Nineteen
Ladybirds in top hats, butterflies with long tapering tails, a mole in neck ruffles, rabbits dressed as clowns, flowers with smiling faces and multicoloured petals, a faraway castle flying an impossibly long shimmering flag. These were just some of the fairy-tale depictions Finn had added to the copy of Dorrie’s rabbit nursery rhyme.
‘I can’t admire it enough, Mrs R, your wonderfully cute poem and Finn’s brilliantly clever illustrations,’ Guy said enthusiastically. He was back from Bude, and he and Fiona were at Sunny Corner with Dorrie and Greg for afternoon tea. Eloise was asleep in her pram, the hood up to keep the sun off her delicate healthy pink skin. Guy looked happy and relaxed, and Dorrie knew it was because he was with Fiona. They almost seemed a couple in spite of the fact that Fiona would have to wait a long while to be divorced. It was a perfect sunny day and they were out in the front garden, under the magnolia tree, in lounging chairs around a circular table covered with crisp white linen. Having started off with iced drinks they were now on the treat taken from Dorrie’s precious cache of Earl Grey. ‘Ever thought of clubbing your talents together and trying to get a book published? I’m sure you could come up with many more wonderful rhyming stories for kids, and your hilarious and ironic adult poetry would be just the thing too. Finn could quite ably illustrate both. The charm and fantasy of it would be just the ticket after the bleakness of the war years. People are ready for something new on all counts. The country is going wild over Princess Elizabeth’s forthcoming wedding. The new films are avidly popular. Why not get in there in another medium?’
‘Oh, I don’t know if I want to do such a thing myself,’ Dorrie said, more than doubtful. Also a little worried. She liked her simple life and did not want anything like personal accomplishment shaking it up, but to help Finn take a step out in life . . . She passed around the cheese straws, squirming inside for Greg had that familiar look of getting fired up about something. He could be a stubborn so-and-so when the bit was between his teeth.
‘That’s a jolly good idea! It’s a wonder I’ve never thought of you publishing your stuff, old girl. Collaborating with Finn could be the very thing for him, start him off on a good career.’
It set Dorrie thinking. If Finn could get a foothold in the market there were all manner of avenues he could approach after that. ‘Well, I suppose it would be fun to get some of my poetry into book form for posterity, but I wonder if Finn would care to work alongside an old dear?’
‘Finn doesn’t think of you like that!’ Fiona jumped in quickly, allowing a little amused laugh. ‘No one does. You’ve got more vitality than the rest of the village put together. He loves your rabbit poem and the other sort of verses you’ve written.’
‘Finn regards you as an aunt and a friend,’ Guy encouraged.
‘Yes, Dor. You’ve said he’s drawn Billy Bunnytop to a T. You could sit round a table and compare ideas but I should think if you simply give Finn some selected poems he’ll dash off the ideal stuff. He’s got a perfect instinct for what is needed. He got all the village buildings off pat. Haven’t heard a single suggestion of his work needing a tweak or two, not even from Mrs Mitchelmore, and that’s saying a lot. People love the portraits he’s done of their family members. He’s a dab hand at animals too. I’m in wonder of the drawing he did of dear old Corky as a gift to us. Pretty lifelike, got all Corky’s mannerisms. From your description of the late Lucinda Newton, she would have made a perfect lost princess for Finn’s paint brushes.’
And so, as always happens in conversations, the subject was changed. Fiona said, ‘I’ve started to become interested in the locals. Jack Newton has come to mind, with Verity now working for him. His young wife was something of a mystery, I understand. Has Verity found out anything about her?’
‘No,’ Dorrie replied with the pride she felt in her niece. ‘In this instance it would be snooping and Verity has kept strictly to the job she’s employed to do.’
‘So there is a mystery?’ Fiona said, pausing in picking up her cup.
‘Not at all,’ Dorrie replied firmly. ‘Jack’s wife was a shy young soul, that’s all.’
‘But she killed herself, Dor,’ Greg reminded his sister in the way Dorrie found maddening. He was a hound on the scent again. ‘Strangely enough, Hector and I were only saying the other day about her—’
‘You and Hector Evans are a couple of determined gossips,’ Dorrie chided. ‘Better-fit you just got on with helping in finishing off the hall when you’re there.’
‘We weren’t at the hall at the time,’ Greg retorted in the smarmy superior tone of one indulging in sibling rivalry. He resented Dorrie getting high-handed with him in company. ‘We were in the pub actually, having a drink with the landlord, Johnny Westlake. The three of us had been working our socks off plastering the hall’s inside walls. Johnny Westlake is a born and bred Nanviscan like me, and we’ve got the right to wonder about those who come among us.’
‘Only Mrs Newton did not choose to come among us. She wanted to retain her privacy, and Jack ensured she did, and that doesn’t make her life and sad demise anyone else’s business. The village can look forward to great things ahead thanks to your efforts in getting the hall built, Greg, concentrate on that.’
She had smartly put him in his place and Greg was flummoxed to find a word that would dig him out of his hole of embarrassment. ‘Where are the ginger biscuits?’ he demanded grumpily while stabbing his forefinger on the arm of his chair. ‘I made them specially for today. You said you would put them on the table.’
‘I’ll trot in and fetch them,’ Dorrie said sweetly. She had got into the habit of ‘forgetting’ to lay everything out for social occasions where Greg was included. It made the ideal excuse to escape a thorny subject he was set on analysing to dust. Affable and caring he may be, but he could be mulish in equal amount.
But in the eternal tug of the sexes, Guy came to Greg’s aid. ‘Can the ginger biscuits wait, Mrs R? I’m fascinated. Given Jack’s proclivity for sophisticated ladies, the sort not looking to tie him down, from what I’ve gleaned about Lucinda she was a very strange choice to take as his wife.’
Aha! Dorrie could read Greg’s mind exclaiming the word with satisfaction. Fiona was looking at Guy and nodding her agreement with him. All eyes fell expectantly on Dorrie. She considered them with a schoolmistress’s withering put-down stare. ‘Does it really matter?’
Faltering, the three glanced at one another hoping someone would come up with a suitable reply. Guy was the one to cough apologetically. ‘I suppose not.’
Smiling pleasantly, Dorrie said, ‘I’ll get the ginger biscuits.’
When she returned with the plate of delicacies, the others were chatting about Finn’s first time at Petherton. ‘I was just saying, Dorrie,’ Fiona explained, ‘that Finn’s having a glorious time rooting about in Mrs Mitchelmore’s cellars. He comes home very dusty, makes for extra laundry.’
‘Really?’ Dorrie peeped into the pram. Eloise was breathing deep and evenly and wouldn’t wake for a while yet. She was such a contented baby, and it was lovely to see Fiona enjoying mothering her now. Fiona had glanced in on her daughter every minute or so. ‘But boys do like anything dark, creepy and mysterious, I’ve found.’
Offering round the plate of his famed baking, Greg muttered drolly, ‘So it’s all right to find Petherton mysterious then?’
‘Any cellar that hasn’t seen the light of day for years is bound to evoke that kind of interest.’ Dorrie ignored Greg. ‘Tell us how Finn gets on with the redoubtable Mrs Mitchelmore, Fiona.’