an irritating ping-pinggg, and the villagers swore that the bell’s introductory speech had annually sharpened with each of the twenty-four years of Delia’s supercilious reign behind the scuffed mahogany counter.
Verity loved the Stores’ interior, so evocative of bygone eras with its Edwardian decorated cash register, the carved shelves, the dozens of tiny drawers containing powders and items that even now she had no idea what they were. When the generously proportioned Soames Newton was alone she’d ask him and learn about one more mystery, but just the one at a time for he tended to rabbit on about whatever it was for ages. Portly and heavy breathing in an amusing snuffling way (amusing to others because it greatly annoyed his snooty wife), Verity quite liked him. He appeared to let his wife boss him about but in reality he did not, for it was obvious he was adept at switching himself off from her demands and complaints.
‘Ah, Mrs Resterick.’ The reedy-voiced Delia swept up the hinged part of the counter so she could emerge from behind it and pounce on her customer. ‘Miss Barnicoat too, how wonderful to see you again. It’s been a bit of a while, hasn’t it, but I suppose you’ve been busy with your forthcoming nuptials. Come down to tell your aunt and uncle all about the arrangements, have you? Are you having a big do? Your uncle told me you mix with royalty. Will there be any dukes and countesses at your wedding? May I see your engagement ring?’ She stared down at Verity’s white-gloved hand.
‘No, to all your questions.’ Verity’s answer was uncharacteristically blunt, and Dorrie was dismayed that the hurt Julius Urquart had caused her cut even deeper than Verity had spoken of. ‘My engagement was a big mistake, so now you know, don’t you? Happy?’ Spinning on her heel Verity stalked out of the Stores.
For once Delia’s wilful prying had backfired. Verity’s response had stunned her and her cheeks turned pickled red. ‘Oh dear! I–I . . .’ Then she rallied and bristled. ‘Well, really! I was only being civil. So it’s not true she mixes with royalty. I knew that was a lie, I said to my husband and Mrs Mitchelmore as much. They’ll—’