Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,1

killed while answering the call, in his own little boat, to help with the evacuation of the retreating British troops at Dunkirk. He had been laid to rest next to his and Dorrie’s only child, Veronica, lost to them suddenly in infancy, from croup. Strangely, the villagers, who usually knew each other’s business, had no idea where the puppy had come from. The friendly little scuff had crawled up to Dorrie and dropped its tiny dirty head on Dorrie’s foot, and heartbroken Dorrie, believing Piers had sent the puppy to ease her loneliness, had immediately fallen in love with him. Corky had needed her too. He was deaf and virtually blind, with a slightly lame hind leg, and there had been little hope of him getting a home elsewhere. ‘You’re coming home with me, little fellow. I’ve got an evacuee brother and sister who will be delighted to have a little playmate.’

‘Hold fast there, Dor. Fetch me my panama, old girl. I’ll start off with you. It’s the meeting at the Olde Plough, remember? Johnny and Margaret Westlake are putting their snug at the disposal of interested parties in forming a committee to get the building of a village hall up and running. It’s time Nanviscoe had one.’ Greg’s mellow, slightly drawling voice was fired up with the new passion in his heart. ‘As you know, I’ve spoken to Jack Newton and he’s willing to donate a parcel of land where it verges on to the main road of the village. We need a playing field for the kiddies and a building for the Gardening Club and the like to meet. You women of the WVS did sterling work in that little hut next to the general stores and in each other’s houses for the war effort, but with a proper hall you could start up a Women’s Institute. It would have been just the ticket for the VE celebrations. It would get lonely people out of their houses. Mrs Sanders will probably be happy to donate a good sum of money towards a fund; she’s always very generous, in every way.’ Greg smoothed the ends of his neat David Niven moustache. ‘The villagers can build the hall themselves. I’m sure the Vercoes can be counted on for manual labour, along with Charlie Lawry when he’s not too busy at The Orchards. Hector Evans is eager to pitch in and is willing to be treasurer; he’s got a good head for figures. Mrs Mitchelmore, the battleaxe self-styled lady of the manor, will be bound to show up today. Nothing happens in the village without her staunch involvement – well more or less her say-so. I don’t care what the opposition says. They’re not important.’

Still spry and lean, with a habitual twinkling expression, he was making mock sword thrusting movements, fighting off the unseen opposition, when Dorrie returned to the sitting room. Music sheets on top of the piano were sent scattering to the floor.

‘Greg, do mind the vase of lilac blossom.’ Dorrie was often required to take the part of the sensible one in their joint home, but she loved her brother’s lasting touch of boyishness, and he was always the best fun. ‘The vicar and the Newtons from the Stores are the main opponents to the idea. The Reverend Lytton wants a new church hall. You’d never think Soames Newton is a second cousin to Jack. Then there’s the question of Mr Evans. He’s an eminently pleasant Welshman, but his seven-year residence in Nanviscoe may not be long enough for most villagers to feel he has the right to a say,’ she reminded him. Dorrie could not be doing with the arguments that were always a part of planning meetings and committees. ‘I’m a willing soldier not an officer,’ she would say. ‘Just tell me where I’m needed and I’ll be happy to comply.’

Then she asked pointedly, ‘Is Jack Newton likely to be at the pub today?’

‘Yes,’ Greg replied in an innocent tone but his light blue eyes were glinting.

‘Go easy on the ale. The Westlakes sell their own evil brew from under the counter. Don’t forget it’s potent.’ Dorrie passed Greg the hat and his walking stick. She was holding her own simple little cane, although neither in fact needed a walking aid. Since retiring as a major in the Grenadiers, Greg used his carved handled stick to march along on his regular long walks. Dorrie found her cane useful for prodding and poking about in the hedges