Unforgettable

by Gloria Cook

  Greg gazed down fondly at Corky’s find. ‘Verity, my irrepressible niece, sleeping like a baby on the cane sofa, she must have travelled down overnight.’ Verity Barnicoat was a picture of cherry-cheeked girlish innocence that belied her obstinate forwardness. It wouldn’t have surprised Greg if she were sucking her thumb, her childhood habit. She had been the rowdiest and most outgoing and the prettiest of the next generation that had played in these grounds. She had unsettled the peace more than her siblings and many cousins put together, and was envied by all and resented by some because she had won the most understanding and forgiveness from the adults. Greg doted on her, she made him laugh, and like Dorrie, he was able to see through the times she was putting on a brave front. She had inherited great-grandma Trevean’s poised English rose looks, which again disguised her strong will. ‘By the look of all her luggage she’s here for a long haul – trouble oh trouble. We’d better get her inside, Corky. Wake up, sleepyhead.’

  Before Greg had deposited the bulk of Verity’s luggage on the kitchen floor, she declared in the pattern of defiance Greg knew so well, ‘I’m not going back to him, Uncle Greg, not ever. Julius Urquart and I are over. For good!’ Greg’s eldest brother Perkin, a high court judge residing in south London, while comfortable with his two sons, one sadly lost at Tobruk, had never really known what to do with his wayward daughter, but Greg and Dorrie had loved Verity’s free spirit and Verity had spent many a school holiday with them. Some summers, Eastertides, and even Christmases they had happily seen the house bursting with nieces and nephews. It had gone a long way to soothe their emptiness at losing their own children. Now they had half a dozen great-nieces and nephews.

  ‘I rather gathered that, darling. I had noticed you’ve removed your engagement ring.’

  ‘I didn’t just remove it, Uncle Greg, I threw it at him. I hate him!’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t.’

  ‘Believe me I do. He acted the polite affable young man when I brought him down to introduce him to you and Aunt Dorrie, but you don’t really know what he is like. The man is an affront to womankind! You’d said that we were rather chalk and cheese. I should have taken note of that. Anyway, where is Aunt Dorrie?’

  ‘Oh yes, she’s sure to have left me a note. Just a sec, it’ll be on the hall table.’ Greg took his tall stocky frame off to the passage and on to the hall. ‘Ah, here it is,’ he said, on the way back. ‘What does she say? “Dear Greg, medical help needed at Merrivale, not an accident. Have phoned for Nurse Rumford. Don’t know how long I’ll be, nothing for you to worry about. Love Dor.” Mmm, a mother and her teenaged son live there, one of them must be poorly. Only saw the boy this morning, from a distance, but he seemed in fine fettle then, crestfallen, possibly weighed down by worries. They’re very secretive.’

  ‘Someone actually lives in that horrid old place?’ Verity plonked herself down at the broad table, covered with starched damask linen, fully expecting her uncle to make some tea and dig out something tasty to eat. Her Aunt Dorrie wasn’t much of a cook and Greg did most of the meals, something he excelled at and enjoyed. He also loved to pamper Verity. He was the father she wished she had, rather than the serious, uncommunicative Perkin Barnicoat. He would be utterly relieved she had come down to Cornwall. He was furious she had ended her engagement, having heartily approved of the correct and highly successful industrialist, war-decorated Colonel Julius Urquart. ‘Has Merrivale been done up?’

  ‘Not even as much as a new brick,’ Greg said, pushing the giant copper kettle on to the hob. ‘The owner, some faceless individual, can’t remember any facts about him, must be renting it to someone of desperate means, or so it’s believed. Like I said they keep themselves to themselves, but seem respectable.’

  Verity shrugged, losing interest. ‘Where have you just come from, Uncle?’

  ‘From the pub – but enough about that. Do you want to tell me what the problem is, my little darling, or wait for your Aunt Dorrie?’

  First her shoulders began to shake then her head drooped and Verity crumpled into floods of tears. Greg went to her and she jumped up to be comforted in his wonderfully strong arms. ‘My little darling – Father’s never called me anything like that. I’m so glad I’m here.’

  Greg held her tight. ‘And I’m so glad you’ve come to me, and your aunt. You know you can stay as long as you like.’ He let her sob 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 cup of tea. She’s lost somewhere, in her mind I mean.’

  ‘I understand, Finn.’ Dorrie smiled, her head on the side while Finn handled the baby as if he was experienced in infant care. ‘But that’s exactly how depression can affect you. Well, you’ve certainly mastered the art of bottle feeding, you’re a natural. Well done.’

  Finn gazed down at his tiny sister’s downy face, and Dorrie was struck at how much love for the baby she saw in his strong, tired features. He was a different boy to yesterday, when he had panicked and worried over everything, afraid his mother would suddenly die and how he would cope alone and without an income. Dorrie and Nurse Rumford had been required to reassure him over and over again that he did not have to manage alone. ‘The villagers are very kind on the whole and when word gets round, as it inevitably does, many will offer you help. Please do the sensible thing, Finn, and accept the help and don’t think of it as patronizing.’ The truth of her assertion had been proved moments before when she had found a bag of baby clothes left anonymously on the doorstep. Nurse Rumford must have been seen coming and going on more than one occasion and the right conclusion had been arrived at. Dorrie had guessed the mystery donor might be Jean Vercoe, who was Denny’s wife, and a caring soul. Finn had said he was grateful for the thoughtful gift, and Dorrie had seen him relax a little more.

  ‘Nurse Rumford showed me what to do. She’s been a brick and so have you. She returned again in the evening and stayed the night and saw me through all the feeds and nappy changes. She’s going to show me how to bath the baby today. I’m as scared as hell about that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear, I’m sure you’ll manage excellently. Now have you had any breakfast? We keep our own hens and I’ve brought some fresh eggs and a few bits from my larder. Shall I cook you a meal and then see if I can tempt your mother to take a few bites of something?’

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ Finn replied enthusiastically, his sight rooted on his sister. ‘I’m ravenous. You might have to battle with the range. It’s temperamental. I’ve managed to slip out and scavenge some more firewood. I’m trying to keep this chilly place warm for Mum and the baby.’ He had grown serious. ‘Look, I can’t go on just referring to this little mite as “the baby”. She needs a name, and if Mum won’t name her then I will.’

  ‘Have you come up with anything?’ Dorrie put her apron on and produced an apple from a bagful for Finn to eat now. She bought enough apples and other fruit from The Orchards each autumn to last through the winter and spring.

  ‘Yes, I have actually. Eloise, the name of my first girlfriend. She was beautiful. I hated it when her parents moved away. She promised to keep in touch and we’ve exchanged the odd letter. I shan’t write to her again. I’m too ashamed to be living here and the reason behind it. I think you know all about us, Mrs Resterick.’

  ‘I do, Finn, but we needn’t mention it again. It’s your business alone. Eloise is a lovely name.’ Dorrie cooed over the baby as Finn gently wiped milk from her chin with a bib. ‘So you’ve had a girlfriend already. How lovely.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs R, you’re brilliant. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. Would you like to suggest a second name for Eloise?’

  Dorrie had protested but Finn had insisted. ‘Mum won’t mind, I’m sure.’

  So that was how part of Dorrie’s precious daughter seemed a little bit alive to her again in Eloise Veronica Templeton. ‘My darling,’ Dorrie whispered, sending her daughter all her love across the road. ‘Tell your daddy how much I love you both.’

  Faith’s Fare was a large sturdy hut built on the site of the long demolished tithe barn. It was run by the women of the village and had received its name from the suggestion of the redoubtable Mrs Mitchelmore, who owned the largest, although not the grandest, house in the parish. The whole thing had been Mrs Mitchelmore’s idea to provide a place every day, except Sundays of course, for the locals to gather in and bolster one another up throughout the bleak days of the war. The WVS, of which Dorrie had been a 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—’

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Newton,’ Dorrie uttered firmly and headed for the doorway.

  ‘Don’t you want to buy the North Cornwall Gazette?’ Delia demanded airily, quickly on Dorrie’s heels.

  Over her shoulder, Dorrie stared at the other woman. Delia was ten years younger than she was but her pursed features had consequently aged her with many more wrinkles. Delia had never been an easy person although she had been pretty once, but that was now lost under pockets of saggy skin. She sided with the Reverend Wentworth Lytton against the idea of a village hall. The general agreement in Nanviscoe was that they were both outdated and mean. Delia agreed with all the ageing vicar’s views, it was how she felt important and she constantly rubbed it in to the locals that Soames was the vicar’s warden and as such was a gentleman to be highly respected.