FERN BRITTON
Hidden Treasures

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

Copyright © Fern Britton 2012

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2011 Cover illustration © Robyn Neild Lettering © Ruth Rowland

Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007362714

Ebook Edition © March 2012 ISBN: 9780007419418

Version: 2017-12-21

To my Cornish friends who have welcomed us so generously.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part Two

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Violet Wingham straightened up and allowed herself the pleasure of feeling the warm evening air on her face. This would be her last night at Gull’s Cry. During the seventy-seven years she’d lived in Pendruggan, tending her garden and her cottage, she had always prided herself on being no bother to anyone. Determined that wasn’t about to change now, at the age of ninety-six, Violet had made up her mind to place herself in a nursing home until God took her back to her family.

Brushing the damp earth from her fingers, she took one last look at the freshly dug soil. ‘Goodbye, my darling. For now,’ she said softly, then returned the spade to the old privy which doubled as her garden shed and walked back into her house for the last time.

Part One

1

The sound of a tractor bumping over the cattle grid of the farm across the lane rudely awoke Helen. Yesterday it was the cockerel at the village farm. She wasn’t used to hearing such rural sounds. Not yet, anyway.

Lying in bed with her eyes still shut, savouring the warmth of her duvet and the soft cashmere blanket on top (a house-warming present from Gray, her ex), Helen felt more comfortable than she had in years. Nothing to get up for, nobody to deal with and the whole day to herself. She felt her body start to get lighter and was ready to drift off again when the phone rang.

‘Who the f … ?’ she scrabbled for the receiver. ‘Hello.’

‘Mum, it’s me.’ It was Chloe, her daughter. ‘So how’s the new cottage and Cornish life? Got all the yokel men beating a path to your door yet?’

‘Darling, I’ve only just woken up. What time is it?’

‘Nine forty-five.’

‘Well, that’s virtually the middle of the night as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Sorry, Mum, it’s just that I’ve been thinking about you so much. Are you OK?’

‘Yes, fine.’ Helen sat up and plumped the pillows behind her. ‘But I’m desperate for you to come and have a look at the cottage. It’s so pretty.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Well, come and see me. How about this weekend?’ pressed Helen.

‘Maybe. Sorry, Mum, got to go, a customer’s just walked in. Speak later. Love you.’

The lovely Chloe, thought Helen. Wasting her first-class Cambridge degree in Classics by working in a charity shop in Bristol. Her social conscience and a passion to save the world from environmental collapse meant that she recycled everything – even earbuds, if she could. Perhaps she did? Chloe was only twenty-two but seemed so old for her years. A single-minded single woman. By the time Helen was Chloe’s age she’d been married a year and had just become a mother to Sean. Chloe came along three years later.

And now they were all grown-up. Sean was something big in advertising and, despite the economic mess, he could apparently afford a Porsche Boxster. Should she worry about her children a bit more, she wondered.

‘No,’ she said out loud. ‘They can worry about me for a change.’

Helen climbed out of bed, and was thrilled once again by the cream deep-pile carpet that her feet sank into. As her mother used to say, ‘It’s never your extravagances you regret, only your economies.’

Had it been an extravagance to give up her metronome life in West London? She’d amazed herself with the speed and ease of her leap from Chiswick Woman to Cornish Country Woman. One minute she was ironing Gray’s shirts and playing the apparently contented wife, the next her marriage had finished. It was almost like a film. They met, they married, they had a family, they had problems, he apologised, she endured, they became friends, they separated. Credits roll, The End. Go home. But home was no longer the London house where she’d raised a family, but a wonky-walled cottage called Gull’s Cry in the village of Pendruggan.

How Gray would hate it. The house was not built for anyone over five foot six. He would need to wear a crash helmet to avoid serious head injury. A towering six foot three with a large leonine head and a mane of greying hair worn long and pushed back off his face, he was still a very handsome man. With his bright-blue eyes and a permanent tan, most women found him irresistible; yet he had chosen her. Reliable Helen.

She thought back to the time they had first met. It was the mid-eighties and Helen was supplementing her meagre income from the BBC, where she was a secretary in the newsroom, by working odd nights in a wine bar in Shepherd’s Bush. Gray was one of the regulars. He flirted with everybody. He drank rosé wine with ice and was teased by his mates, but he’d just laugh and tell them that only real men drank rosé. He was a partner in an expensive car dealership and drove a turquoise-blue Rolls-Royce Corniche, nearly always with the roof down. Hearing the deep throb of the V8 engine as he pulled up outside, Helen would quickly check herself in the mirror behind the rows of bottles at the bar. One evening he came in alone, ordered a bottle and two glasses and settled himself at the bar. He was waiting for his latest girlfriend to arrive, but she never did. He drained the first bottle, ordered another and turned his seductive blue eyes on Helen instead. He waited for her to finish work, took her out for a curry, and then took her to his bed.

Helen had fallen completely, totally in love. Sure, she’d had a couple of boyfriends before, but no one had ever made her feel so sexy and protected. Gray (who hated his real name, Graham) liked her lack of sophistication and her dogged adoration. Two months after their first night, Helen had missed a period. She told Gray, who immediately went AWOL, leaving Helen to a fortnight of blind panic. Should she tell her widowed dad? Terrified it would kill him, she kept it all to herself for two weeks until one evening, a hungover Gray arrived on her doorstep with a bunch of tulips, a paste diamond ring from Shepherd’s Bush market and a proposal of marriage.

They were married within the month and her father had the good grace to say nothing when Sean arrived weighing eight and a half pounds. Even he knew that was a good size for a premature baby!

Helen loved being a mum and a wife. She was a good homemaker and didn’t mind Gray’s lack of support with nappies or ironing. The dealership seemed to take up all his daylight hours, but she understood. When Chloe arrived they moved from Gray’s flat to a four-storey Edwardian townhouse just off the Chiswick High Road. It had a good-sized garden which she filled with spring bulbs and summer flowers.

Then one weekend they had thrown a garden party for his workmates. Her friend Penny, whom she’d met at the BBC, came to help. It was a really warm day and she had put the children downstairs in the cool to have a little nap, taking the baby alarm with her. After an hour’s silence, she thought they were sleeping well. But when she went to check on them she heard Gray’s voice through the slightly ajar door.

‘Sssshhh, sssshh, gorgeous …’

This was the first time Helen had ever heard him talking to the children so soothingly.

‘… She can’t hear. I turned the baby alarm off.’

How thoughtful of him. She pushed the door open and saw Gray with his trousers round his ankles, entwined with a woman she’d never seen before, summer dress pushed up to her waist, knickers on the floor, one leg wrapped around Helen’s husband and one breast hanging out. She looked at Helen over Gray’s shoulder and smiled: ‘Hi.’

Gray spun round and fell over. Watching him scrambling on the floor caught up in his trousers and boxer shorts sent such a feeling of violence through her, he should’ve been glad that she didn’t have a carving knife in her hand. Instead, she checked that the children were still sleeping and went into the kitchen, where she sat at the table and sobbed. Penny found her there and, after sending her off to bed with a box of Kleenex and chucking out all of Gray’s chinless friends, she launched into Gray with such ferocity that he ran to the pub. He came back at closing time to find Penny guarding Helen’s bedroom door.

‘I have made up the sofa bed for you in the basement. The kids are asleep and I’ll stay here tonight to get them up in the morning. You have got a lot to prove. Not least, that you will never again be this shitty to Helen – or you will have me to answer to.’

He had slunk downstairs.

Penny stayed for a week, filling Helen with good sense and strength.

It took a very long time before Gray shared Helen’s bed again or was allowed to touch her. Despite his refusal to talk about what had happened or to answer any of her questions, Helen eventually decided to let her anger and feelings of betrayal go, and to give him a second chance.

The next time it happened, it hadn’t hurt quite so much.

Or the next.

That’s not to say that his serial infidelity was not a torture for her. Death by a thousand cuts. But she confided in no one. Certainly not Penny, who would have been furious. Besides, Penny had her own problems. She was having an affair with the deputy news editor, who was married.

‘I know I’m a hypocrite, Helen,’ she confided. ‘But his marriage has been over for years and at least you and Gray are back on track.’

If only you knew, thought Helen.

Penny continued, ‘They haven’t slept together for yonks, but he can’t leave her because she’s so unstable and he would never forgive himself if she did anything stupid.’

‘You deserve so much better though, Pen. How long are you going to wait for him?’ Helen said gently. ‘Until one of you dies?’

‘I keep hoping it will sort itself out. I love him so much. We are meant to be together.’

As these things do, they did sort themselves out. The mad, sexless wife appeared at the office Christmas party with blonde hair, a big smile and eight months pregnant.

This time it was Helen’s turn to look after Penny. She rang the deputy news editor at work and gave him what for in no uncertain terms. When Gray heard, he gave Penny a cuddle and said, ‘Welcome to the sinners club.’

Over the years, Helen, Gray and the kids, often with Penny in tow, had shared holidays and a friendship that wove a comfortable blanket around them. Helen could always tell when Gray had a fling on the go. It was all very clichéd. He paid more attention to his appearance and was assiduous in bringing home little gifts for her. She didn’t know why she put up with it, but the idea of divorce and custody battles exhausted her. Least said, soonest mended.

Penny meanwhile lurched from one unsuitable man to another, but her professional life went from strength to strength. A year older than Helen, she had joined the BBC as a graduate trainee, working as a production secretary in the newsroom, which was where she met Helen. From there she was seconded to EastEnders as production assistant to the producer, swiftly working her way up the ladder to director. Her reputation really took off after she directed a historical drama that became a huge hit on both sides of the Atlantic. These days she was head of her own production company, Penny Leighton Productions. Helen was thrilled for her, even though her success meant that now their friendship had to be conducted via email and Skype.

The years had been kind to Gray too. There was always a market for Bentleys and Ferraris among City high-fliers and although the swanky showrooms in Chiswick had long gone, he kept his hand in and sold enough cars privately to keep them comfortable. Sean had moved out to a small flat he’d bought in Tooting and Chloe was settled in Bristol, leaving Helen and Gray on their own. Then, last Boxing Day, she did the unsayable and asked him for a divorce.

*

He fell apart, of course. How could she leave him, what would he do without her? What would the chaps say?

Helen’s Chiswick women friends were full of showy compassion for her. Even the one or two who she knew had dallied with her husband.

‘Helen, how bloody awful for you. How will you find another man at your age?’ etc etc. They hadn’t a clue how happy and liberated she felt.

Her father had passed away ten years before. Her mother almost thirty years before, of breast cancer, when Helen was in her teens. She had no dependent children and now, no husband. She didn’t need a man to validate her existence, and what’s more, she was now financially independent. The cottage was all paid for, thanks to Gray agreeing that she had earned it looking after him (putting up with him, more like) and the children for all those years, and her father had left her his comfortable estate.

After a period of adjustment, Gray discovered he rather liked the single life too, having bought himself a swanky, minimalist Soho flat in which to do some guilt-free entertaining of the opposite sex.

A good deal is one where everybody is happy, thought Helen. And she most definitely was.

2

From her bedroom, Helen stepped out on to the small, square landing. On her left was the only other door upstairs, a second bedroom that she had converted into a bathroom. She headed down the wooden staircase, pausing by the window at the turn in the steps to look out over her wildly overgrown back garden. Like the famous gardens of Heligan, this was her own Lost Garden. Some fifty yards long and twenty wide, it was criss-crossed with mossy brick paths and rectangular flower beds, though it was hard to tell where they ended and the lawn started. Here and there she could see the orange Montbretia licking like flames in the undergrowth. Somewhere amid the tangle of Old Man’s Beard and brambles bursting with blackberries was an old privy and a couple of broken-down chicken houses.

It backed on to the graveyard of Holy Trinity Church.

‘Very quiet neighbours,’ the estate agent had joked.

It didn’t bother her at all. There was an ancient drystone wall between her and the dead and she had plans to stud it with primroses and ferns.

At the bottom of the stairs a latch door opened straight into her sitting room. The tall and deep open fireplace cradled last night’s ashes, which were still gently smouldering. She stirred the coals, added a firelighter and some kindling, then walked across to the door leading into the kitchen. The September sunshine bounced off the shiny lids of the Aga and made the red roses of the Cath Kidston curtains appear to glow. She filled the kettle, and set it on the hob. Collecting the newspaper from the front-door mat, which was at the opposite end of the kitchen from the back door, she glanced at the front page as she made her tea. Then she loaded everything onto a tray and carried it to her favourite armchair. Plump, patchworked and multicoloured, it sat by the fire and was a startling piece of modern design in her otherwise sedate interior. She added a few lumps of coal and a log to the revived flames and settled down to profligately, deliciously, waste an hour with the headlines, the crossword and her tea.

The warm drink and crackle of the fire made her eyelids droop. Soon she was dreaming that she was back in her old life; Gray had just arrived home bad tempered and hungry, demanding supper. While he poured himself a glass of wine, she rushed around preparing his favourite dishes only for him to announce: ‘I had that for lunch. Isn’t there anything else? On second thoughts, forget it. I’ll have a shower and nip to the pub …’

For the second time that morning, the phone woke her.

‘Bloody hell,’ she complained.

‘Darling, it’s me. How’s life with the pirates?’ It was Gray.

‘I’ve been pillaged several times and am waiting for the parson to bring the baccy.’

He laughed. ‘I worry about my mate, you know. I do miss you.’

‘No you don’t. What do you want?’

‘Selina is driving me mad. She’s filled my flat with her belongings and I need to get out. Can I come and see you?’ he wheedled.

‘I only have one bedroom, so you’ll have to stay in the pub up the road or the Starfish in Trevay.’

‘What do I need to do that for? I can bunk in with you. Good God, woman, I slept with you for a quarter of a century – what’s the problem?’

‘It’s the Starfish or the pub. What time is it?’

‘Eleven o’clock.’

‘Oh hell. I’m expecting Don.’

‘Don who? Don Juan? Are you having a little romantic tryst? Darling, you’ll make me jealous.’

‘You were enough to put me off men for good. Let me know when you’ve decided where you want to stay. Speak later. Bye.’

*

Upstairs, she ran a quick bath in her luxurious bathroom. Don had done a marvellous job. The Cornish understood what folk from upcountry liked. Years of accepting wealthy second-home owners into their communities meant they were acquainted with all the latest design fads. Helen would have been happy with a B&Q job, but Don soon persuaded her that what she wanted was a limestone tiled floor, huge white sink, a bath with space-age taps and a shower with a head so big its pressure was like a riot hose. This was now her favourite room in the cottage.

Don had said that he’d be with her at just after eleven to take a look at the new boiler and set the thermostat and timer, which was completely beyond her.

By 11.15 a.m. she was bathed and dressed. Her shoulder-length brown hair was still wet and her face free of make-up. She hadn’t put make-up on for days. In West London it was considered rude to be seen without it. Here it was considered rude to be seen with it.

Don eventually rolled up at 12.15 p.m.

‘Hello, Helen.’

‘Don! Hello, I expected you an hour ago.’

‘Yeah. I got here directly. By the way, do you want any bass or lobster? My mate’s going out in his boat later. I could drop it over?’

‘Well, yes. How much are they?’

‘Nothing to me, maid. Don’t worry about that.’

‘Well, thank you. Anything that’s going, please. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Wouldn’t say no. This colour’s lovely in ’ere, isn’t it?’

Don had his head through the door into the sitting room. Four months ago, when she first got the keys to the Gull’s Cry, she had a vague idea of chintz and Laura Ashley, but it was Don who steered her to the soft pastel emulsions and barley-coloured painted floorboards, and it was Don who pushed her into buying her patchwork armchair.

‘That’s what designers call a hero piece, that is.’

She had met Don when she first came house-hunting in Pendruggan. It had been at the end of May and she had driven her soft-top Mini through the sun-dappled lanes with the roof down. The smell of the wild garlic and salt on the breeze brought back childhood memories that had her hugging herself with joy and excitement, feeling sure that she was going to find her dream home any minute. However, the first few houses she’d looked at were too dark, too damp or too expensive. When she’d seen them all and the sun had gone in, giving way to a few spits of rain, the smile had gone and she needed something to cheer herself up. According to her map, she was somewhere between Trevay and Pendruggan. Hungry and needing to regroup, she stopped at the first pub she saw, the Dolphin. It was a proper pub, probably three hundred years old and granite tough. Parking her Mini in the empty car park, Helen walked past the tubs of jolly geraniums, stepped in to the dark of the bar, and immediately liked what she saw. An open fire gently burned in the large grate, a huge copper punchbowl full of perfumed peonies stood on the bar and half a dozen candles flickered in thoughtfully placed bell jars. She ordered a tomato juice and a crab salad from the hand-written menu, then took her drink to a table with two ancient leather chairs and sat down thankfully. When the barmaid brought her the cutlery, she noticed the pages of house details that Helen had placed in front of her.

‘House-hunting, are you?’ the woman asked.

‘Yep. But no luck so far,’ Helen said glumly.

‘Don,’ the barmaid called, ‘is Gull’s Cry still for sale down in Pendruggan?’

A man with the build of an ex-boxer came through the door behind the bar. ‘Old Vi’s house? I think so. Why?’

‘This lady is lookin’, that’s all.’

Don, pulled the tea towel from his shoulder and pushed it on to the bar. ‘Oh yeah? Needs a bit doin’, mind. Is your ’usband good at that stuff?’

‘I am looking for myself, actually. I’m thinking about moving down here from London.’

‘Holiday ’ome, is it?’

‘No. A home home.’

‘Pendruggan is a lovely place mind, but the cottage is small. People want lots of bedrooms, see. To let out.’

‘How big is it?’ she asked.

‘Just a little two-up two-down. Wanna look at it? I’ll call Neil, the agent who’s selling it, if you like.’

‘Well, I’m here so, yes!’

Don disappeared back into the gloom behind the bar and the barmaid introduced herself. ‘I’m Dorrie. Me and Don ’ave been here for nearly twenty years. There’s not much we don’t know about round here. In a good way,’ she added, seeing Helen’s face. ‘We look out for each other here, you see. A bit different from being in London, I expect.’

Helen took in the surf-blonde short hair, sawn-off denims and lime-green hoodie with its washed-out, illegible message. She reckoned Dorrie must be in her early forties.

‘It’s a lovely place to live. We get really busy in the summer and then the winter is quiet, but we love it and the people are really friendly. I take my boys down to the beach to surf in all weathers, and always on Christmas Day.’

‘I’m not sure my kids would like that.’

‘My two’ll show them. Ben’s twelve and Hal’s fourteen.’

‘Well, Chloe is twenty-two and Sean’s twenty-five.’

Dorrie’s face lit up, ‘Perfect! We got gorgeous lifeguards for yer daughter and lots of bar work for yer son.’

Helen thought of sweet and earnest Chloe being pursued by bronzed lifeguards. No way. And as for slick ad-man-about-town Sean serving pints of cider in a pub – absolutely no way!

Don came back rubbing his hands together with pleasure. ‘Spoke to Neil up at the estate agents and he’ll meet you there in half an hour. I’ll draw you a quick map. It’s only a couple of miles, but the signposting isn’t good. In fact, there isn’t any. A cup of coffee while you wait?’

It took her twenty minutes to find the village. The lanes all looked the same, but when she finally found the small village green with a sign saying Pendruggan, and saw the granite cottage with the FOR SALE sign, it was love at first sight. The front drystone wall of Gull’s Cry had a wonky gate that drooped on to the brick path and over the years it had worn a groove in the clay. Lavender lined the path to the cottage and the huge pots of tall agapanthus either side of the front door were heavenly. She stooped to look through the brass porthole set in the middle of the door but couldn’t see much besides dusty floorboards.

Neil took out the huge old metal key from his pocket, put it in the lock and they stepped inside. It smelled of dust and disuse, but no damp.

‘It’s been empty a couple of years. The old lady who lived here, Miss Wingham, was in a nursing home till she died. The estate have had it on the market ever since. Too expensive for the local first-time buyers and too small for the upcountry folk who want holiday lets.’

He let her walk round the kitchen, through to the sitting room. She tried to lie down in the wide window seat. Not quite long enough, but perfect to curl up in with a book. Or a cat? She opened the far door, which led to the stairs, and made her way up. Polished oak with a circular bend bringing her out to the landing and two bedrooms. The view from the bedrooms was to the front, overlooking the village green, while the window on the stairs gave a view of the garden and the church. After a quick tour of the overgrown garden, she and Neil retired to the Dolphin to discuss terms.

When her offer was accepted by the executors, Dorrie poured them all a large glass of vodka and cranberry to celebrate.

The vodka left Helen feeling unsure about driving, so Don invited her for supper upstairs in their private bit of the pub. ‘Dorrie’s got a chicken in the oven for tea. There’s plenty to go round.’

Completely seduced by her new house, the village and its people, she followed him upstairs. She had never seen the landlord’s accommodation above a pub before, but this was certainly not what she expected. It was like something out of a glossy magazine. Light and airy with a beachy feel to it, the colours were cream and café au lait. The bleached floorboards were strewn with richly coloured rugs, one wall was adorned with a fabulous painting of boats in a harbour, all broad strokes and bright colours. There was a pile of driftwood by the wood-burning stove, and a coffee table made entirely of wide planks. The sofas were deep and squashy and scattered with slightly crazy cushions, each embroidered with a single rose-pink seagull and embellished with real feathers.

‘Wow! This is amazing! And look at the view. You can see the sea and the cliffs.’

Don looked embarrassed. ‘Dorrie and I worked on it over the winter. Do you like it? The floor’s a bit wonky, but after I sanded it we decided it looked all right.’

‘It’s fabulous! What the London women I know wouldn’t give for this! Where’s the coffee table from?’

‘That? I made it from some old scaffold boards I found. Rubbish really.’

‘You did it? Don, I want my cottage to look just like this! Will you do it for me?’

3

Don and Dorrie had sorted out all the building and decorating after that, while Helen set about packing up her old life. She couldn’t wait. The London house was lovely, but it held too many memories. The good she could file away, the bad she would delete.

Sean thought she was mad.

‘Ma, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Lots of older people get an idea in their heads to retire to the seaside, only to find they miss their old life and end up dying lonely.’

‘Sean, I am forty-seven. Not quite in my dotage, thank you very much! In fact, still young enough to give you a little brother or sister, if I cared to.’

‘Ma, what a revolting idea. And what are you doing with that pile of vintage comics?’

‘Throwing them away.’

‘They’re worth a lot of money. Hang on to them for me, would you?’

‘Nope. All your stuff is yours from now on. Take it away or never see it again.’

Within an hour Sean had salvaged what childhood possessions he could fit into his absurdly small car and driven off in a huff.

Chloe had been more understanding. She understood that her mother had had enough of a painful marriage, but she adored both her parents and hoped that somehow they would get back together again.

On her last day, Gray came round to give her a bunch of flowers and a hug. They walked round the old place together and it felt right. He helped her pack her last few things in the car, slipped a wad of notes to the removal men as their tip, and together they shut the front door for ever.

‘Bye, old girl. Give me a bell to let me know you got there OK.’

‘I will.’ She kissed him briefly and with only a quick glance in her rear-view mirror, pointed the snub nose of the Mini in the direction of the M4.

*

And now here she was. Ten days later and everything settled. No looking back and certainly no regrets.

Don called to her, ‘Helen, I’ve set the timer and the thermostat.’

He tried again to explain the procedure to her, but although she nodded at the right moments, she didn’t understand it at all. It didn’t matter, he’d said she could call him again if she had any trouble.

As he was leaving, she said, ‘You don’t do gardening as well, do you?’

‘Nope. Don’t like worms. Ask Queenie, she’ll know someone.’

She’d been planning to nip into Queenie’s in any case, so she gathered up her things and a few minutes later she was ducking through her low front door. From force of habit, she turned to lock up, then decided instead to leave caution to the cautious. Nobody seemed to lock their front doors in Pendruggan and cars were never locked either.

Don had laughed at her when he had caught her frantically looking for her keys on first moving in: ‘Leave them where they’re meant to be, maid. Either in the front door or in the ignition. You’ll never lose them then.’

*

Queenie’s Post Office and General Store was the centre of village life. The day after Helen arrived in Pendruggan she had gone in for a pint of milk and Queenie, thrilled to find new blood in the village, had immediately launched into her life story. She had originally come to Pendruggan as an evacuee from London’s East End, but when her parents were tragically killed in the Blitz, the Cornish family with whom she’d been billeted took her under their wing. She stayed with them until she was eighteen, when she left to marry the local farmhand she’d fallen in love with.

‘I was married to Ted for fifty-two years, until he died of emphysema in 2000,’ Queenie sighed and lit a small roll-up cigarette.

‘The only way I’ll be leavin’ ’ere is in a box. My daughter Sandra wants me to move up to Coventry to be near her, but what do I wanna do that for? This is me ’ome and this is where I’ll stay until the day comes when I can rest next to my Ted in the churchyard. Would you like a pasty, duck?’

‘Yes, please. They look delicious.’

‘Homemade, they are! I do fifteen a day to order. When do you want yours?’

‘Can I have one now?’

‘No, duck. To order, like I said. Shall I put you on me regular list?’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, please. Can I have one tomorrow?’

Queenie took a gnarled pencil from her ear and pulled out a thumbed red exercise book. ‘What’s your name, dear?’

And Helen found herself telling Queenie her own life story in return.

‘That ex-husband of yours sounds like a right bastard, and no mistake. Still,’ Queenie adopted a look of wisdom, ‘that’s men for you.’ She paused. ‘And now you’re ’ere in Miss Wingham’s old ’ouse. She was a lovely lady, you know. Very old-fashioned in her ways, and ever so intelligent. She came ’ere to live before the war, you know. Lived in Gull’s Cry for seventy-seven years. She was on her own for all of ’em, no fella or nuffink. She never told me, but I fink she lost the love of her life in the war. She never said in so many words, but I could tell. Loved ’er cats too. Her last one was called Raven. She named ’em all after birds – I dunno why. Died peacefully in the nursing ’ome aged ninety-seven. She’ll be ’appy to think you’ve brought the old place back to life. Will you be doin’ the garden? She loved it. I’d like to get Alan Titchmarsh down ’ere to give it a going over. If you see ’im, you tell ’im!’ She laughed, then coughed a crackly cough that had been cultivated over decades of dedicated smoking.

Now, Thursday had become Pasty Day, and Helen was looking forward to another chat and a chance to browse the shelves, which were lined with greaseproof paper and red gingham. Queenie’s stock was extraordinary. Replacement suspenders for corsets and Blakey heel caps sat amongst the more mundane requirements. There was a well-stocked magazine rack, which Queenie devoured – showbiz gossip could have been her specialist knowledge on Mastermind – reading at the counter by the dim light of two bulbs suspended from the ceiling, the standard lamp with its pink shade by the freezer and the Tiffany lamp next to the till.

Queenie greeted Helen warmly as she entered. ‘Hallo, duck. I ain’t seen you much this week – you OK?’

‘Yes thanks, Queenie. I did a bit of a shop at Tesco in Trevay yesterday.’

‘Tesco? They ain’t got nothing in there! I go up sometimes on the bus, but they’ve never got anythin’ I want.’

‘Well, it was only to get a few things like balsamic and olive oil.’

‘Olive oil? We used to go to the chemist to get that, duck. And Balls Amic? What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’

‘A kind of vinegar.’

‘I got malt if you want it?’ Queenie turned to look at the gloomy shelf to her right.

‘Actually, what I do want, Queenie, is a gardener. Do you know anyone who would help me clear the garden?’

‘Oh yeah, me duck. Simple Tony’s the one you want.’

‘Tony?’

‘Simple Tony. ’E’s simple, poor lad, but a good worker. Very green-fingered.’

Helen was shocked at Queenie’s description of Tony as ‘simple’, but knew that Queenie’s generation had little truck with political correctness. She hoped that Queenie was more sensitive around the poor boy and didn’t call him ‘Simple Tony’ to his face.

‘Where does Tony live?’ she asked.

‘Next door to you. In that shepherd’s hut in the garden.’

Helen remembered the hut. The day she moved in, Polly – the owner of the house next door – had come round with mugs of camomile tea for the unimpressed removal men, who would definitely have preferred a more energising builder’s brew. Helen hadn’t had a chance to chat to her properly or find out anything about her, but since then there had been several occasions when she’d looked over into the garden and caught sight of a youngish man in a navy-blue boiler suit, sitting on the steps of the hut boiling a kettle on his camping stove. This must be Tony, Helen realised. She was glad to have an excuse to go round and find out more.

‘Is that all, duck? Want a magazine? I got some good ones there. Julia Roberts is a lovely girl, ain’t she? I like to read about ’er. And Fiona Whatsit what reads the news. Not enough about ’er. She’s very popular in my ’ouse, you know.’

‘I’ll have a bottle of wine please. I’ll take it round to Polly.’

‘Righto.’ She handed Helen a dusty bottle. ‘This has been ’ere since the Easter Raffle. Should be good by now.’

4

The smell of woodsmoke drifted over from Polly’s chimney and mingled with the damp of the conkers lined up in a row on the doorstep.

Polly opened the door with a smile.

‘Hello, Helen. Welcome to Candle Cottage. Don’t mind the conkers. I put them there to keep the spiders away – apparently they don’t like the smell of them. It’s for Tony, the big softie. He hates them! What can I do for you?’

She greeted Helen with a kiss and showed her into a room decorated with beachcombing finds and filled with vintage furniture.

‘Polly, what a wonderful room – is that a real crystal ball?’

‘Oh, that’s my ball to do the village fayres. I like a bit of fortune-telling, but only for fun. Occasionally I’m right. Little Michaela up the way came to see me last year with a broken heart and fretting about her GCSEs. I told her that her life would change in twelve months, and now she’s got five grade Cs and is five months’ pregnant! We’re all very proud of her. Cup of tea?’

‘How about a glass of wine? I’ve brought you a bottle from Queenie’s.’

‘Proper job! Let me find some glasses from the whatnot.’ Polly went to her dark wood shelves and took out two original Babycham Saucer glasses. ‘How are you settling in to village life then?’ She poured the wine and sat down on a Moroccan pouffe. ‘A bit quieter than London, I expect. I’d have come round to see you before now, but I was worried you’d think I was being nosy.’

‘It’s certainly quieter than London, which can only be a good thing. Polly, I want to pick your brains. I need a gardener and Queenie suggested Tony – the man from your garden. Does he actually live with you?’

‘Well, when his mum died, I couldn’t bear to see him on his own so I offered him the use of the hut and he loves it. He’s a super lad and will get your garden back on track. Don’t spoil him, though, and make sure he knows who’s boss.’

‘Queenie calls him Simple Tony. Is he … ?’

‘Don’t go confusing simple for stupid,’ said Polly. ‘He ain’t stupid. But he does have a tendency to take everything very literally. I once told him I was dying for a cup of tea and then had to stop him dialling 999!’ Polly laughed. ‘I’ll send him round to you in the morning and you can show him what needs doing. More wine?’

They sat and talked until it was quite dark outside. Helen filled her in on her previous life and then it was Polly’s turn.

‘Have you heard about Green Magic? It’s all about working with the power of nature and Mother Earth. Any little potion or spell I can rustle up for you? I find it complements my main work as a paramedic with the ambulance service.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Absolutely not! I’m highly skilled – won awards and everything. So, if there’s any magical or medical emergency, don’t hesitate to call me! Would you like supper? I’m vegan, mind.’

‘That’s sweet of you but maybe next time. Thank you, Polly. I look forward to seeing Tony in the morning. Bye!’

*

At 6.45 a.m. Helen was woken by hammering on the front door. Scrambling from her bed she peered out of the window. It was just getting light and she could make out the top of a man’s head. He was wearing a thick green check lumberjack coat and carrying a spade. Opening the window, she called down, ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

‘I don’t know?’ said the top of the head, crouching now in order to look through the porthole. ‘I’ve come to ’elp you. Polly said that I was to come this mornin’ and do gardening? I’m right, I know.’

‘Just a minute.’ This has to be Tony, thought Helen. She ran downstairs and threw open the front door. ‘Good morning. It’s very early, Tony. I’m not dressed yet.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Do you want to come back a bit later. In about an hour?’

‘No thank you. I am here to do the garden.’

‘Well yes, OK. Follow me, then.’

She took Tony out to the back garden, pausing only to slip on her wellies.

‘While I’m getting dressed, perhaps you’d like to start on the big bed here.’ She pointed at an eight-foot-square raised bed where the brambles were at least six feet high.

‘Just weed it and clear it and then I’ll be down to help you. OK?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No thankee. I’ve got me Ribena.’ He patted his canvas shoulder bag. ‘Don’t hurry, lady. Tony will be all right.’

‘OK. See you in an hour or so.’

Back indoors, Helen struggled to get her wellies off her slightly sweaty bare feet, put the kettle on and looked at the clock: 6.55 a.m. Realising there was no point in going back to bed, she made herself a cup of milky coffee, opened up her laptop and logged on. There were seventeen new messages, fifteen of which were spam. But there was one from Penny and one from Gray. She looked at Gray’s first.

Darling, longing to see you and get the hell out of town. Can you give me a number for the best hotel you can think of? Better book a double in case I can’t escape the bloody girlfriend. Thanks, darling. Your Gray.

‘I am not your bloody secretary and you are no longer MY Gray!’ Helen muttered to herself, but nonetheless she sent a polite email with the number of the swish Starfish Hotel in nearby Trevay.

The Starfish was exactly Gray’s kind of place. In summer you couldn’t move in the old harbour car park for Porsches and Bentleys, and the Starfish was always awash with visiting celebrities pretending they were staycationing (before they jetted off to the South of France or the Bahamas). The Cornish locals didn’t mind a bit. If the townies with more money than sense wanted to spend their bucks down here, well, why not! Never underestimate the commercial nous of a true Cornishman.

Next Helen opened her email from Penny.

Hello, gorgeous, how’s it going? You’ll never guess what … I’m working on a new costume drama based on the books of Mavis Crewe. Have you read them? She’s a poor man’s Daphne du Maurier, but one or two of her books have cracking stories. We’re scouting for a location in Cornwall and, having looked at the map, I’ve told the location manager to come and recce your village. I might come too – can I stay with you? It’ll be in the next month or so. Let me know. Love, Penny

Helen smiled and bashed out a quick reply:

Yes, any time! X

*

After she’d taken a bath and made herself presentable, Helen went out into the garden to see how Tony was faring. There was a bonfire smoking by the compost heap and the rich red soil of the flower bed was turned over neatly with not a weed in sight. Tony was sitting on the upturned wheelbarrow eating a pasty and drinking his Ribena.

‘Is that all right for ’ee, missus?’

‘Tony, that’s wonderful,’ said Helen. ‘Shall we crack on with some more?’

Together they worked for the rest of the day, stopping only for a quick sandwich – chicken salad for Helen and raspberry jam for Tony – until by sunset all of the large raised beds were cleared.

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘I’ll ask Polly and tell ’ee later, missus.’

Tony collected his jacket, his bag and his spade and jumped over the low wall into Polly’s garden. Helen watched as he walked to the steps of his shepherd’s hut. He turned and waved to her, then went inside. She could see him turning on the light and drawing the blue gingham curtains.

What a dear man Tony was. Helen thought how fortunate he was to live here and not in a big city. In London he would surely be among the outcast homeless, forgotten by society. But here, among the caring community of Pendruggan, he was protected and safe. She was safe too. Safer than she had felt in years.

Helen turned and walked straight into an imposing male figure dressed head-to-toe in black. She screamed.

5

‘Ssssh sssh. It’s okay.’ The man held her arms tight. ‘I’ve just come to introduce myself.’

Helen kicked out at the stranger’s ankles and he let go of her, hopping about in pain. She ran to her back door, darted inside and bolted it behind her. Two seconds later, there was a gentle knocking.

‘I’m so sorry if I startled you. My name is Canter, Simon Canter. I’m the vicar of Holy Trinity Church here in the village. I’ve only come to say hello. Actually, I think my ankle is bleeding a bit.’

Helen slid the bolt open and looked at him. Amidst the black of his coat and trousers she saw the distinctive white dog collar.

‘Oh my God. You frightened the life out of me.’

‘I am awfully sorry. Shall I come back another time?’

‘No, it’s fine. Come in.’ She stepped aside and he walked into the kitchen.

‘Would you like me to look at your ankle?’

He rolled up his trousers to reveal a white and hairless leg with a long scrape and blood starting to ooze down his shin.

‘Oh God, I’ll get a plaster.’

Once he was fixed and she had apologised for her blaspheming, she brought out the sherry bottle and a tube of Pringles. He made himself comfortable at the kitchen table.

‘I knocked at your front door, but as there was no answer, and I could see you moving about in the back garden, I walked around the side to find you. Promise! Don’t think I’m a Peeping Tom or stalker or anything like that!’

Helen wondered if she would have been able to describe him to a police artist if he really had been an attacker; he had the kind of face you would be hard-pressed to recall. He was slim, slightly under six foot tall, with chocolate-brown eyes enlarged by his spectacles. A shiny bald head made him look older than he was, but she guessed he was about her age. He smiled at her as she looked at him. A lovely smile. Full of humour and sincerity. He had goodness and kindness emanating from him which was instantly likeable.

‘I thought I would just pop round, say hello, and welcome you to the parish and the church. Are you a churchgoer?’

‘I haven’t been for a long time. Not that I’m not a believer! It just hasn’t been on my agenda for a while.’

‘Perhaps I can persuade you to come along and meet some of the flock? We don’t bite!’ Simon’s Adam’s apple wobbled as he laughed. ‘Do you play the guitar? Or piano?’

Helen felt panicky. ‘No, not really. Not at all, actually. Why?’

‘Christmas is nearer than you think and we like to put on a bit of an entertainment in the church. Raise some much-needed funds with ticket sales. The churchyard needs a lot of work. Some of our graves are very old and getting rather dangerous. The parish council are concerned about headstones falling on children or elderly visitors. It all costs money.’ He drained his glass and she poured him another. ‘We may also have to move some graves and re-inter the remains to make a bit more room. The local archaeologist and county council need to be involved with that.’

‘Well, I’d certainly be happy to buy a ticket for the show.’

‘Excellent. How many?’

‘Just me. And maybe my daughter, if she’s down.’

‘Can we persuade your husband?’ He looked up with something in his eyes she couldn’t quite read.

‘I doubt it. We’re separated.’

‘A single lady in the village! Oh my goodness, I wouldn’t want you, or anyone else for that matter, to misconstrue my visit here!’ More Adam’s apple action.

‘I am sure your wife wouldn’t mind.’ She smiled.

‘Well, you see,’ he coughed, ‘I am a single man myself, and as a clergyman I have to be circumspect about my demeanour and behaviour. The village gossips love any excuse.’

Helen, swallowing a laugh, said, ‘You are safe with me, I assure you!’

He looked crestfallen.

‘Not that I don’t think you are an attractive man.’

He perked up.

‘It’s just that I … erm … am not ready for … anything like that … at the moment.’

‘It hasn’t been my good fortune to find a lady kind enough to take me on.’ Simon looked at his shoes. ‘Although I live in hope that one day the Good Lord will find a lid to fit my pot, as it were.’ The Adam’s apple was on a bungee rope.

He took another large slug of sherry. Helen, feeling that she was about to hear his life story, topped up his glass, and then her own. She waited.

He turned his chocolate-brown, magnified eyes to hers, and blew out his slender cheeks.

‘I had a disappointment, you see. A few years ago now, but I still think of her. We met on a trip to the Holy Land. One of those organised excursions, you know. We sort of paired up and found ourselves sitting next to each other on the coach each day. Her name is Denise. She’s an RE teacher. Or was. I’m not sure what she’s doing now. Anyway, I knew I had fallen in love with her and we began writing to each other when we got home. She was in Scotland, not far from her parents. We ended up speaking on the phone every day and after a couple of months we met up in Coventry. The cathedral had a special service and we both thought it was a good halfway point. It was a marvellous day. The service was really inspiring. Wonderful music and singing. I got caught up in the elation of it all and over supper I asked her to marry me.’ He looked down at his worn cuffs.

‘And she said no?’ asked Helen.

‘Oh no, she said yes! It was all so exciting. I walked her to her B&B and said goodnight, and in the morning we met briefly at the station before I came back here and she went back to Scotland to make the wedding arrangements.’

‘So what happened?’

‘The night before the ceremony she said she felt unwell and didn’t want to go to the rehearsal. I sat with her and she was crying. I suggested calling the doctor, but she stopped me. She told me she wasn’t ill, it was just that …’ He tipped his head back and looked at the kitchen ceiling. ‘It was just that she didn’t love me enough to marry me after all.’

Helen leaned forward and held his hand as it cradled the sherry glass.

‘I am so sorry,’ she said.

‘I’m not looking for sympathy.’ He took out a hanky and wiped his glasses. ‘But it was a blow. I came here a very young man, twenty-one, freshly ordained and full of heroic ideals. A job where I could make a difference to society, the opportunity to meet my soul mate. The vicarage is such a lovely family house. It would come alive with people in it. Children … that sort of thing.’

They both sat in silence for a moment. Finally Helen said, ‘I think she made a big mistake. I bet she regrets it every day.’

‘Well that’s kind of you, but … it wasn’t God’s will. So,’ he stood up, ‘church on Sunday. I give communion at the ten o’clock service, if you’re up to it?’

‘Yes, I’d love to.’

Simon buttoned up his coat and after apologising again for frightening her earlier in the garden, walked down the path. As he turned towards the vicarage, her eye was caught by Polly waving at her from her window next door and giving her the thumbs-up. Helen returned the thumbs-up and waved back. Two minutes later, back inside and with a fresh glass of sherry in her hand, she wondered what Polly had meant by her gesture. Surely she hadn’t thought that there was anything between her and Simon? They’d only just met. She laughed at the idea – what a joke!

6

The following day was Saturday. Helen had survived two weeks of her new life and hadn’t once wanted to run back to London. It was a gorgeous day and the September sunshine flooded into her bedroom as she drew open the curtains. Today she intended to rig up a washing line and get some laundry out.

The nearest hardware store was in Trevay so she decided to nip over and treat herself to breakfast as well.

The five-mile drive was a pleasure in itself. Up the steep hill out of Pendruggan, past the Dolphin where she tooted at Dorrie as she swept the leaves from the pub porch, along the cliff road where she could see the surf whipping off the ocean and then down another sharp incline into Trevay. With the roof off the little Mini, she revelled in the splashes of sunlight that dappled the lanes. The local drivers were so different to London ones. They were happy to reverse up the road where it was too tight for two cars to pass, and if she returned the favour they always thanked her. Quite unlike Gray, who was horrendous to drive with. As a passenger he was a bully and as a driver, a dictator. He once shouted at an already nervous Helen when she accidentally curbed the wheels of his latest gas guzzler, ‘YOU should NOT have a LICENCE!’

Her journey to Trevay ended without incident and she arrived safely in the harbour car park. She got out and left the car, roof down, doors unlocked, to take in the beauty of the ancient fishing port. Above her, and overlooking the harbour was the Starfish Hotel. Built just before the First World War to accommodate the holidaymakers flocking to Cornwall by train, it had fallen on hard times after Dr Beeching closed the station in the sixties, and cheap, foreign package holidays became all the rage. No rail passengers meant fewer holidaymakers and the old hotel had quietly been allowed to run down. But about fifteen years ago it had been bought up by a stylish and very wealthy widow who persuaded a young, sexy TV chef to take on the kitchens. It was an instant success and was now the shining template for all other faded seaside hotels. Helen thought how much Gray would love it, if and when he came down.

She walked across the road towards the harbour wall. The tide was out and the little fishing boats were resting on their keels in the mud. A seagull swooped down and with a cackle collected up a dead crab from the silt.

Her first stop was the local chandlers and ironmongers. The shelves were lined with cardboard boxes full of everything any self-respecting sailor or builder could want. You could even buy a single screw or washer if necessary. She walked up and down the three aisles until she found a twelve-metre ball of yellow washing line. She took it to the counter and asked the young man what he would recommend to fix it to the old brick privy wall and the back door jamb. He found her some metal screw eyes and swivelly things with some masonry nails and a metal plate with a loop in it. She thought she understood the instructions and tried to pay particular attention when he showed her a useful knot that would withstand a force ten gale.

Pleased with her purchases and the young man’s faith in her abilities, Helen left the shop and walked along the road to the inner harbour. She stood for a couple of moments looking at the way the sun sparkled on the emerald-green water. An older couple with a Dachshund stopped and did the same. The three of them exchanged pleasantries and Helen was introduced to Stuart, the dog, who, after sniffing Helen’s hand, turned and cocked his leg on her jeans. The couple didn’t seem to notice and, saying cheerio, ambled off towards the town.

As the warm liquid travelled into her sock and trainer, she shook her foot and glared at the nonchalantly retreating back of Stuart, swearing under her breath. She heard someone laughing, turned towards the sound and found herself looking straight into the eyes of one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was wearing a tattered and faded red sailcloth fishing smock. A blue-and-white handkerchief was tied round his neck, accentuating the deep fathoms of his blue eyes. A small gold earring glinted in his right ear and his jet-black corkscrewed hair was ruffled in the wind.

‘Did you see that?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he replied, his full mouth and white teeth still laughing. ‘That dog must be an excellent judge of character.’

She laughed too. ‘Thanks! I feel as if I have half a gallon of pee in my shoe, but it’s probably only a teaspoon.’

‘Well, I hope your day improves.’ And he walked off in the same direction as the incontinent Stuart, leaving Helen feeling confused. Had she just been teased or insulted?

She couldn’t decide whether to head back to the car and go home or nip into a shop for a cheap pair of beach shoes, then look for breakfast. Beach shoes and breakfast won. When she came out of the shop, her trainers and socks tied up inside two plastic bags, she left the harbour behind her and walked into the little town. The streets were narrow and traditionally quaint. Some local businesses like the butcher, baker and greengrocer still survived, but most of the shops were geared to the wealthier holiday visitors. She enjoyed half an hour of window shopping, but didn’t succumb. There’s plenty of time for me to do shopping here – the rest of my life! she told herself.

Finally she arrived at an all-day café that she’d been to once with Dorrie, when she had treated Dorrie to lunch as a thank you for all her help and input into Gull’s Cry. The tables were set outside and she parked herself at a table for two in a sunny, sheltered corner. The waiter came out and took her order for a cappuccino and full Cornish breakfast (just the same as an English one, only better, he said).

Tilting her head up to the sun, Helen closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax. She was aware of how her new shoes touched the cobbles beneath her; the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. Then she tuned in to the sounds around her. She heard voices, a van door slide open, the clip-clop of a woman’s shoes on the cobbles and … a male voice she thought sounded familiar, coming from inside the café.

‘I’ll have a black coffee, boy. Three sugars. How’s the summer been for you?’

She heard her waiter’s voice: ‘Handsome. But I’ll be glad when the visitors have all gone ’ome.’

‘The last six weeks have been heaving, haven’t they?’ the familiar voice responded. ‘You’d think these grockles would want to do more than just mooch about spending too much money in the shops and eating cream teas and fish and chips. Still, if it pays for us to have a good winter, who cares. I saw one just now. Looked arty, like. Expensive handbag and haircut – you know the type. Then a dog peed on her leg. You should’ve seen her face! Proper townie and no mistake.’

Helen heard her waiter laugh. ‘I’d ’ave paid good money to see that!’

The laughter continued. Her veins felt as if they were being flushed through with ice-cold water and yet her face was burning. She reached down to her Mulberry handbag and fumbled for her Tom Ford sunglasses. She must stick out like a sore thumb.

The waiter came back out with her coffee and breakfast, followed immediately by the handsome man she had met on the harbour. His dark, tightly curled hair bounced in the breeze, one hand holding a takeaway cup, the other shoved in his pocket.

‘Bye, Bernie.’

‘Bye, Piran. Look out for those leaky dogs!’ the waiter called to him and, laughing, turned back into the café.

‘Bastard. Bloody bastard,’ muttered Helen, turning her face so that he couldn’t see her.

She ate her breakfast and drank her coffee as quickly as possible. So much for enjoying a leisurely hour people-watching.

She paid the bill, left a minimal tip and drove home, fuming all the way.

*

On her doorstep there was a large bunch of rusty-coloured dahlias, wrapped in newspaper and tied with green twine. A small note read:

Thank you for listening and welcome to our village.

Regards, Simon Canter

Smiling at his thoughtfulness, she carried them into the kitchen and dug out an old Cornishware jug to put them in. They looked just right sitting on the stone hearth of the fireplace.

After putting some laundry in the machine, including the revolting socks and trainers, she collected her brand-new tool box from under the sink and took her new washing line and ironmongery outside.

It was incredibly liberating not to have Gray breathing down her neck, telling her she was getting it all wrong. She hammered and screwed and swore to her heart’s content, not caring when she chipped a bit of brick or drilled a hole in the wrong place, and it was fun. After about an hour she tested the whole construction. The knots seemed safe enough and everything appeared secure on the privy wall and back-door frame.

Ten minutes later, she’d hung the first batch of washing out on the line and she couldn’t have been more pleased with herself if she’d climbed Machu Picchu.

Back inside, she settled down in her rocking chair by the Aga with a pot of tea and phoned Chloe. They spent a lovely hour catching up with each other’s news and Chloe fell about laughing at the story of the dog wee. ‘Everyone’s a critic, Mum!’

But she felt Helen’s humiliation at the hands of the corkscrew-haired man.

‘Mummy, how horrible. What a nasty man. I hope you don’t bump into him again.’

‘I’ll make sure to avoid him – not that he’d remember me anyway.’

There was a knock on the door. Helen looked up through the porthole window of the door and caught sight of a faded red fisherman’s smock. No, it couldn’t be!

‘Hang on, darling. There’s someone outside.’ She slid out of her chair and ducked down on her hands and knees so that he couldn’t see her. She crawled towards the door and, very tentatively, looked up through the glass to get a clearer view. He was looking down through the porthole directly at her.

‘Chloe, oh my God – it’s him! He’s here.’

‘What? Don’t answer it.’

‘No, I’ll have to. He can see me. Stay on the line.’

She stood up, trying to look nonchalant and opened the door. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

‘I thought it was you. The dog-wee lady?’ He smiled a twisted, sardonic smile.

‘Yes, that’s me. Ha ha!’ Helen laughed awkwardly.

‘What were you doing crawling on the floor just now?’

‘Erm …’ She couldn’t think of an answer, so said instead, ‘I’m on the phone … long distance … Is this important?’

‘Well, no, not to me. But I thought you’d like to know your washing line’s broken and your knickers are blowing all over the churchyard.’ He looked her up and down slowly. ‘Bye, then.’

‘Right. Thank you. Goodbye.’ And she slammed the door.

‘Mum! Are you OK? I heard his voice. Quite sexy.’

‘Chloe, he may sound quite sexy, he may look quite sexy, but that man is not sexy.’

*

Out in the garden the washing was ruined. She collected it all up and then climbed over the wall into the churchyard to find a tea towel and two pairs of the frilly knickers that Gray had bought her for her last birthday. He had always bought her pretty undies. He loved her legs and was never happier than when they were encased in stockings and suspenders. But then he’d loved any woman in stockings and suspenders. She wished he’d stop giving them to her.

With everything safely in her laundry basket, she hoiked herself back up over the wall and into her garden. She heard a wolf whistle behind her and turned. That bloody man was in the churchyard, looking at her, and laughing. She clutched the basket tightly to her chest and stomped indoors, giving the back door a satisfying slam.

7

Sitting at his desk in the vicarage, Simon Canter gazed out of his study window overlooking the church car park. He smiled and returned Piran Ambrose’s wave as he drove off in his rusting Toyota truck. Good man, Piran. A bit surly, but a good heart and he was really helping the Graveyard Committee in identifying which plots needed to be renovated, relocated or simply removed all together.

Just beyond the church was the churchyard, and beyond that Helen Merrifield’s back garden. Simon was in love. She was perfect; a goddess of medium height with what looked like shapely long legs. He hadn’t been able to see much because of the gardening trousers she’d been wearing, but he had noticed her full bosom when she’d taken her coat off and stood there in her T-shirt looking at his ankle. Her hair was dark auburn with a natural curl. Her eyes amber. Her creamy skin was scattered with freckles. Her lips stained as if with raspberry juice, plump and wide …

He sighed. Meeting Helen had shaken his orderly world. He’d felt the same when he first saw Denise and then, a couple of years after the Denise debacle, when he’d met Hillary, a woman in her thirties who came to him for confirmation classes. Week after week they’d sat here in his study, just the two of them, discussing her faith and the challenge of believing in a God who didn’t show himself so magically these days; no vivid dramas and burning bushes like in the Old Testament. Her faith had been strong, but she seemed to be having trouble allowing God to accept her as she was. Simon had high hopes of getting her to trust God and eventually trust him too. Then her trust would turn to love and he would have the wife he so very much wanted.

What’s that old saying? Simon thought. ‘Man plans and God laughs.’ Never had it been truer than when Hillary confessed she was struggling with her lesbian feelings towards one of her married colleagues. Sometimes Simon didn’t like God’s sense of humour.

And now there was Helen Merrifield. Her name sounded like crystal water sparkling into a little pool.

‘Canter S.,’ he heard his Latin teacher’s voice in his head, ‘get on with your work.’

He looked down at the scribbled notes he was making for tomorrow’s sermon. All nonsense. ‘Come on, man, get a grip.’ Living alone was a wonderful excuse for talking aloud to yourself. ‘Yes, yes, now where was I? Helen Merrifield … did she get my flowers? Did she like them? Shall I go over and see her? Erm … no, I’ll phone her instead. Drat, don’t have her number. She’ll phone me. I am in the book. And if she doesn’t, I’ll see her at church tomorrow. And I’ll talk to her about … stuff. Yes. Now, what am I doing? Writing tomorrow’s sermon. That’s it. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Which he did, and tried to knuckle down to the task at hand, but Simon was unable to keep thoughts of Helen at bay for long.

‘I wonder what she’s doing now?’ he mused.

*

Helen was on the beach. She’d followed the path from the village green down the side of Pendruggan Farm and walked half a mile across the fields from Gull’s Cry to where the Atlantic Ocean swept in and out of Shellsand Bay. It was a beach which the holiday visitors rarely found as it was awkward to trek down to, especially with windbreaks, cool boxes and buggies. Today it was empty.

She walked down to the tideline and turned over lumps of seaweed with her wellies, looking for interesting bits of wood or shells. She found a cork ring attached to some green fishing net and a beautiful piece of slate shaped like a heart. She put them both in her pocket and then walked down to the sea. The breeze was mild, ruffling her wavy hair, and with every buffet she felt her humiliation at Piran’s hands slowly dissipate. The tide was out quite a way, but the swell was big and she spotted two surfers looking like seals in their wetsuits. They were lying on their boards waiting to catch a big wave. She took a great lungful of the salty air and reminded herself that this was why she was here. The wildness of the elements and the freedom of a life without responsibility. She watched as the surfers paddled furiously just ahead of a big breaker and then leapt up on to their boards and expertly rode the wave almost right up on to the beach.

Years ago, when she had come to Cornwall as a child, her father had bought her a little wooden bodyboard. He had spent long, patient hours in the shallows, teaching her how to catch a wave and ride it on her tummy. She so wanted to do it again. Perhaps she could get lessons in real stand-up surfing? She’d ask Queenie.

She stayed for another twenty minutes or so, watching the surfers and then turned for home.

Back at Gull’s Cry, the washing machine had done its stuff and she hung the wet laundry on the drying rack above the Aga. Her attempt to fix up the washing line outside was a failure; the bracket had fallen off. The pulley system installed in the kitchen to haul it all up to ceiling height made a satisfying squeaky noise. And at least if that fell down, it wouldn’t lead to another ignominious episode with the rude man in the fisherman’s smock.

She put a jacket potato in the oven and got the paper out to see what was on the telly. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Perfect.

A couple of hours later and she was ready for bed. It was only 9 p.m. A bit earlier than she was used to, but that was country life for you. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t getting bored already, was she?

8

It was 7 a.m. on Sunday morning and the Reverend Simon Canter was putting on his robes of office. On Sundays he took a no-frills, spoken rather than sung communion at 8 a.m. for those few communicants who wanted the peace of a child-free service first thing, leaving them free to get on with their day.

He’d got up earlier than usual today in order to give the vicarage a bit of a spring clean. His weekly help had been off with her hips for a couple of weeks now and the place was showing signs of neglect, so he’d vacuumed round the vast and largely unused Victorian sitting room and opened the French windows to allow the autumn air to disperse the smell of must and old hymn books that he felt must be hanging around. Then he cut another large bunch of his bronze dahlias from the garden and placed them in a vase on the modest grand piano. Not bad. Next he gave the downstairs loo a quick bleach and the kitchen a wipe.

When he finished getting dressed and came downstairs, he sniffed the air and immediately ran back upstairs to his bathroom. He returned with his aftershave (a Christmas present from Queenie, who’d assured him that David Beckham wore nothing less) and proceeded to squirt it liberally through the rooms downstairs. He sniffed again. Much better. Taking one last look round, he left to tend his flock.

*

Later that morning, walking over to the church, Helen mulled over the possibility that she might be missing London. Or, if not London itself, then maybe her friends. So she resolved to get some dates in the diary and encourage them to visit her.

Getting ready that morning, she’d looked in the mirror and decided she really ought to make an effort with her appearance. Once she’d applied a little mascara, rouge and lip gloss, she realised that it made her look much better than she had in weeks. She had decided on a cream and bronze chiffon tea dress which accentuated her freckles, over the top of which she was wearing a cream cashmere cardigan in case the church was cold. She’d kept her legs bare, with tan strappy sandals on her slim feet.

The church was fourteenth century with Victorian additions, most notably the clock tower. The bell ringers were calling the village to prayers and sending the rooks up into the trees like black plastic bin liners flapping in the breeze. As Helen came out of her gate, Polly and another man caught up with her. They were both in green ambulance uniforms.

‘Hello, Helen,’ said Polly, walking alongside her. ‘We’re on call today, but we don’t like to miss the service. We’ve got the pager, haven’t we, Pete?’ The man on the other side of Helen nodded. ‘You do look nice today,’ Polly continued. ‘I was saying to Pete, I wondered if we’d be seeing you at church today. Seeing as you and the vicar had quite a long chat the other night.’ Polly was smiling conspiratorially.

The man with Polly greeted Helen with a grin. ‘Hello. I’m Pete. Pleased to meet you. And so’s Reverend Canter, apparently.’

‘What?’ But Helen’s voice was lost as, flanked by the couple, she was swept into the church.

The entire congregation of twenty-five turned to look at her. Queenie, who was sitting near the front, waved the three of them over, and they sat down alongside her. For the next five minutes, Queenie, Pete and Polly introduced Helen, very proprietorially, to the entire church until, at exactly 10 a.m, Simon entered from a side door and the service began. As he introduced the first hymn he gave a little nod of hello to Helen and there was a definite thrum of excitement from the congregation.

*

The service was a good and simple one. Apart from a mild hiatus when Pete and Polly were called out to an emergency heart attack in Trevay, it went smoothly. Helen hadn’t taken communion for many years and was surprisingly moved by the gentleness of Simon’s touch and the blessings as he gave her the bread and wine.

When it came to giving the sign of peace, he made a beeline for her and held her hand a fraction longer than necessary while asking if she’d care to come over to the vicarage after the service to have a glass of sherry with several of the other parishioners. Helen felt she could hardly refuse in front of so many expectant faces.

‘Thank you. Just a quick one.’

Simon visibly relaxed and went on to shake hands with the rest of the throng.

*

‘Come in. Come in.’ He ushered his eight or so guests in to the sitting room. Helen could see that it hadn’t benefited from a woman’s touch for several years, but she noticed the flowers on the piano and the same musky smell that Simon carried with him. He’d tried hard to make it welcoming. She offered to help him hand around the sherry and small cubes of cheese sprinkled with paprika, from which he’d just taken the cling film.

She was surprised to find she enjoyed herself much more than she’d expected. Everybody was so kind and interested in her. She was definitely the celebrity of the day!

‘How do you know the vicar then?’ an elderly man in tweed and corduroy asked her.

‘Well, it’s a very funny story actually.’ Simon hovered with a bowl of cashews. ‘Tell Jack, Helen.’

As Helen told the story, the room fell silent as all eyes hung on every word. ‘I’m glad it was only his shin that I kicked,’ she finished.

‘So’s the vicar,’ laughed Jack, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

Within an hour everybody was heading off for their lunch, or to the pub, and Simon accepted Helen’s offer of collecting the glasses and washing them up in the sink.

They chatted comfortably about nothing in particular, Helen enjoying his friendly chatter and Simon enjoying the rarity of female company.

‘When did you decide the clergy was for you, Simon?’

‘It wasn’t a road to Damascus moment, I’m afraid.’ He smiled. ‘I was going to be a vet at first, then maybe a PE teacher, but my heart kept telling me it was people’s souls I needed to attend to, not their animals or their bodies. And I have never regretted my decision.’

Helen dried her hands and looked at her watch. ‘Golly, it’s a quarter to one. I must leave you to the rest of your day.’

As Simon led her back through the dark hall to the front door, she glanced into his office. Books were crammed into the floor-to-ceiling shelves and an ancient swivel chair with a squishy chintz cushion stood in front of a disordered but charming oak desk, which had a view over to the church. Leaning up against the adjacent window was an enormous surfboard.

‘Simon! Are you a surfer?’

‘A bit. We Cornish boys have to, by law.’ They both smiled. ‘I might go out this afternoon, actually. The tide’ll be coming in about two p.m., so just right.’

‘The sea must be freezing.’

‘Surprisingly warm right now. October is usually the warmest month. I have a good winter wetsuit though. Boots, gloves, helmet – the lot.’

‘Well, Reverend Simon Canter, I never had you down as a surf dude.’ He looked at his feet and scuffed one shoe over the other.

‘I-I’d be happy to take you, if you wanted to come.’

‘I can’t surf.’

‘I’ll teach you. I’m very patient and by next summer I’ll have you ready to enter the World Championships down at Fistral Beach.’

She laughed aloud and he smiled back, glad that whatever signals he was sending, they seemed to be working.

‘Great,’ said Helen. ‘Let’s go this afternoon.’

*

Helen nipped home to get her swimming costume and a towel and quickly made a flask of tomato soup to warm them up afterwards. This was fun. A friend to play with at last. She loaded up her beach bag and added a packet of custard creams, just in case.

Simon was parked outside, his surfboard on the roof rack. She hurried down the garden path and hopped in next to him. As he pulled away, he tooted his horn merrily at Polly, who was weeding her front garden with Pete. The pair of them straightened up and waved.

Their first stop was the Trevay Surf Shack, a shop devoted to everything surfy. Helen was poured into a skin-tight wetsuit and fitted with a beginner’s board, both of which she could hire for the day.

‘You’ll be wanting these as well, girl,’ said Skip, the Kiwi shop owner. Flattered at being referred to as a girl, Helen gladly took the boots, gloves and helmet he proffered.

*

‘Right. These are the rules.’ Simon was kneeling on the beach with his wetsuit pulled up only to his waist. Helen looked appreciatively at his strong, hairy chest.

Who’d have thought he’d have a bod like that? she thought to herself.

‘The water likes to find a deep part of the beach to suck itself back out to sea. Look at it now. You see where the smooth water is? Well, that’s usually where the rip or undertow is strongest. Always swim where the water is breaking. It’s safer. Once you’re strong enough, we’ll use the rip to get out to the back of the waves. OK?’

‘Is this knowledge something you Cornish boys are born with?’

‘No, I used to be a lifeguard.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Before I finally chose my vocation.’

‘You are full of surprises! Is that how you got those abs?’

He looked down at his body. ‘Well, I run a bit as well.’

He stood up and swiftly pulled his wetsuit on.

‘Can I just get my balance by holding on to your arm?’ Helen asked as she wriggled first one leg then the other into her suit.

Simon was so unused to this kind of interaction with a woman that he accidentally brushed her bosom as he tried to hold her elbow.

‘I’m so terribly sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ laughed Helen, ‘Can you zip me up?’

Her slender back was also sprinkled with freckles and his hand felt weak as he pulled at the zip. Please, please, God. Is this IT?

Helen was all for jumping straight into the surf, but Simon held her back.

‘There’s one more thing I have to show you, which is how to stand on the board. Lie down and pretend there’s a wave coming. Paddle madly, and at the right moment I want you to jump up on to both feet and stand sideways. OK? Let’s go!’

It was much more difficult than it looked. Catching the wave at the right moment was incredibly hard, and as for jumping up on her feet in one smooth movement – ridiculous! Her legs felt like jelly, her arms were pulled out of their sockets and her lungs were full of sea water. Apart from that, it was lovely. Simon was patient and helpful, just as her father had been, but after forty-five minutes, she was getting cold and had had enough.

Her body felt lead-heavy as she walked back up the beach to her bag. She wrapped her big beach towel round her shoulders and sat watching Simon effortlessly catch wave after wave while she drank all the tomato soup.

*

Piran Ambrose stood at the top of the beach with Jack, his terrier, snuffling in the grass of the dunes. What was that woman doing, surfing with the vicar? Piran had known Simon since they were schoolboys together. It was Piran who had got Simon back on his feet after Denise had jilted him. They weren’t exactly best friends, but they were mates and Piran would always look out for him. Simon was someone who didn’t deserve to be hurt again.

Piran walked down the beach towards Helen.

‘Hello, boy! Where have you come from?’ Helen tickled the ears of the little Jack Russell who was trying to get a custard cream out of its packet. A shadow fell over her.

‘He’s mine. He won’t pee on you.’

She knew who it was before she looked up.

‘I‘m Piran Ambrose and this is Jack.’ He held out his large, rough hand. She stood up and shook it.

‘I‘m Helen Merrifield. I’m sorry we met in such awkward circumstances before, and thank you for letting me know about my washing line.’

‘That’s all right. What you doing down here with the vicar?’

‘Oh … er … he’s teaching me to surf, but I got tired. He’s very good.’

They both turned to watch Simon as a wave crashed over him and he fell off the board.

‘I taught him everything he knows,’ said Piran.

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows. ‘Oh really? He told me he learnt when he was a lifeguard.’

‘That’s true. But I was the lifeguard who taught him.’

His full lips smiled, revealing rather nice teeth, but finding she disliked him more than ever, Helen busied herself with picking up the packet of biscuits and stuffing it back in her bag.

‘What are you doing down here? You’re a London woman through and through, aren’t you? Husband divorced you, I expect.’

She stood up quickly, her eyes burning. ‘How dare you! I’m divorcing him, actually,’ she carried on across his laughter. ‘And what I am doing here has nothing to do with you.’

‘Well it does when your knickers are flying about my place of work.’

She drew herself up to her full five foot six. ‘Mr Ambrose, it is obvious that we have got off on the wrong foot. I suggest that in future we steer clear of each other.’

‘Fine.’ And with that, he whistled to Jack, waved to Simon and walked back up the beach.

Simon strode, dripping, towards her. ‘Has Piran gone?’ She nodded. ‘Damn. I wanted to thank him for all the work he’s putting in on the churchyard restoration plans. He’s our local historian, you know. He can tell you things about the families here going back hundreds of years. Lovely bloke. I am proud to call myself his friend. What did he want?’

‘I really couldn’t tell you,’ said Helen, and smiled tightly.

*

Later that night when she was on her own, wallowing in a steamy bath by candlelight, she thought about Simon and Piran. One handsome but horrible, the other not so handsome but sweet. How could Simon be friends with that great Hagrid of a man? She lit a scented Jo Malone candle and tried, unsuccessfully, to banish all thoughts of Piran Ambrose from her mind.

9

The next morning, Helen woke again to brilliant sunshine. The TV weather forecast had predicted a warm, dry week ahead. Good news and excellent for gardening. After breakfast she hopped over the back garden wall and knocked on the door of Tony’s shepherd’s hut.

‘’Oo’s that?’ his voice asked.

‘Mrs Merrifield from next door. I was wondering if you’d help me with the garden this week.’

His innocent face with the moleish sleek black hair popped out from the opened door.

‘Oh, yes, Mrs M. Lovely. I’ll be there directly.’

‘Great, see you in a minute.’

She heard an amount of rustling within and assumed he was getting dressed.

Within a few minutes he was at her back door. ‘Mornin’, Mrs M. Lovely day. This kind of weather makes me feel as happy as a tom tit on a pump handle.’

She smiled at him, and he asked, ‘What you got for me today?’

‘Well, I’d like to put a lot of spring bulbs in and maybe do some deep digging on those two back beds, ready for the veg plot.’

‘I’m good at growing veg. My mum always said I was a proper turnip head.’ He looked pleased, then puzzled. ‘Which is odd, ’cos I ain’t never grown turnips. But I’d be good if I did!’

‘Well, in that case we shall grow some. Do you want to come with me in the car to the nursery to get the bulbs and stuff?’

‘No thankee, Mrs M. I get grumbly in cars.’

‘Ah. Well, I’ll go on my own, but I’ll be back soon. Perhaps you’d take some shears to that ivy that’s covering the privy then? I can’t open the door at the moment.’

‘Righto.’

*

The nursery was a treasure trove of goodies. She bought three large sacks of daffodils, two of tulips and some smaller bags of snowdrops, crocuses and bluebells. Then she chose seed packets of peas, beans, asparagus, lettuce, courgettes and turnips. While waiting at the till, she spotted an eight-foot Cornish palm in an enormous terracotta pot and a pair of large, blue glazed pots planted, the label said, with agapanthus. She bought the lot with great satisfaction.

She got back home to find the ivy neatly trimmed and her washing line expertly fixed back to the wall.

‘Tony, how kind of you to fix my washing line! And the privy looks very smart.’

‘I done the ivy all right, but Mr Ambrose fixed the washing line. Said as he thought the weather was so good, you might like to do some washing.’

Piran! Here again. Why couldn’t the bloody man keep out of her way? She looked over to the churchyard and there he was. Smiling his cocky little smile and tipping his non-existent hat at her.

‘Thought you might like to get some of your smalls out in the fresh air. Don’t worry, I’ve seen it all, so I’m not embarrassed,’ he shouted to her retreating back.

Grrrr. She took a deep breath and managed, ‘Thank you,’ through gritted teeth. ‘No plans for laundry today.’

*

It would have been a very pleasurable day if she wasn’t so uncomfortably aware of Piran working just a few feet away over the wall. His radio, his whistling, his phone going off and his loud voice as he answered, all served to jangle her nerves. Little Jack came over the wall once or twice to renew her acquaintance, but she tried to keep any conversation with Piran to the minimum.

At lunchtime, Piran and Jack drove off in the truck and Helen breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Can I get you some lunch, Tony?’

‘No thanks, I’ve got me sandwiches.’

‘Well, sit here with me and we’ll eat together.’

She pulled a wooden bench out into a patch of sun, and went inside to make herself a sandwich and a coffee.

When she came out, Tony was sitting in his upright barrow.

‘Are you comfortable like that?’

‘Yes, Mrs M. ’Tis lovely.’

She settled herself on the bench. ‘Tell me about your mum and dad.’

‘My dad was a fisherman and me mum was me mum. Dad went to hospital one day and died and Mum broke her heart. Broke my heart when she died ’n’ all. People can die of broken hearts, you know.’

‘Yes, I believe you.’ A silence. Then, ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

‘Nope. Mum and Dad said they broke the mould when they made me. Couldn’t have another like me, they said. “Simple Tony Brown, you’re a one off, you are.” That’s what they said. That’s what everyone says.’

‘You share the name of another gardener. A very famous one called Capability Brown. I think he’d have liked you working with him. You could have called yourselves Brown and Brown.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Oh no, only of him. He died a long time ago.’

‘Broken heart?’

‘I’m not sure. But you are my Capability Brown from now on. May I call you Mr Brown? If I’m truthful, I prefer it to calling you Simple Tony.’

Tony looked at her, weighing things up.

‘OK.’

‘Thanks. Come on then, Mr Brown, we’ll just plant these last few crocus bulbs and then let’s get digging the vegetable patch.’

*

Together they dug really deep into the fertile soil, and Mr Brown trundled his old barrow back and forth across the village green at least a dozen times to collect the well-rotted manure from Pendruggan Farm. The farmer and his wife were only too happy to let it go.

Helen took her sweatshirt off, her muscles really warm now. The last bit to go was to dig two trenches for the runner beans and fill them with manure too. She and Mr Brown had a quick drink, he Ribena, she Diet Coke, and then they started.

As Tony thrust his spade into the ground, they heard a thud as it made contact with something hard.

‘Ow,’ said Mr Brown, shaking his jarred wrist. ‘What’s this?’

He carefully felt round with the spade, and gradually unearthed a black, painted tin box. It was around two feet across by sixteen inches wide and ten inches deep. He bent down and lifted it out.

‘Treasure, Mrs M.!’

‘Let’s have a look, Mr B.’

They carried it to the wooden bench and brushed as much soil off as they could, revealing a gold pattern in the Indian style which decorated the top and sides.

‘It’s so pretty,’ Helen said, lifting it and shaking it gently, ‘There’s something in it. I’ll wash this mud off my hands and get a damp cloth to wipe it over in case there’s something really precious in here.’

Once it was clean, she dried her hands on her discarded sweatshirt and eased the rusty lid open.

No water or rust had got inside to spoil anything. The first object was a beautiful jet brooch shaped like a black bird. It lay on a white blanket, which, when Helen shook it out, looked to be a baby’s shawl, the yarn spotted with age but the lacy crochetwork still beautiful. Under this lay a photograph of an Edwardian couple. The woman was holding a baby in her arms, and the man had his hand resting gently on the shoulder of a young boy aged no more than four or five years old. The final item was an ancient Peek Frean’s biscuit tin, which was something that looked like crushed ash. Perhaps the cremated remains of something, or somebody.

‘Oh my God. What is all this? Who does it belong to?’ gasped Helen.

‘I don’t know,’ said Tony, looking a bit pale. ‘I think we should bury it again so as not to disturb any spirits.’

‘Mr Brown! Don’t go soft on me now. This must be so precious to someone that they hid it. It’s our duty to return it to its rightful owner so that it has a happy ending. Don’t do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Hmm. Well, I’m intrigued. Leave it with me and I’ll have a think what to do next. Maybe I’ll ask around – someone might know something. Exciting, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Mr B, this is an adventure for us. What an end to our day! Tomorrow we’ll clear out the privy and see if there’s anything interesting in there, all right?’

‘OK. Bye, Mrs M. See you tomorrow.’

When he’d gone she closed the Peek Frean’s tin securely. As she did so, she noticed a small sticky label on the lid. In copperplate handwriting, it said Falcon.

A clue? She put everything back into the larger black tin and carried it carefully inside.

After making a pot of tea, she carried the tin box and her mug into the sitting room.

She took everything out again to look more carefully. Who on earth had buried all this and why?

She lit the fire and got on the phone to Penny.

10

‘Penny? It’s me.’

‘Hello, darling. I was going to phone and book some dates to see you. How’s it going?’

‘Well, I’ve got quite a lot to tell you. There are some extraordinary people down here. All straight out of central casting! They would be perfect extras for your new programme.’

‘Great! We might need them. Anyone handsome caught your eye?’

‘No! You’re as bad as Chloe. I’m not on the market, as you well know.’ She paused to allow Penny’s scornful laughter to run its course. ‘However, I do have a nice little mystery for you.’

Penny listened to Helen’s story of the tin box, only occasionally interrupting with the odd question.

‘Wow. How fascinating. How are you going to find out more?’ she asked.

‘Well, I thought I’d try Simon first. He’s the—’

Penny interrupted. ‘Simon? A mystery man on the scene already! Come on, don’t keep me in suspense!’

‘He’s the vicar—’

‘A lusty vicar! I love it, tell me more.’

‘Shut up and listen, will you? He’s the vicar who’s very—’

‘Married?’

‘NO! Single. He’s very sweet and—’

‘You want an excuse to see him so you’re going to ask him to take a look at your box! Oooh, matron.’

‘NO! LISTEN!’

‘OK, sorry. Carry on … vicar.’ More sniggers.

Helen sighed, ‘This is too exhausting. I’ll tell you the whole story when you come down. Which is when, exactly?’

They agreed to a date in early October, which was just a couple of weeks away.

‘You can stay here with me, but we’ll have to share my big bed. Do you mind?’

‘I am too old for sleepovers. Can you recommend a good hotel?’

‘The Starfish in Trevay is supposed to be THE place, locally.’

‘Great. I’ll get my PA to book it, and you and I will have a wine-fuelled dinner there. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

After hanging up, Helen made another call.

*

At 6.30 p.m. every evening, Simon was in the habit of praying for his parish and the wider world. It was a part of his routine that was as important to him as cleaning his teeth. He would light a small candle under his simple wooden crucifix in the study and kneel in front of it. Recently he’d begun using the old chintz cushion on his desk chair to spare his knees. When he was comfortable, he would close his eyes and picture the face of Christ in front of him. He’d thank God for his calling, his home and his friends, and then would offer prayers for those he knew to be having difficulties of some kind. If there was some grim story in the news, he would pray for those involved. Finally he would ask for blessings for the royal family, the government, global leaders, and pray that peace may come to the world.

Very rarely would he trouble God with his own concerns, but since meeting Helen he couldn’t help but ask for a sign that would let him know if she was the one.

As he was finishing this last PS, the phone on his desk rang. He stood up, crossed himself and blew out the candle, making a final bow to Christ on his cross.

‘Yes, yes, hold your horses, I’m coming.’ His voice sounded weary, even to himself. He cleared his throat as he picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Reverend Canter.’

‘Simon, it’s me, Helen …’

Simon gave up a silent prayer of thanks. God had sent him the sign.

‘I’m cooking a spag bol and wondered if you’d like to share it with me?’ she continued. ‘There’s something I want to show you …’

His voice wobbled slightly and his eyebrows danced above his chocolate-brown eyes. ‘Yes, Helen, I’d love to. Ten minutes OK?’

‘Perfect. Bye.’

*

Piran watched her for a moment through her lighted kitchen window. He had been working late inside the church, trawling through the archives and trying to make sense of the higgledy-piggledy order of the graves out in the churchyard. It was late and he was tired. He watched for a moment as Helen spread the blue checked cloth on the table and grabbed a handful of cutlery from the side. She was a good-looking woman, he had to admit. Now she was opening a bottle of wine and putting out two glasses. Who on earth was that for? He turned the ignition on, ashamed of his prurient interest, but his headlights picked out the figure of Simon Canter, fairly skipping along towards her gate. The man was crazy if he thought a woman like that would be interested in him. Poor old Simon – he was a fool.

*

‘Hello, hello. Come on in. Nippy tonight, isn’t it?’ Helen opened the door wide for him and he stepped into her pretty kitchen. He viewed the neatly laid table. It looked rather romantic and his hopes rose higher. From behind his back he produced a bottle of Rioja, which earned him a kiss on the cheek from Helen.

‘Go and sit in the living room. I’ve got the fire going nicely. It doesn’t smoke any more now Don’s used some of his magic on it.’

Simon went and sat down gladly, before his legs buckled beneath her kiss. Helen talked to him from the kitchen about Don and the work he’d done and what a wonder he was, then joined him with a glass of cold white wine.

‘I’ll keep the Rioja for later, if that’s all right. I had this open already. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

He took a mouthful and was grateful for the steadying effect it would have on him.

‘It’s really lovely in here,’ he said. ‘You have a home-maker’s instinct.’

There was a hissing noise from the kitchen.

‘Oops, spaghetti’s boiling over. Chuck another log on the fire, would you? And then come and eat.’ The last few words were thrown over Helen’s shoulder as she went back to the kitchen.

Simon did as she asked, then followed her through and sat at the table.

‘Tony and I found some treasure in the garden today.’ Steam was billowing around her as she drained the spaghetti into the sink. ‘Take a look at that tin box on my desk.’ He got up and went to the small desk, more of a table really, in the corner between the sink and the Aga.

‘Go on, open it up.’

He did so. ‘Oh my. What’s all this?’ He took each object out carefully and examined them. He was particularly interested in the photo.

‘Do you know who any of them are?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder on the way to dishing up the pasta.

‘No. I have never seen any of them before. It might have something to do with Vi Wingham. She lived here before you came.’ Simon reached for the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. ‘She was a wonderful woman. Very self-contained and independent. Baked delicious sponge cakes in the old range where your Aga is now. She would donate them to raffles or bring them out when she entertained, although that wasn’t very often. A couple of times a year she’d invite me to tea. I enjoyed her company very much.’

‘Let’s eat and talk – pass me your plate.’ Helen spooned steaming pasta on to his plate. ‘Queenie told me that Miss Wingham had lost a fiancée in the war.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. She revealed very little about herself. After she died, the only thing I found out from the solicitors was that she’d bought this cottage in 1930 when she was only nineteen. She lived here with a succession of cats for seventy-seven years and never modernised it, apart from putting electricity in. You must have seen that she didn’t have a bathroom when you bought it, only the privy in the garden.’

‘However did she manage? I turned her spare room into my bathroom – I couldn’t do without it.’

‘She would be pleased for you, I’m sure. But although she was always immaculate, she had more than a touch of the Trojan about her.’ He ate a forkful of spaghetti bolognese. ‘This is excellent.’

Helen felt very relaxed with her new friend. Conversation with Simon was easy and she liked the way he was around her. No hint of sexual undertones. No hidden agenda. She topped his glass up again.

‘Tell me more about Miss Wingham.’

‘One morning after church, about three years ago, she invited me round for a quick sherry. She’d never done that before, so I thought, rightly, that it was to discuss something important. She told me that she’d just had her ninety-sixth birthday and, though still able to look after herself, felt it was the right thing to move into a care home. I didn’t try to dissuade her because she had always conducted her affairs exactly as she pleased and seemed in full possession of all her faculties. She told me that she had already found the right home, on the road to Newquay, where she would have a room with a sea view, and that she would be going the next day. She asked me to tell the parishioners the following Sunday in my Church Notices. She would be happy to receive visitors, but only if they really wanted to see her. She died a year later, peacefully in her sleep, and two years after that, the house was sold to you.’

‘Was her cat still alive? Queenie said they were all named after birds and that the last one was called Raven. Did she have one called Falcon?’

‘Not in my time here as vicar, which is almost twenty-two years. There was a Sparrow and a Robin before Raven.’

‘Where was MissWingham buried?’

‘Ah. Well … I haven’t discussed this with anyone before, but … I don’t suppose it matters now. I’m sorry to say that she’s in the bottom drawer of my desk.’

Helen stopped, her fork in mid-air. ‘I think that needs a bit of explanation.’

‘When she died, she left express wishes regarding her funeral arrangements. No mourners, no flowers. She wanted me to give her a proper funeral service in the church and then escort her to the crematorium. It was only myself and the funeral directors at the service where I blessed her and said goodbye. About a week later, they phoned to tell me the ashes were ready for collection, and ever since I have been wondering what to do with them. There was no instruction from the solicitors.’

‘Golly, what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m sure I shall receive a sign.’ He stood up. ‘In the meantime, I shall ask Piran to come over and have a look at this box of treasure. He may be able to shed some light on it.’

Helen did her best to disguise her reluctance to this idea, ‘Maybe.’

At the front door Simon said, ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening, Helen. You are very kind to me.’

‘Not at all. I’m so happy to have made a real friend.’ She reached up and gave him another of her kisses on the cheek and they said goodnight.

Simon waved at the gate before his short walk across the green to the vicarage.

Helen washed up, turned the lights out and went to bed with a good book. Simon walked home as if on air.

11

The next couple of weeks were busy for Helen. She and Tony went to town on the garden. Along the path from the gate to the front door they planted lady’s mantle. In the cracks of the drystone wall she pushed violas and primroses. The great Cornish palm looked splendid in its sheltered corner, while the two blue pots containing the agapanthus were placed either side of the old gate. She couldn’t wait to see them in bloom.

Tony, meanwhile, took over the vegetable plot. It was dug and composted to within an inch of its life ready for the spring plantings, but he also put in a row of asparagus, and some rhubarb. The rest of the garden Helen filled with roses, daphnes and hydrangeas, with jasmine and clematis left to ramble over the wall which divided her from the churchyard … and any spying from Piran Ambrose.

Her final pièce de résistance was a wisteria, which she hoped would clamber over the privy. She and Tony had cleared the privy of its broken gardening tools and rusty watering cans, but they found no other treasure in there. Tony had taken to using it as his main bathroom now, not having running water in the shepherd’s hut. The flushing loo and cold water tap served him just fine. It was better than always knocking on Polly’s door when he needed to fill his kettle or have a pee. Helen rather liked his presence in the garden.

She had put the tin box under her bed and out of her mind after the supper with Simon. She didn’t relish his suggestion of taking it to Piran, but perhaps there would be no alternative.

Anyway, Penny was coming down that weekend, and she might have some bright ideas.

*

It was drizzly with a biting wind when Penny arrived in Trevay at 4 p.m. The journey down had been OK and her comfortable Jaguar XJS had taken all the strain out of the drive, but when she tried to open the door in the Starfish car park, the wind whipped it shut again. She struggled out with her long blonde hair in her eyes and mouth, pulled her warmly padded Donna Karan coat around her, and walked into reception.

The young girl behind the desk greeted her warmly and introduced herself as Kayla. ‘I expect you’d like a tray of tea and some crumpets after your long journey?’ The thought hadn’t entered Penny’s head but, now she came to think of it, it seemed like a fabulous idea.

‘Thank you so much.’ She looked around. ‘What a beautiful building.’ Outside it may have looked severe, built in local granite by the Victorians, but inside it was as contemporary as any London hotel. Although painted all white, the clever and discreet lighting made it warm and cosy. The slate floor, with vast, jewel-coloured Indian rugs, felt warm underfoot. But it was the touches of designer chic that really brought it all together. Huge four-foot bell jars filled with lime-green apples and twinkling candles, and on the wall above the wide, polished oak staircase was a stunning oil painting of a starfish lying on a sparkling ocean floor.

‘Yes, Ms Leighton, we like it. Do you have any luggage in the car that needs bringing in? If you give me the keys, I’ll get Darren to collect it and bring it to your room.’

Kayla gave Penny a key attached to a starfish key ring encrusted with Swarovski crystals. ‘You’re in room 207 on the second floor. The lift is on the left. Anything you need, just give us a call.’

Penny took the lift – fashioned like an old bathing hut; kitsch but cute – to the second floor and found her room. The old adage that less is more applied here. Everything was of the best quality, but not overdone. And the view of the harbour with its fishing boats, from what she could make out through the heavy rain that was now hammering down, would be lovely when the sun came out.

She picked up the phone and called Helen.

‘Darling, I’m here! In Trevay! The hotel is fabulous. Shall I book a table for two tonight at seven-thirty? Is that OK for you?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve starved myself all week.’

They chatted a bit more and then Penny ran herself a deep, hot bubbly bath, warming her feet on the heated tiles as she did so. She lay happily in the suds eating her buttered crumpets, drinking her tea and listening to the rain on the windows.

*

At dinner that night, Penny filled Helen in on all the London news. Most of it was about work and a little about friends, but nothing about a social life.

‘What about your romantic life? Anyone special yet?’ asked Helen.

‘No. No one. I’m too old, too set in my ways, too independent, too much of a ball-breaker – or that’s what the last complete prat told me. Who understands men? They say they want a woman who has a mind of her own and financial independence. But when it comes down to it, all they really want is someone they can dominate. And I’m not good at being dominated. I wish I was … but …’ She waved a hand. ‘MEN! They can go and boil their fat, stupid, chauvinistic heads.’

Helen threw her head back and roared with laughter. ‘I’ll drink to that! Fancy a margarita before the food arrives?’

One margarita naturally turned into several. Tequila loosened them both up and suddenly everything was funny. When Helen described Simon, Penny did an appalling impression of an ancient, randy old vicar. Helen wheezed with laughter, holding one hand to her ribs and the other to her mouth. Penny, in full swing now, leant back in her chair, tucked her fingers under her imaginary braces and in her vicar voice said, ‘I’d be very obliged if I might take a dip in your font, madam.’ And with that, she overbalanced her chair and fell straight over backwards.’

‘Hello, Mrs Merrifield. You certainly know how to enjoy yourself.’

Piran Ambrose, with a small, large-bosomed, kittenish woman in her thirties on his arm, stopped at the table. Helen jumped up in shock and knocked her glass over. Penny, with the help of a waiter, picked herself up and offered her hand in greeting.

‘Good evening. I’m Penny, a friend of Helen’s.’

Piran glanced at her and then back to Helen. ‘I remember the first time I had a drink too. Enjoy your evening.’

The kitten woman pulled him away with a parting, malicious smile aimed at Helen.

*

The next morning both women had rather woolly heads. Helen woke up first and turned over to look at Penny. ‘I thought we were too old for sleepovers. Thank God you didn’t let me drive home.’

Penny opened her still mascara’d eyes. ‘Mmm, I took your keys while you and the waiter were dancing on the table. So embarrassing.’

‘Oh God. I didn’t, did I?’

‘No, but you asked him to, which was bad enough.’

Helen shoved her friend in the ribs.

‘I did not! … He was lovely though, wasn’t he?’

‘Too young for either of us, but nice to look at.’

‘Not like that git Piran Ambrose. That’s at least three times he’s caught me doing something embarrassing.’

‘Yes, you’ve told me that several times, and however handsome he was, you wouldn’t look twice at him now, blah blah blah. You weren’t happy he was having dinner with someone else though, were you?’

‘Was he? I didn’t notice.’

‘Oh that’s right, you didn’t notice, So much so, that you couldn’t stop turning around and looking at him and asking me who she was. As if I would know!’

Helen opened one eye and looked at her friend, ‘No I didn’t. I was surprised to see him, that’s all.’

‘Hmmm. We’ll talk about Piran when you’re sober.’ Penny hitched herself up on one elbow. ‘Full English with room service?’

Helen managed a nod and then closed her eyes for a little more sleep.

*

By lunchtime they felt almost human and took a bracing walk around the town. Penny phoned her PA and told her not to expect her back for the week as she had a lot more research to do than she’d thought.

‘Liar, liar, pants on fire!’ teased Helen.

‘Well, I’m the boss and I don’t often spoil myself. And you are my best friend who I haven’t seen for ages – so, why not! Ready for a hair of the dog, yet?’

‘Penny, you’re incorrigible!’

12

Back at Gull’s Cry, Helen dragged the large tin box out from under her bed and took it downstairs to Penny, who was peeling spuds for their supper.

‘This is it. Have a look and see what you make of it.’ She put it down on the kitchen table next to Penny.

Penny rinsed her fingers under the tap and after drying her hands on a tea towel, opened the lid. She took out the shawl first.

‘Lovely shawl, I could use this for a period drama. And the brooch. Nice bit of jet … touch of rust on the pin though. A photo. What a good-looking couple. They look so old, don’t they, but I expect they were only in their twenties, judging by how young the children are. The baby is wrapped in a shawl like the one in the box … Have you got a magnifying glass?’

‘I think so. Perhaps in my desk drawer.’ Helen rooted through the mess and found a small plastic magnifier from a cracker.

‘That’ll do.’ Penny took it from her and, after a few moments screwing her eyes up, said, ‘I can’t tell. It might be … let me look at the brooch the mum has on her blouse collar.’ Another breath-holding wait, the boiler made a whoomf noise as the central heating came on, and then, ‘Blimey, girl. It looks like she’s wearing the brooch we’ve got here. Look.’

‘My God, it is. So could the baby be Violet Wingham, the woman who used to own this house?’

‘Why not? Who can we ask?’

‘The ghastly Piran Ambrose is the local historian, but I don’t fancy seeing him again. I’ll phone the little museum in Trevay tomorrow, and ask them if there’s anyone other than him.’

‘It sounds like a job for Mr Tibbs. He’s the hero of the Mavis Crewe books I’ve bought the TV rights for. They’re all set in the early 1930s in a small Cornish parish by the sea, and the widowed Mr Tibbs is the local bank manager. He’s very well respected and able to solve all kinds of problems and mysteries, large or small.’ She picked up the biscuit tin with the ashes in and gave it a shake. ‘These are the ashes, are they?’

Helen nodded and winced as the hangover reared its ugly head again.

‘Not enough for an adult, surely? Maybe it’s the boy in the photo. Her brother? Mr Tibbs would have this solved in ninety minutes with five commercial breaks.’ She looked at a limp Helen.

‘You look terrible. Another hair of the dog yet? Or just a cup of tea?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘Right: tea, bangers and mash, and an early night for you.’

*

Helen was downstairs, showered and dressed, and feeling totally refreshed after a good night’s sleep. She had the phone in her hand.

‘Hello, Trevay Heritage Museum. How can I help you?’ said a cheery voice on the other end of the line.

‘Hello, my name is Helen Merrifield. I’ve dug up an old box in my back garden and it’s got several interesting things in it. I wonder if I could bring them in and show them to one of your historians?’

‘Oh, we like things like that, don’t we! Let me see who’s around today. Erm … the roster says it’s Janet – Janet Coombe. She’ll be in around ten-thirty. Shall I tell her you’ll be in?’

‘Fantastic, thank you. See you then.’

Helen still marvelled at the wonderful service you got down here and how friendly everyone was. And she was mightily relieved that Piran clearly wasn’t on duty today.

*

After a quick cup of tea and some toast, she got to the Starfish in time to meet Penny. Together they got the box out of Helen’s car and walked with it down to the museum.

By the look of the architecture it must have been the old seamen’s mission: 1903 was the date carved into the granite arch above the entrance. The front door had peeling red paint and was held open by a huge brass cabin hook. The sign on the pavement outside said OPEN 10 TILL 6 MONDAY TO SATURDAY INCLUDING BANK HOLIDAYS. A smaller handwritten sign said, There is no admittance fee, but we rely on donations to keep our history alive. Please give generously.

Behind a sliding-glass window was a woman in a caramel-coloured twinset, caramel-coloured hair and caramel-coloured glasses. She looked up and, smiling, opened the glass panel.

‘May I help you?’

‘Yes, I phoned earlier to speak to Janet Coombe?’

‘Mrs Merrifield, is it? I would have phoned you to save you a trip, but I didn’t take your number. Janet’s just called in sick, I’m afraid. But if you’re quick, our Mr Ambrose will see you before he goes out to a field study he’s working on.’

Helen’s heart slipped. ‘Oh no, it’s OK. I won’t bother him. I’ll come back to see Jan—’

‘Mrs Merrifield and Penny, isn’t it?’ The rich, sardonic voice was unmistakable. The women turned to face Piran. He looked almost piratical today. The wild curls were glossy, and for the first time Helen noticed a small anchor tattoo on his hand. He was still in his red fishing smock and little Jack was at his heels. ‘How are you ladies feeling after your convivial evening?’

‘Fine. Did you enjoy your night out, too?’ Helen looked him straight in the eye, but he out-stared her until she looked down.

Penny attempted some levity: ‘She wants you to look at her box.’

‘Really? The pair of you had better come into the curator’s office then.’

*

Once he’d silently examined the objects, Piran said, ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘I just wondered if we could find out who they belonged to. That’s all. But if it’s too insignificant for you, I’ll do some detective work myself.’ Helen went to close the lid and leave.

Piran put his hand on her arm and stopped her. ‘Now don’t get in a huff because I’m not clearing my diary this minute and getting on with it. I do have a lot of work on. You’ve seen me in the churchyard, over at Holy Trinity. I’m trying to get a complete survey of the graves done before the winter sets in. After that, I have to report my findings to the bishop and the coroner. So unfortunately, your little box is not a priority.’

Helen gazed out of the dusty window with a look of bored sarcasm.

‘Don’t look like that, woman. You may be used to having men dance to your tune – your poor husband and the naïve vicar. But not me. I will help you find out about this box, because it is actually quite interesting and there is clearly a story there, but I’ll do it when I’m ready, OK?’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Come along, Helen, let’s give the man some peace.’ Penny, realising that Helen was very close to simmering point, yanked her friend out of there before her temper well and truly boiled over.

*

‘That bloody man! What is his problem? I have never met anyone so rude.’ Helen plonked herself down into one of the comfy leather chairs in the Dolphin. Penny sat down opposite her, feeling the warmth of the open fire on her back.

‘He fancies you.’

‘I hardly think so.’

Dorrie came over with menus. ‘Hello, ladies! Nice to see you, Helen. Are you having some lunch?’

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