Loveday: A charming pre-war Cornish saga (Barbara Whitnell Cornish Novels) by Barbara Whitnell

Author:Barbara Whitnell [Whitnell, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2022-07-17T04:00:00+00:00

The day was more like summer than spring, with the sun pouring through the windows and an air of somnolence about the congregation.

Oliver had been right about the suit; it tickled his neck in a nasty, unremitting sort of way that made him wriggle despite his grandmother’s restraining hand. And once he had had his fill of staring at the choir, set up on high in the galleried pews above the pulpit, there was little to occupy his mind. Sally, sitting beside him in a feminine, and clearly less irritating, version of his sailor suit kept herself reasonably amused by reading the hymnbook or adding up the hymn numbers on the board; but such diversions were not for him. Even she, however, sighed wearily from time to time and was glad to accept the violet cachous that Grandma kept for such occasions. Oliver couldn’t make up his mind whether he liked them or not. They smelled of scent and the inside of Grandma’s handbag, and left a funny taste on the tongue, but he accepted them anyway, simply to pass the time.

The voice of the minister, by name Mr Large — which Oliver thought an excellent joke, since it was obviously what he was not, being a thin, desiccated-looking man — seemed to have a dying fall. Could he possibly be coming to the end of his sermon at last? He had a particularly active Adam’s apple which had held Oliver’s interest far beyond his usual attention span. However, fascination with this peculiarity had died long since. Hope stirred in his breast; and a certain lightening of the atmosphere and a few coughs seemed to indicate that he was not alone in this. But if an early end to the sermon was expected, the congregation was to be disappointed.

“And thirdly, brethren,” intoned Mr Large, about to embark on a further instalment of his harangue. He paused for a moment in order, presumably, to draw breath; and in the silence Oliver yawned.

It was not a silent yawn such as many others had indulged in during the course of the sermon, nor the kind of yawn that hid itself behind delicately raised fingers. It was, instead, a full-blooded, open-mouthed, vocally explicit yawn that turned heads and invoked shocked stares or sympathetic grins, according to the nature of the donor.

Clay Tallon might — almost certainly would — have grinned had the malefactor been any other child. He’d been forced to stifle a few yawns himself that morning, and as a reaction to Mr Large’s sermon, he had to concede that it was fair comment.

But this was his grandson! Trust that niminy-piminy little mollycoddle to let him down in front of half his workforce — not to mention the Penberthys, as well as others among his peers. Yawning was understandable, but he could at least have made some attempt to hide it. Oliver hadn’t even got the sense to dissemble.

He leaned forward to glare at Oliver, and glancing fearfully sideways, the boy caught the full force of his grandfather’s silent anger.

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