The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read
Fern Britton
You will love this witty and warm novel from the Sunday Times best-selling author Fern Britton.Secrets. Sisters. The summer that changed everything . . .Life in the Cornish village of Pendruggan isn’t always picture perfect. Penny Leighton has never told anyone why she’s estranged from her mother and sister. For years she’s kept her family secrets locked away in her heart, but they’ve been quietly eating away at her. When an unwelcome visitor blows in, Penny is brought face to face with the past. And a postcard, tucked away in a long-hidden case, holds the truth that could change everything.Young Ella has come back to the place where she spent a happy childhood with her grandmother. Now she’s here to search for everything missing in her life. Taken under Penny’s broken wing for the summer, the safe haven of Pendruggan feels like the place for a fresh start. Soon, however, Ella starts to wonder if perhaps her real legacy doesn’t lie in the past at all.Pendruggan: A Cornish village with secrets at its heart
Copyright (#u88ef9dde-d742-5cc1-8d8d-92fefd778fc8)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Fern Britton 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Jacket illustration © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American 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: 9780007562978
Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007562985
Version 2017-12-21
Dedication (#u88ef9dde-d742-5cc1-8d8d-92fefd778fc8)
To my darling Winnie, with lots of purrs, Mumma.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u3d9c2ba2-cc5d-588a-b740-71fd81ef611b)
Title Page (#ub8e26f63-de70-5451-b29a-ab25d7ffdb72)
Copyright (#u740b8b2d-05e4-5aea-8b36-8948427a03c3)
Dedication (#ueb50a94a-c06f-5e2d-8eda-7fcc874b8856)
Prologue (#u2a655a65-3f0c-5f01-b07e-a24d02d66014)
Part One: Winter (#u0d1d2774-f71b-5742-ae15-f5820539c4ea)
Chapter 1 (#u41c72d99-2c24-58f3-b3e9-85404c46619a)
Chapter 2 (#u0d4c3063-5a70-5812-81aa-60cc66851a0b)
Chapter 3 (#ud4f8785c-3b82-5b23-924a-5db61ca1b7f6)
Chapter 4 (#ub7a01341-c9e9-558d-b7de-b443de714ffe)
Chapter 5 (#ua6a9c662-e38e-5778-9454-15d8dc1db59a)
Chapter 6 (#u5bd5dfb9-56e2-5783-bb0c-402aa0d55e85)
Chapter 7 (#ud3a47b74-3e40-5b8b-a431-ecb33fe7c049)
Chapter 8 (#u8e5cbfb8-6508-5d39-af8a-90791340461b)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two: Spring (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u88ef9dde-d742-5cc1-8d8d-92fefd778fc8)
The baby was crying. Penny listened. Would her mother hear? She opened her eyes wide but could see nothing in the deep blackness of her small bedroom. She rolled over to face the closed door. The perfect line of light from the landing barely illuminated the carpet. She heard the door of the drawing room open downstairs and the soft tread of her mother ascending. There was the comforting ‘shush’ of her mother’s stockinged legs as they brushed together approaching Penny’s door, walking past, then headed into her baby sister’s room.
‘Have you had a bad dream, darling?’ her mother murmured.
Penny listened and caught the rustle of baby Suzie being gathered from her cot and into her mother’s arms.
Suzie had stopped crying and was snuffling. Penny heard the kisses and imagined them being dropped onto Suzie’s soft scalp and downy hair.
‘Mummy’s here, darling. It was just a naughty old dream. Now where’s Bunny?’
Penny, five years old, tightened her hold on her own teddy, Sniffy. She pulled him into her arms and sniffed his flattened, furry ear. She whispered to him, ‘Suzie has had a bad dream. She’s only got Bunny but I’ve got you.’
Eventually Suzie was soothed back to sleep and her mother walked back and past Penny’s room. Penny called, ‘Night-night, Mummy.’
She got no reply.
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1 (#u88ef9dde-d742-5cc1-8d8d-92fefd778fc8)
Penny Leighton didn’t feel right. She hadn’t been feeling right for a long time now. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she had felt right.
She was lying in her big marital bed. The Cornish winter sun had not yet risen and she could see the dark sky through a crack in her exuberant poppy curtains. She’d thought them so cheerful when she’d bought them. She looked at them now and closed her eyes.
She had to get up. She had an important call to take at eleven o’clock. She opened her eyes and squinted at her phone. Ten to seven.
‘Morning, my love.’ Simon stirred and reached under the duvet to put his hand around her waist. ‘How did you sleep?’
She closed her eyes. ‘Hm.’
‘Is that a hm of yes or a hm of no?’
‘Hm.’
‘Did Jenna wake up?’
Her look said it all.
‘Oh dear. Why won’t you wake me? I’m more than happy to see to her.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘I don’t hear her.’
‘There doesn’t seem any point in us both being awake then.’
Simon thought better than to reply. Penny had not been herself recently, quick to criticize, withdrawn and moody. He’d felt the sharp side of her tongue too often of late. He decided to make some coffee and bring it up to her but the act of shifting the duvet, even slightly, caused her grievance. ‘Why do you always pull the bedding off me?’ She pulled the duvet tight around her chin. ‘It is winter, you know.’
‘I didn’t mean to. Coffee?’
Penny knew she’d been unkind and rolled over to face him as he sat on the edge of the bed, back towards her, slipping on his T-shirt from the day before. She reached out and stroked the side of his hip. ‘I’m sorry. Just a bit tired. I’d love some coffee, thank you.’ He stood up and she let her arm fall back onto the sheets.
She said, ‘I do love you, you know.’
He ran his hands over his bald head and picked his glasses up from the bedside table. ‘I know. I love you too.’ He smiled at her and, putting a knee onto the mattress, leant over to kiss her. She put her hands on either side of his face and returned the gentle kiss. ‘Coffee, tea or me?’ she smiled. From across the landing came the grizzly morning cry of their daughter, ‘Mumma? Dadda?’
‘Shit!’ groaned Penny.
Simon eased himself back off the bed. ‘I’ll get her. Stay there and I’ll bring you your coffee.’
Penny had her coffee in the luxurious silence of her peaceful bed. Winter in Cornwall held a quiet all of its own. No tractors would be out until the sun came up. No bird would be stirring in its nest and no parishioners would be beating their way up the vicarage path to give Simon another burden of responsibility. Finishing her coffee she stretched and wriggled back down into the warmth of her covers. She’d wait five minutes, just three hundred tiny seconds, she said to herself, and then she’d feel strong enough to get up and face the day.
Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, Penny tore herself out of bed and stared into the bathroom mirror. First she examined the two spots on her chin and then the circles under her eyes. She stood sideways and lifted her nightie to see her pale and wobbly tummy. She’d seen fewer pleats in the curtains of the local cinema. Whose stomach was this? She wanted her own returned. The firm and rounded one that she’d taken for granted for all those pre-baby years. Dropping her nightie and shrugging on her dressing gown, which still smelt of Marmite even after a wash and half a day hanging on the line in the sun, she slopped down to the kitchen.
Jenna was in her high chair and Simon was attempting to spoon porridge into her. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ he said encouragingly.
Jenna opened her mouth and grinned. Pushing her tongue out, she allowed the cereal to ooze down her chin. Simon spooned it back in.
It came out again, and before Simon could catch it Jenna had put her hands into it and rubbed it into her face and hair.
‘Would you like a banana, then?’ he asked, reaching for a baby wipe.
Jenna shook her head. She had just turned one. ‘Mumma.’
‘Mummy’s a bit tired,’ said Simon.
Penny sat at the table. ‘Too right Mummy’s tired.’
‘Get this down you.’ Simon passed her a fresh cup of coffee. ‘A caffeine hit should make everything look better. By the way, I’ve emptied the dishwasher for you.’
Penny gave him a cold stare, suddenly irritated again. ‘You’ve emptied the dishwasher for me? Why for me? Because it’s my job, is it? The woman’s job is to empty the dishwasher? Is that it?’
‘Oh Penny, you know what I meant. It’s a figure of speech. Like when you tell me you’ve done my ironing for me.’
‘Well, that is for you. It’s yours. Do you ever do the ironing for me?’
Simon took his glasses off and began polishing them. ‘You know what I mean.’
Penny picked up Jenna’s breakfast bowl. ‘Come on then, monster, have your porridge.’
Jenna obligingly opened her mouth and tucked in.
Simon, returning his glasses to his face, tried a cheerful smile. ‘Good girl, Jenna, you wouldn’t do that for Daddy, would you?’
‘Why do you refer to yourself in the third person?’ asked Penny. ‘Don’t say Daddy, say me.’
‘It’s just a fig—’
‘A figure of speech.’ Penny popped the last spoonful into Jenna’s mouth. ‘Everything is a figure of speech to you, isn’t it? Pass me the wet wipes.’
She expertly mopped Jenna’s face and hands, hoping that Simon felt inadequate watching just how deftly she did it, then lifted her from the high chair and handed her to her father.
‘I’m just going for a shower,’ she said.
He looked anxious. ‘How long will you be?’
‘As long as it takes.’
He looked at the kitchen clock.
‘Well, I can give you ten minutes then I have to go.’
‘You can give me ten minutes? How very generous.’ Penny went to leave the kitchen.
‘Sarcasm does not become you,’ Simon blurted.
‘That wasn’t sarcasm,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘Sarcasm takes energy and wit and I am too tired for either.’
Walking up the stairs was an effort. Her body was not responding to the caffeine. Everything was an effort nowadays. She looked forward to nothing, she laughed at nothing, her brain felt nothing. Nothing but an emptiness that – and may God forgive her – even Jenna’s dear face couldn’t always fill.
She turned on the shower, stripped off her nightclothes, stood under the hot water and cried.
The morning crept on. By ten thirty Penny had Jenna washed and changed and back in her cot for her morning sleep.
Simon had gone off to his parish meeting about the upcoming Nativity service, complaining that he’d be late, and porridge bowls still sat in the sink under cold and lumpy water.
Penny was in her room dragging a comb through her newly washed hair. She badly needed a cut and a colour, but trying to find a couple of hours when someone could mind Jenna was hard. She stared for the second time that day at her reflection. God, she’d aged. Crow’s feet, jowls, a liver spot by her eyebrow … She’d had Jenna when she was well into her forties and it had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Harder even than leaving her life in London.
In London she had been somebody: a busy, single, career woman; an award-winning television producer with her own production company, Penny Leighton Productions.
Now she hardly knew who she was. Again she felt guilty at how horrible she’d been to Simon. Taking a deep breath she slapped on a little mascara and lip gloss and vowed to present him with steak and a bottle of wine for supper.
She got downstairs and into her study two minutes before the phone rang on the dot of eleven. Penny took a deep breath and plastered on a cheery persona.
‘Good morning, Jack.’
‘Hello, Penny, how is life at the vicarage treating you?’
Jack Bradbury was playing his usual game of feigned bonhomie. He laughed. ‘I still can’t believe you’re a vicar’s wife.’
‘And a mother,’ she played along.
‘And a mother. Good God, who’d have thought it. How is the son and heir?’
‘The daughter and heir is doing very well, thank you.’
‘Ah yes, Jenny, isn’t it?’
‘Jenna.’
‘Jenna … of course.’
The niceties were achieved.
‘So, Penny …’ She imagined Jack leaning back in his ergonomic chair and admiring his manicured hands. ‘We want more Mr Tibbs on Channel 7.’
‘That’s good news. So do I.’ Penny reached for a wet wipe and rubbed at something sticky on the screen of her computer. Jenna had been gumming it yesterday.
‘So, you’ve got hold of old Mave, have you?’ asked Jack.
‘I emailed her yesterday,’ said Penny.
‘And how did she reply?’
‘She hasn’t yet. The ship is somewhere in the Pacific heading to or from the Panama Canal, I can’t remember which.’
Jack sounded impatient. ‘Does she spend her entire bloody life on a cruise? Does she never get off?’
‘She likes it.’
‘I’d like it more if she wrote some more Mr bloody Tibbs scripts in between ordering another gin and tonic.’
‘I’ll try to get her again today.’ Penny wiped her forehead with a clammy palm. She wasn’t used to being on the back foot.
‘Tell her that Channel 7 wants another six eps, pronto, plus a Christmas special. I want to start shooting the series in the summer, ready to air in the New Year.’
‘I have told her that and I’m sure she wants the same.’
‘I’m not fannying around on this for ever, Penny. David Cunningham’s agent has already been on the blower. Needs to know if David will be playing Mr Tibbs again or he’ll sign him up to a new Danish drama. And he’s asking for more money.’
‘I want to talk to you about budget—’
‘You bring me old Mave and then we’ll talk money.’
‘Deal. I’ll let you know as soon as I get hold of her.’
‘Phone me asap.’ He hung up before she said goodbye.
Old Mave was Mavis Crewe, an eighty-something powerhouse who had created her most famous character, Mr Tibbs, back in the late 1950s. Penny had snapped up the screen rights to the books for peanuts and the stories of the crime-solving bank manager and his sidekick secretary, Nancy Trumpet, had become the most watched period drama serial of the past three years.
Penny’s problem was that she had now filmed all the books and needed Mavis to write some more. But Mavis, a law unto herself, was enjoying spending her unexpected new income by constantly circumnavigating the globe.
Penny rubbed a hand over her chin and found two or three fresh spiky hairs. She’d had no time to get them waxed and, right now, had no energy to go upstairs and locate her long-missing tweezers.
She pushed her laptop away and laid her head on the leather-topped desk. ‘I’m so tired …’ she said to no one, and jumped when her computer replied with a trill. An email.
TO: PennyLeighton@tlx.com
FROM: MavisCrewe@sga.com
SUBJECT: Mr Tibbs
Dear Penny,
How simply thrilling that Mr Tibbs is wanted so badly by Channel 7 and the charming Jack Bradbury. It really is such a joy to know that one’s lifework has a fresh impact on the next generation of viewing public.
Another six stories, and a Christmas special? But my dear, that is simply not possible.
I wrote those stories years ago as a young widow in order to feed my family. Mr Tibbs has done his job, I’d say and I don’t have the patience to think up more adventures for him.
Can you not simply repeat the old ones?
Yesterday we went through the Panama Canal. Absolutely extraordinary. Very wide in parts and very narrow in others. We are now sailing in the Pacific and stopping off at Costa Rica tomorrow. Why don’t you drop everything and join me for a few weeks? Enjoy our spoils from dear Mr Tibbs.
With great affection,
Mavis Crewe CBE
Penny couldn’t move. She read the email again and broke into a cold sweat. No more Mr Tibbs? Put out repeats? Go and join her on a cruise? Did the woman have no idea that so many people’s careers were hanging in the balance because she couldn’t be arsed to write a half-baked whimsy about a fictional bloke who solved the mystery of a missing back-door key? Anger and frustration coursed through her. She pressed reply and started to type.
TO: MavisCrewe@sga.com
FROM: PennyLeighton@tlx.com
SUBJECT: Mr Tibbs
Dear Mavis,
If we have no more bloody scripts there is no more Mr Tibbs. Do you want to throw away all that you’ve achieved? I certainly am not going to let you. The end of Mr Tibbs would mean the end of your cruising and the end of me. PLEASE write SOMETHING! And if you won’t do that, I shall have to find someone else to write Mr Tibbs for me, with or without your help.
Penny
She hovered over the send icon. No, she needed time to think. She couldn’t afford to fall out with Mavis. She must sweet-talk her round. She pressed delete and began again.
Dear Mavis,
How lovely to hear from you and what a fabulous time you must be having!
I respect your wishes to put Mr Tibbs ‘to bed’ as it were. He has indeed served you well and given much pleasure to our viewers.
Which brings me to a difficult question. If you won’t write the next six episodes and a Christmas special, someone else will have to. Before I find that special someone, do you have anyone you would prefer to pick up your nib? Someone whose writing you admire and that you feel could imitate your style?
No one could be as good as you, of course, but this could be an exciting new future for the Mr Tibbs’ franchise as I’m certain you agree.
With all my very best wishes – and have a tequila for me!
Penny xxx
She read it through once and pressed send.
‘Right,’ she said to the empty room. ‘The office is now shut for the day’. She switched off the computer and threw her iPhone into the desk drawer. ‘I am going to eat cake.’
*
Jenna always woke from her morning nap at about twelve thirty, so Penny had some fruit cake with a milky cup of coffee and flicked through a magazine, all the while feeling a creeping anxiety about how Mavis would react to the email. Mavis was no pushover and would recognize Penny’s bluffing for what it was. She was beginning to regret sending it. But what was the worst that could happen? Mavis refusing point-blank to write anything? So what. Penny would do as she threatened, find a new writer, pay them a quarter of Mavis’s fee, and stuff her.
She heard Jenna’s little voice calling from her cot upstairs.
‘Coming, darling!’ responded Penny, and she put all thought of Mavis out of her head.
Penny loved Jenna with a fierceness that was almost as big as the fear she had that she was not good enough to be her mother. She would gladly die for her, but the endless hours of playing peekaboo and looking repetitively at the same old picture books, pointing out the spider or the mouse or the fairy, was killing her. There were days when she couldn’t wait to put Jenna to bed and then, while she was sleeping, would be riven with the horror of not being good enough.
Repetitive.
Exhausting.
Mind-numbing.
Frightening.
Nerve-shredding.
She watched in envy as the young mums in Pendruggan appeared to revel in picnics on the village green, swimming lessons, tumble tots, musical games and the endless coffee mornings with other women trading their inane chatter.
Penny had been invited to one once. As vicar’s wife she tried to do the right thing, but the amount of snot and sick and stinking nappies – not to mention stories of leaking breastpads and painful episiotomies – really wasn’t her thing.
The truth was she missed work when she was with Jenna, and she missed Jenna when she was at work. Her love for Jenna was overwhelming, so big that it was impossible to connect with it, but …
She missed an organized diary, a clear office with regular coffee, and power lunches.
She missed flying to LA. She missed being in control of her life.
And she missed her London flat.
She had kept it on when she married Simon, telling him that it would always be useful, a bolthole for both of them, although neither of them had been there since Jenna was born.
But Jenna was here now. Here to stay. How could Penny be lonely with this beautiful, perfect, loving little girl who depended on her for everything? Penny looked at her daughter, sitting in her pram, ready for a trip to Queenie’s village shop, just for something to do. She bent down and tucked the chubby little legs under the blanket. ‘It’s cold outside.’ Jenna lay back and smiled. ‘I love you, Jenna,’ said Penny. Tears pricked her eyes. She angrily wiped one away as it escaped down her cheek.
‘Mumma,’ said Jenna. She held her hands out to Penny. ‘Mumma?’
‘I’m fine. I’m fine, darling,’ Penny said with a tight throat. She found a tissue in her coat pocket and wiped her face. ‘Now then!’ She stretched her mouth into its trademark grin. ‘Let’s go and see Queenie, shall we? She might have some Christmas cards for us to buy.’
‘’Ello, me duck.’ The indomitable Queenie was sitting behind her ancient counter opening a box of springy, multicoloured tinsel. ‘’Ere, ’ave you ’eard the latest?’
‘Nope,’ said Penny. ‘It’d better be good because I’m starved of news. Jenna’s not too good a raconteur yet.’
‘Ah, she’s beautiful. Wait till she does start talkin’ – then you’ll want ’er to shut up. Give ’er ’ere. And pull up a chair. You look wiped out.’
Penny sank gratefully into one of the three tatty armchairs that had appeared recently in the shop. Queenie liked a chat and most of her customers enjoyed a sit down.
‘This chair’s very comfortable,’ sighed Penny, sinking into the feather seat.
‘Ain’t it? Simple Tony got them for me over St Eval. Someone was chucking them out.’ Queenie sat down with Jenna on her lap and Jenna reached up to pull at the rope of pink tinsel Queenie had thrown round her shoulders. ‘Real pretty that is, darling, ain’t it? When you’re a big girl you can come in ’ere and ’elp me get all this stuff out.’
Jenna crammed a thumb in her mouth and sucked it ruminatively.
Penny shut her eyes and enjoyed the peace. ‘Tell me the gossip then, Queenie.’
‘Well, you know Marguerite Cottage what’s just behind the vicarage?’
‘Oh God, yes. The builders have been making a racket for months.’
‘Well, I had the estate agent in here the other day. Come in for her fags. Silk Cut. Not proper fags at all but that’s what she wanted. Anyway, I asks her, “Oh, who’s buyin’ Marguerite, then?” and she says, “It’s been let for a year by two fellas from up country.” I says, “Well, good luck to ’em if they’re ’appy together.” And she says, “One of them is a doctor and the other an artist.” So I says, “Stands to reason. These gay boys are very arty and nice-natured.” And she says, “They’ve got dogs, too.” And I turn round and say, “Well, they always ’ave dogs.” And she turns round and says—’
Queenie stopped mid-flow and looked at Penny. ‘Oi, Penny, ’ave you fallen asleep?’
2 (#u88ef9dde-d742-5cc1-8d8d-92fefd778fc8)
The following morning Simon crept out of bed and left Penny snoring quietly. She hadn’t been sleeping well at all since Jenna had arrived, but she always refused his offer to share the night-time feeds. He knew how tired he was with a baby in the house, so goodness knows how tired she was. Simon stood on the landing and looked through its curtainless window. From here, in the winter before the trees were in leaf, you could just see the sea at Shellsand Bay. The waning moon was low in the sky and spilling its silver stream onto the dark waves. It was so peaceful. He sent a prayer of gratitude for his wife, his daughter and his life.
Downstairs he put the kettle on and, while he waited for it to boil, he tidied up the previous day’s newspapers. Tomorrow was recycling day.
He enjoyed the order of recycling and was fastidious about doing it correctly. He opened the paper box. Someone – Penny presumably – had put a wine bottle in it. Swallowing his annoyance he picked it out, replacing it with the newspapers, then opened the box for glass. It was almost full. He counted eight wine bottles, not including the one in his hand. All were Penny’s favourite. He put the lid back on and stood up. So this was why Penny had been so moody. She was drinking.
Too much.
She had always liked a drink. When they first met she had never been without a vodka in her hand. But she’d settled, and although enjoying the odd glass of wine, he had not seen her the worse for wear since she’d been pregnant with Jenna.
Upstairs, he woke her gently. ‘Coffee’s here, darling.’
Penny opened one eye. Her wavy hair was over her face and she pushed it out of the way as she sat up. ‘Thank you.’
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
She looked at him with suspicion. ‘Fine. How are you feeling?’
‘Good. Yes. Very good.’ How was he to broach this new and tricky subject? ‘Shall I buy some more wine today? I think we’re low on your – our – favourite.’
‘Are we? We polished off a bottle with the steak last night, I suppose.’
Simon thought back to last night. She had been halfway down a bottle of red wine by the time he got home. ‘Yes,’ he said carefully.
‘Well, if you’re passing the off-licence, get some.’ She took the coffee cup he was proffering.
He took a mouthful of his own coffee. ‘We seem to have got through the last lot of wine quite quickly. And you are still breast-feeding.’
She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Oh, I see. Are you lecturing me?’
‘Heavens, no.’
‘It sounds like it.’ She put her cup down and got out of bed. ‘I need a pee – and, as it happens, an aspirin. I have a headache.’
He pushed his glasses a little further up his nose and looked at the carpet.
‘Don’t give me that attitude.’ She glared at him. ‘I have a headache, not a hangover.’
The morning followed its usual routine. Penny treated Simon with the cool indifference that had recently become second nature to her. (When had that habit started, she wondered.) And he trod round her as if on eggshells. Eventually he left the house to do God knew what and Penny saw to Jenna.
Jenna was washed and dressed, breakfasted, entertained and put down for her nap. She was overtired and it was making her silly and difficult. Penny checked her forehead. ‘Is it those naughty teeth?’ she asked. Jenna nodded her pink-cheeked face and a string of drool dribbled from her mouth. ‘Poor old Jen.’ Penny kissed her daughter’s damp head. ‘I’ll get the Calpol.’
Cuddled on Penny’s lap, Jenna suckled at Penny’s breast while keeping a sleepy eye on the picture book being read to her. She fell asleep before the end giving her mother a chance to drink in the sight, sound, and smell of her. The overwhelming love Penny had for Jenna hurt. It also filled her with a kind of panic. She had never been the maternal type and had honestly thought that she would never marry. She had had endless unsuitable affairs with glamorous and handsome men, not all of whom were single, but she hadn’t ever imagined falling in love with someone. Or someone falling in love with her. But both things had happened when she’d found Pendruggan, the ideal location for Mr Tibbs. She had been cruel to Simon when she’d first arrived, had thought him a parochial innocent, a drippy village vicar, wearing his vocation on his sleeve.
He had originally been keen on her best friend Helen, who had just moved into the village. Penny had teased him, but Cupid had shot his arrows capriciously. The oddest of odd couples fell in love and were married. That was a miracle in itself, but Simon’s God had one more surprise for them. Jenna. Penny leant her head back on the Edwardian nursing chair and looked around the nursery: soft colours and peaceful, the Noah’s Ark night-light that the parishioners had presented to them on Jenna’s birth, the cot given to her by her godparents, Helen and Piran, the photograph of Penny’s father. How he would love his granddaughter. And next to his picture, legs dangling over the shelf, was her love-worn Sniffy, the bear her father had given her when she was a baby.
Penny shut her eyes for a moment and felt the familiar stab of grief. She missed her father every day. In her unsettled childhood he had meant everything to her, until he died. She spoke to him, ‘Daddy, look how lucky I am. Jenna, Simon, success.’ She felt her throat tighten. ‘Why aren’t I happy, Daddy? Can you help me to feel happy? Help me to be nicer to Simon? A good wife?’
Once Jenna was tucked into her cot, Penny felt drained; if the pile of laundry on the landing hadn’t been winking at her she’d have gone back to bed. The aspirin was working on her hangover but not her spirits. She heard the sound of raking from the garden and closed Jenna’s door. Looking out of the landing window she saw Simon, returned from wherever he’d been, raking leaves on the back lawn. His breath was steaming in the chill air. He looked happy creating neat piles. He stopped for a moment, aware of her gaze. He waved up at her. She waved back and debated whether to take him out a cup of tea as a peace offering.
She took the tea out to him and gave him a kiss.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, pulling off his warm gloves.
‘It’s a thank you,’ she said. ‘And an apology. I am so sorry I’m being a cow to live with. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
He put an arm around her waist and hugged her. ‘You’re just a bit tired. We both are. Babies do that, apparently. You’ll be fine.’
‘Will I?’
‘Absolutely. By Christmas you’ll be as right as rain.’
Penny nuzzled into the comfort of Simon’s old gardening jumper. ‘I don’t want to hear the C word.’
Simon kissed the top of her head. ‘Well, there’s a few weeks to go yet and Jenna is old enough to sit up and enjoy it this year. You’ll bring her to the Nativity service, won’t you?’
‘Only if I can put her in the manger and leave her there.’ She looked at Simon to check his reaction. ‘Only joking. Of course I’ll bring her. She’ll enjoy seeing her daddy at work.’
Penny had commandeered the vicarage’s old dining room as her office. Her desk sat under the big Victorian sash window through which the December sun shone weakly. She swung on her new office chair, watching the dust motes that sallied in the air. An estate agent might call this a ‘handsome room with tall ceilings, wood panelling, and magnificent large fireplace’. Which was true. But it was also very cold. She thought about lighting the fire but couldn’t muster the energy to find newspaper and kindling.
She opened her laptop and plugged in the charger, then fished her phone from the drawer where she’d chucked it yesterday.
There was a text from her best friend, Helen.
Hiya. Piran and I wondered if you and Simon would like to go into Trevay one night this week for a bite to eat. We’ll go early so that Jenna can come too. I need a cuddle with my goddaughter! H xx
Penny read the message twice. Helen had been Penny’s friend for almost twenty-five years. They’d worked together as young secretaries at the BBC and Helen had married a handsome womanizer with whom she had two children. Finally, tired of the repeated humiliation of finding the lipstick and earrings of other women in his car, she divorced him, left Chiswick, and found her paradise in Pendruggan, in a little cottage called Gull’s Cry, just across the green from the vicarage. She was now happy with the handsome but difficult Piran.
Penny’s eyes filled with tears again at the thoughtfulness of her friend. ‘We’ll go early so that Jenna can come too.’ Helen knew how hard Penny found it to leave Jenna with a baby-sitter, the anxiety she felt about being apart from her little girl.
Helen understood Penny’s determination to be a better mother to Jenna than her own had been to her.
She replied. ‘Darling, how lovely. I’ll talk to S. xxxx’
She put the phone back in the drawer – ringer off – and checked her emails. She scanned to see if there was one from Mavis. There wasn’t. What did that mean? Had Mavis read the email or not? A cold sweat of anxiety swept over Penny again. Oh God! If she didn’t get Mavis to write more scripts she’d have to find a writer who could do them in a similar style. And quickly. And if that didn’t work there would be no more Mr Tibbs, no more work with Channel 7, and she’d be a laughing stock in the industry, all her old foes sniggering and toasting her downfall. She shivered as a ghost walked over her grave. She remembered something Helen had once said to her, ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean to say people aren’t out to get you.’
She pulled herself together and replied to all the easy emails, deleted the rubbish ones, and left the others for later.
She heard the back door swing open and Simon’s voice. ‘Darling?’ he called. ‘Any chance of another cuppa?’
She dropped her head into her hands and took a deep breath. She forced a smile onto her face and called back, ‘Perfect timing. I’m just finished here.’
As it was almost lunchtime, the cuppa turned into scrambled eggs on toast. Jenna was still sleeping and both husband and wife were greatly appreciating the unexpected peace.
‘By the way,’ said Penny, ‘I had a text from Helen. She’d like us to go to dinner in Trevay with her and Piran. Early, so that Jenna can come too.’
‘That sounds good.’ Simon put his knife and fork together, wiping the last toast crumbs from the corner of his mouth.
Simon sensed that Penny was in a better mood and felt confident enough to bring up a tricky subject. ‘Penny, I really do think a nanny to help you with Jenna is a good idea.’
Penny looked at him wearily. ‘No thank you.’
‘But it would be such a help for you. You could concentrate on your work, go for lunch with Helen, have your hair done. The other day you were saying how you dreamt of spending the day at a spa. Massages and all that stuff.’
‘I can do that when she’s older but not while she needs me.’
‘She’ll always need you. You are her mum and a very good mum. But I worry about you and—’
‘And you worry about how much I drink?’
Simon pulled an expression of regret. ‘Well, yes, if I’m truthful.’
Penny carefully put her knife and fork together and folded her hands in her lap and said as calmly as she could muster, ‘Maybe a little more help from you would be good. Once Jenna has gone to bed for the night, where are you?’
Simon bridled. ‘We’ve been through all this before. I have to work.’
‘I’ll tell you, shall I? Monday, confirmation class. Tuesday, bible study. Wednesday, the parish council. Thursday, sermon-writing night. Friday, the bloody under 16s disco night … Shall I go on?’
‘No.’
‘And now it’s almost bloody Christmas with all that entails! So which night is Penny night? Hm? Tell me.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m saying. We get countless offers from ladies in the parish to mind Jenna and I know you don’t want that. But if we had a nanny, someone you can trust, you could get out more. See Helen. It makes sense.’
Penny put her hands to her temples and squeezed hard. What Simon said made some kind of sense, but why couldn’t he see that she loved Jenna so much that no one could look after her like she did?
There was a loud knock at the front door. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Simon, relieved by the timely interruption, and left the kitchen to walk down the hall to answer.
The knock had woken Jenna and Penny went to get her.
Jenna’s dear face was pink and puffy with sleep. She put her arms around Penny’s neck and rubbed into her neck.
‘Hello, baby girl. Do you feel better after your sleep?’
Jenna looked over her mother’s shoulder and gazed out of the window. ‘Woof woof,’ she said.
‘Woof woof to you too, my love. Now, shall we change your nappy? Then have some nice lunch? Hm?’
‘Woof-woofs,’ said Jenna, pointing at the window. Penny glanced down and saw two languid Afghan hounds sniffing round the garden. One cocked its leg on the old apple tree and the other was squatting on top of a heap of Simon’s raked leaves with a look of serious intent.
Penny banged on the window. ‘Shoo! Shoo!’
The dogs looked up and the one who’d finished peeing wagged its tail and barked a greeting.
Hurriedly changing Jenna’s nappy and wrapping her in a warm shawl, Penny ran downstairs, calling for Simon.
She found him loafing by the gate, hands in pockets rattling his small change and chatting to three men in matching sweatshirts. They were laughing together, plumes of steam escaping their warm mouths and hitting the cold air. Behind them was an enormous removal van blocking the gate to the vicarage.
‘Woof-woof,’ said Jenna and started to giggle. Simon, hearing her, turned and said, ‘Ah, this is my wife, Penny, and my daughter, Jenna. Darling, these chaps have come all the way from Surrey. I said you wouldn’t mind putting the kettle on for them. It’s damned cold out here.’
Penny fought the urge to scream and said coldly, ‘There are two dogs fouling my garden. Are they yours?’
The oldest of the matching sweatshirts, the foreman Penny guessed, rubbed his cold hands together then pointed to a man who was trying to open the front door of Marguerite Cottage, and said, ‘They belong to him.’
A man in his early-thirties, scruffily dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt with a stripey jumper over the top, was patiently trying one key at a time from the bunch in his hand.
‘Excuse me!’ shouted Penny.
‘No need to shout, darling,’ said Simon, taking her arm. She shrugged him off. ‘How can he hear me otherwise?’ she hissed.
The man had got the door open and had turned to give the three removal men the thumbs up.
‘Excuse me!’ Penny shouted again. ‘Are these dogs yours?’
The man smiled and lifted his hand in an apologetic greeting.
‘I’m awfully sorry.’ He came towards them and held out his hand. ‘Hello. My name is Kit and I’m your new neighbour. I’m moving into Marguerite Cottage.’
Penny didn’t take his hand. ‘Would you please remove your dogs from my garden and clear up any mess you find? My daughter is learning to walk and I like to keep the garden clean and safe.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Kit kept up his warm smile. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He called to the dogs. ‘Terry, Celia – come here.’ The animals ambled towards him and allowed him to rub their ears.
‘Welcome to Pendruggan, Kit. I’m Simon.’ Simon held out his hand. ‘Lovely dogs.’
Kit shook Simon’s proffered hand. ‘Celia thinks she owns the world. She definitely rules me. Terry is very easy-going but don’t try to befriend him. If he likes you, you’ll know.’
‘Please don’t let them come in to my garden again,’ said Penny.
‘Woof-woofs,’ said Jenna, straining sideways to get out of Penny’s arms and down to the dogs.
‘No, darling, don’t touch them. They may bite,’ she ordered.
Kit smiled at her. ‘Well, they haven’t bitten anyone yet, but let’s not tempt it on our first meeting, shall we?’
Penny switched her attention to the removal men who were clearly waiting for their cup of tea. ‘How long will you be blocking our drive?’
‘I’ve said they can take as long as they like.’ Simon smiled. ‘It’s easier for everybody if they tuck in here, off the road. Marguerite doesn’t have easy access. And we don’t need to go out again today, do we?’
‘I may want to go out,’ Penny said through clenched teeth.
‘What for?’ smiled Simon.
While Penny was thinking of an answer Queenie, dressed in a moth-eaten fur coat and with a scarf wrapped round her head, approached them from the shop. She was going as fast as her arthritic hips would let her, keen not to miss out on a bit of village news.
‘I saw the lorry and I thought, “Ooh there’s me new neighbours.” I like to welcome anyone new to the village, don’t I, vicar?’
‘You certainly do. Gentlemen, this is Queenie who runs the village shop and is the fountain of all local knowledge.’
Queenie smiled and pretended to be abashed. ‘Oh, he’s a charmer is our vicar. Anyways, I bet you boys are ’ungry, so I’ve brought you some of me famous pasties. They’re yesterday’s, but I’ve heated them up so they’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said the chief removal man gratefully. ‘They’ll go down lovely with a cup of tea.’ He looked hopefully at Penny who refused to catch his eye.
Inside the vicarage, the phone began to ring. Penny passed Jenna to Simon. ‘I’ll get it. And don’t put Jenna anywhere near those dogs or their poo.’
Queenie watched her go. ‘She’s always busy, that one. I don’t think you’ll get a cup of tea out of her today. Eat them pasties before they go cold and I’ll go and make the tea. Come up to the shop in a minute, ’cause I can’t carry an ’eavy tray down ’ere.’
She patted the pockets of her original 1950s fur coat. ‘I nearly forgot. This ’ere is the post what’s come for the new tenants of Marguerite Cottage.’ She handed over several letters. ‘Most of them is the electric company and water and so on but one of them looks like a card. Probably welcoming them boys into their new ’ome.’ She screwed up her eyes and squinted through her rather greasy spectacles. ‘Doctor Adam Beauchamp and—’ Simon stopped her from continuing. ‘Queenie, this is Kit, our new neighbour. I think that post is for him.’
Queenie was unembarrassed. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. Our postman, Freddie, ’e’s ever so good, he asked me to look after these for you.’ She handed the envelopes to their rightful owner.
‘Thank you.’ He took them from her. ‘Those pasties smell awfully good.’
‘Oh they are,’ grinned Queenie. ‘Come with me up the shop and I’ll get one for you if you help me with the tea tray.’
‘It would be my pleasure. Do you mind if the dogs come too?’
‘Not at all. I ’eard you two had dogs. That’s lovely. Like children to you, I ’spect. By the way I’m not just the village shop, I’m the postmistress too, you know.’
Simon watched them go and felt it safe to let Jenna down from his arms.
Penny shouted at him from the front door, ‘Simon! Please come. Quickly. Something terrible has happened.’ She was pale with shock.
Simon picked up Jenna and ran to his wife.
3 (#u88ef9dde-d742-5cc1-8d8d-92fefd778fc8)
‘What on earth is it?’ Simon steered Penny with one hand, all the while gripping Jenna who was wriggling under his opposite arm, into the drawing room. ‘Sit down and tell me.’
Penny sat shakily, her hands in her lap, her fingers weaving restlessly. She stared, unfocussed, at their wedding picture on the wall.
Simon waited.
‘Mumma?’ Jenna put her arms out and whined for reassurance. ‘Mumma?’
Penny spoke. ‘It’s my mother. An old friend just rang. Thought I should know. She’s dead.’
Simon frowned and put his hand on Penny’s. ‘Your mother is dead?’
Penny nodded, her face almost grey with shock.
‘Is she sure, your friend? How does she know?’
‘It was announced in the local paper.’
‘When?’
‘Last week, but she’s only just seen it.’
‘But why didn’t Suzie tell you?’
Penny shrugged helplessly. ‘We haven’t spoken since that terrible lunch. Maybe she thought I didn’t want to know? Maybe she thought I wouldn’t speak to her if she had called? Or maybe,’ she brushed a tear from her eye, ‘she’s punishing me just a little bit more.’
‘But, darling.’ Simon stood before her his hands in his corduroy trousers, out of his depth. Penny had never told him what had happened over that lunch. He hadn’t known her then and she had steadfastly refused to discuss either her mother or her sister since, other than that they were cut from her life. He said, ‘Maybe she just doesn’t know how to approach you? Could you ring her?’
Penny shook her head. ‘No. You are my family now, Simon. And I’m so grateful to you for loving me.’
‘Oh that’s the easy bit. You are very lovable.’ He put Jenna down. ‘You’re in shock. Your mother has died and you need time to process it all. There’s plenty of time to think about the future. How about a drink? Tea – coffee? Or would you prefer something stronger?’
Penny gave him a wry smile. ‘This morning I was drinking too much, wasn’t I?’
‘Yes, well. I think this calls for a drink.’
Instead of the kitchen he walked towards the drinks cupboard. ‘Brandy? I’ve some lovage cordial too – shall I put some in?’
Penny said nothing. Jenna climbed onto her lap and, putting a thumb in her mouth, stroked Penny’s hair.
‘Get this down you.’ Simon placed the glass in front of her.
*
Penny was just seven when her father had his first heart attack. That day she had woken early, about six, she supposed. The sun was already up because it was summer. She had heard the back door open and click shut. Her father must be checking on his greenhouse. She crept out of bed and just missed the creaking floorboard outside her mother’s bedroom. She stopped and listened for anyone stirring. All quiet.
In the garden the birds were busy chatting to each other and a fat thrush was pulling at an early worm. She threaded her way across the dew-soaked lawn, past the scented orange blossom bush and under the golden hop archway into the vegetable garden. There was her father, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes screwed up against the smoke as he tied up a stray branch of cucumber.
He jumped when he saw her and closed his eyes, holding his chest. ‘Oh my goodness, Penny. You gave me a fright.’ Then he laughed and she giggled as he held his arms out to wedge her on his hip, the cigarette still dangling from his lips.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ Penny admonished him.
‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he said conspiratorially, stubbing it out in a flowerpot.
She smiled. She liked sharing his secrets. ‘I won’t,’ she said.
‘Good girl.’ He looked up towards the house. ‘All quiet on the Western Front?’
She nodded.
‘Want a cup of coffee?’
‘With sugar?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Of course.’
In the far corner of his greenhouse was hidden a little camping stove, a bottle of water, jars of coffee and sugar and a tin of Carnation milk. There was also, hidden in a large cardboard box, a bottle of Gordon’s gin: another delicious secret that no one else shared.
The smell of the methylated spirits and the match as it caught the flame for the camping stove was intoxicating.
‘Do take a seat, madam.’ Her father snapped open a rickety folding chair and placed an ancient chintz cushion on the seat. She sat, her bare feet, with sodden grass stalks sticking to them, barely touching the gravel floor.
‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked. ‘You must be cold in your nightie. Here, would you like my cardigan?’
She nodded and enjoyed the warmth of his body heat stored in the wool as he draped it over her shoulders. The kettle was boiling and he made them drinks. He had two spoons of coffee, no sugar and black. She had one teaspoon of coffee, two of sugar and a large dollop of the condensed milk. She didn’t really like coffee but she didn’t want to hurt him by saying so.
He sat on an old wooden crate and pulled a serious face.
‘So, young lady, what have you got on at school today? Latin? Quantum Physics? Or a little light dissection?’
She giggled. ‘Daddy, I’m only seven. I’ve got reading. Sums, I think. Music and playing.’
‘A full and busy day then.’
She nodded. ‘Yep. What about you?’
He lit another cigarette. Rothmans. Penny thought them terribly glamorous.
‘Well, I’ve got to show a lady and a man around a very nice house that I think they should buy.’
‘Why do you think they should buy it?’
‘Because it is pretty, has a sunny garden, and their little boy will be able to play cricket on the lawn.’
Penny drank her coffee. The sugar and the Carnation milk made it just about bearable. ‘Can I come andsee it?’
‘No. Sorry, madam.’
‘Is it as nice as our house?’
‘Gosh, no. Ours is much nicer. And do you know why it’s nicer?’
Penny shook her head.
‘Because you live in it.’
‘And Suzie. And Mummy,’ she said loyally.
Her father stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Of course. Them too. Now, are you going to help me open these roof lights? It’s going to be hot today.’
For twenty minutes or so she helped him with the windows and fed the little goldfish in the pond and put out some birdseed while he pottered in the veg patch checking on the peas and lettuces.
They heard the back door open. Her mother stood on the step. ‘Mike? Are you out there with Penny?’
‘Yes, my love.’ He smiled and waved to his wife. ‘We’ve just been doing the early jobs.’
‘Well, come in or she’ll be late for school.’
Penny couldn’t recall the next hour or so, although over the years she had tried. There must have been breakfast, getting ready for school, kissing her mother goodbye and hugging her baby sister. But try as she might there was a blank. Her memory jumped straight from her father holding her hand as they walked back across the lawn, to the interior of her father’s car. It was big and dark green and the leather seats were warm under her bare legs. When it was just the two of them her father let her sit in the front next to him. Sometimes he let her change gear, instructing her when and how to do it. This morning was one of those days.
‘And into third. Good girl. And up into fourth.’
It was a happy morning. Even the man on the radio reading the news sounded happy. When the news ended and some music came on, her father lit another cigarette and opened his window, leaning his right elbow out into the warm air and tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. She was looking out of her window at a little dog walking smartly on a lead with a pretty lady in a pink coat when they stopped at the traffic lights. The noise and impact of the car running into the back of them was like an earthquake.
There was silence and then she started to cry. Her father asked in a rasping voice, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said through shocked tears.
‘Thank God.’ Her father, ashen, and with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, was finding it hard to speak, gasping for every word. Penny was scared. ‘Daddy? What’s the matter?’
Her father’s lips were going blue and his eyes were starey.
A man watching from the pavement ran towards them and spoke through the open window.
‘You OK, sir? I saw it happen. Wasn’t your fault, it was the bloke behind.’
Her father didn’t answer him. He was still struggling for breath but was now clutching at his left arm.
‘Daddy!’ Penny was frightened. ‘Daddy, what’s the matter?’
The man called the gathering crowd for help. ‘Quick, someone call an ambulance. This bloke’s having a heart attack.’
The police were very kind to Penny and a young police lady took her to school. Years later, when she was an adult, Penny wondered why she’d been taken to school at all. Let alone by a policewoman. Had they phoned her mother and she’d suggested it? That would make sense as it meant her mother could then go straight to the hospital. But who had looked after Suzie? Either way, Penny’s next memory was of being called out of her reading class and being taken to the headmistress’s study.
‘Ah, Penny,’ she’d said, ‘do sit down. You’ve had quite an adventure this morning.’
Penny didn’t know how to answer this so she just nodded.
‘Your daddy has been taken ill but the doctors are looking after him. Hopefully he’ll be OK but you may have to prepare yourself to be a very brave girl.’ Mrs Tyler looked directly into Penny’s eyes. ‘You understand?’
Penny didn’t understand, but said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. Now, off you pop and be good for Mummy when you get home tonight.’
Penny spent the rest of the day in fear.
Somebody must have taken her home from school. It certainly wasn’t her mother because she was already home when Penny returned.
Penny ran to her and hugged her with relief. ‘How’s Daddy?’
Margot unwrapped herself from Penny. ‘He’s been very silly. He’s been smoking too many cigarettes and drinking too much gin. I’m very cross with him and so are the doctors.’
‘I told him off this morning,’ Penny said without thinking.
‘Told him off? Why?’
Penny was afraid she’d got her father into trouble. ‘Because …’
‘Was he smoking in the garden?’
Penny said nothing.
Her mother strode in to the kitchen and wrenched the back door open. Penny ran after her but couldn’t stop her finding the two cigarette butts. ‘Was he smoking these?’ Margot held them up.
Penny nodded and moved instinctively to protect the large cardboard box containing the contraband gin. Margot reached past her and opened the box.
She pulled out the bottle. ‘Did you know this was here?’
Penny remained mute. Margot shouted. ‘Did you know this was here?’
‘Yes,’ Penny said, feeling like a traitor.
Her mother looked at Penny with poison. ‘So you are responsible. It’s your fault he’s in the hospital. If you had stopped him, we wouldn’t be in this mess but if he dies now we won’t have anything. No Daddy, no money. If we are thrown out of this house it will be your fault. I hope you remember that.’ Penny lived in fear for several days, expecting to hear that her father had died and that it was all her fault. But he came back to her. That time.
*
Penny’s hand shook as she took a mouthful of the brandy and lovage. ‘She hated me.’
‘Hate is a very strong word. I’m sure she didn’t hate you,’ said Simon, reasonably.
‘You never met her though, did you?’
‘I would have liked to.’
‘She’d have hated you too.’
‘Well, we’ll never know.’ Simon had a fresh thought. ‘I still can’t understand why Suzie hasn’t phoned you.’
Penny drained her glass. ‘Why would she?’
‘She’s your sister when all is said and done.’
‘We burnt our bridges the last time we saw each other.’
‘Please tell me what happened.’
‘No.’
‘It might help. After all, it must be five years ago now.’
‘It doesn’t matter now my mother’s dead.’ Penny swallowed the remains of her drink and hugged Jenna tightly. ‘I don’t want to think about it. And it really, really doesn’t matter now.’
Simon sat down next to her. ‘Exactly, Penny, love, she can’t hurt you any more.’
When he and Penny had decided to get married, Penny had refused point-blank to invite them to the wedding.
‘But this is a chance to rebuild the relationship,’ Simon had told her. ‘To forgive.’
Penny had been adamant. ‘I don’t want them infecting my life again. I don’t want them to tell you things about me that will stop you loving me.’
‘You don’t know that – and anyway, I could never stop loving you.’
‘Believe me, they would try.’
Simon had attempted to bring the conversation up a handful of times since, but each time Penny had become tearful and finally he dropped the subject.
Penny took his hand and held it against her chest. ‘I’m so lucky to have you.’
‘And me you.’ He dropped a kiss on to the top of her head and she released him. ‘When is the funeral?’
She looked surprised. ‘Oh God! I forgot to ask.’
‘Will you go?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘It may help. The ending resolved and all that stuff.’
Penny gave a small bark of laughter. ‘I don’t think so.’
Penny’s head dropped as she rubbed her face into Jenna’s soft hair. Simon could tell she was crying. ‘Darling Penny – was it really that bad?’
Penny nodded her head, not trusting herself to speak.
Simon persisted gently. ‘But you have a sister. Jenna has an aunt. Wouldn’t you like to have your family reunited again?’
Penny lifted her face to him. In that moment wishing she could tell him the truth but she was unable to confront the pain it caused her. ‘I have my family. You and Jenna and Helen – you are my family.’
4 (#ulink_bf0d56cf-0d33-51f1-a6e3-08c1ae9a8d3f)
ELLA
It was a Sunday and it was raining in Clapham. The branches of the cherry trees in Mandalay Road were bare, their leaves long ago dropped damply onto the windscreens of the cars parked on either side of the street. Rain bounced off the slate roofs like heavy artillery fire and swilled down drainpipes, startling flat-eared cats who skittered off to their catflaps. At intervals, passing cars shooshed through the deep puddles ploughing up sheets of water to drench already bedraggled pedestrians. It was a road of good neighbours and occasional street parties. The Queen’s Jubilee and the Royal Wedding were still fresh in the residents’ memories. Now, Christmas trees were already appearing in bay windows, their lights flashing and twinkling brightly.
No 47, Mandalay Road was identical in design to all the others in the terrace: an early Edwardian, two-up two-down with a small front garden. Its front door and window frames were painted in a delicate lilac, complementing the pale blues, pinks and yellows of its neighbours.
Inside, Ella was lolling on a sofa that was strewn with shawls to hide the decades of wear and tear. There was little spring left in its base but it had been Ella’s grandmother’s and was therefore treasured. She looked contentedly at the Christmas tree she had put up that afternoon.
A pot of tea, now stewed, and a half-empty mug sat on a tray by her side. On the television Julie Andrews was yodelling. All was well with the world.
She heard the creak of the floorboards above and the tread on the stairs before the door to the sitting room opened. Her brother came in, rubbing his stubbly chin and yawning.
‘What you watching?’ he said. ‘Shift yourself.’
She moved her legs and he sat in the space she’d created. She said, ‘What do you think of the tree?’
He looked at it. ‘Oh yeah. Nice.’
‘One of Granny’s baubles had broken.’
‘Inevitable after all these years.’
‘I know, but it upsets me. Each year a little more of our history gone.’
‘What’s made you so cheerful?’ he asked, prodding her with his elbow.
‘Christmas is a time for reflection,’ she said primly.
He grunted and watched as Julie Andrews and the von Trapp children worked the little puppets. ‘So, you hungry?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I’ve got fish fingers and waffles in the freezer.’
‘I fancy an Indian.’
‘Have we got enough money?’
‘Bollocks to that. I’ll put it on my credit card.’
‘Are you going to eat that bhaji?’ Henry reached with his fork to spear it but Ella got there first. ‘Mine! I’m starving.’
Henry mopped up the last of his tarka dahl with his peshwari naan and sat back, contentedly munching. ‘God, that was good.’
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full; you’re spitting desiccated coconut on the rug.’
He grinned at her. ‘Don’t care. Want a beer?’
‘We’ve only got one can left.’
‘Share?’
She nodded and he got up to get it from the fridge.
They were sitting on the threadbare Aubusson rug – another of Granny’s hand-me-downs – backs against the sofa, watching a rerun of The Mr Tibbs Mysteries on a satellite channel.
Henry reappeared with the last tin of beer and settled himself back down. ‘I rather fancy old Nancy,’ he said.
‘She’s very glam,’ agreed Ella. ‘But then Mr Tibbs is very handsome too.’
‘I read somewhere that in real life he’s a bit of a goer,’ Henry said.
‘Really? He looks like the perfect gentleman.’ They watched as Mr Tibbs climbed in through an open window at the suspect’s house. He was closely followed by his secretary and sleuthing sidekick, Nancy Trumpet, who revealed a lacy stocking top as she slid over the casement.
‘Phwoar!’ murmured Henry.
Ella tutted.
‘What?’ her brother said.
‘You know what.’
‘What do you expect me to do when I see a lacy stocking top and a glimpse of suspender? My generation are sold short on all that stuff. You girls and your tights and big pants and boring bras! I was born too late.’
Ella laughed. ‘So Jools has blown you out, has she?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last see her then?’
‘The other day.’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She blew me out.’
‘Ha. Why?’
‘She said she liked me and all that, but …’ Henry pitched his voice higher and posher, ‘she couldn’t see a future for us and anyway, she wanted to be free to see other people.’
‘Like who?’
‘Justin.’
‘Justin no socks and loafers?’
‘Yeah.’
Ella was offended on her brother’s behalf.
‘Well, she’s welcome to that total prick.’
‘He is a prick, isn’t he?’
‘Total.’
They sat quietly thinking about Justin and Jools and watching the television screen as Mr Tibbs slipped his penknife into the lock of the desk drawer and revealed the stolen diary he’d been searching for. The camera cut to Nancy, a lock of hair falling alluringly over one eye and a button or two of her silk blouse undone more than was strictly necessary. Henry was rapt.
‘Stop looking at her cleavage.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘If you must know, I was looking at the gorgeous scenery.’ The screen was now on a wide shot of a Cornish beach, the wind whipping white horses off the crests of the waves. Henry sighed. ‘I miss Cornwall.’
Ella sighed too. ‘Yep. We haven’t been back for a long time, have we?’ She poked him with her foot. ‘If you ever get a girlfriend you can take her down. Give her the romantic tour of Trevay – Granny’s old house, our old school – and she’d be putty in your hands.’
That night, lying in her bed and listening to the rain still hurling itself at No 47, Ella thought about what her brother had said after they’d finished watching TV. She did need a job. She’d had plenty of them since getting her art degree from Swindon where she had trained to be an illustrator specializing in children’s books, but none of them had been as an illustrator. She’d been a chalet maid in Val d’Isere, a nanny in Ibiza, Holland and Scotland and a barmaid in countless pubs and bars in South London. Henry had taken pity on her and offered her a room in No 47, a house he’d bought from his best friend when he’d left to get married. Henry was working his way up in a firm of commercial surveyors but he was making it very clear that he couldn’t afford to have his sister as a non-rent paying guest for ever, even if she had brought her share of Granny’s furniture with her.
She thumped her pillows into a more comfortable shape and sent a little prayer to her grandmother. ‘Granny, would you find me a nice job? Either someone who’d like me to illustrate a book or a publisher who wants to print Hedgerow Adventures? Please Granny. Night-night.’
In the morning Ella felt refreshed and hopeful. The sun was shining and every rain cloud had vanished, leaving the sky periwinkle blue. She sang along to the radio as she washed up last night’s curry plates and put some bacon under the grill. Henry appeared. ‘Bacon? Ella, you’re a darling.’
‘It’s the last few rashers but enough for sandwiches.’
‘What sort of day have you got planned?’ he asked as she plonked a bottle of ketchup in front of him.
She had good news. ‘I’m going to look for a job.’ He raised his eyebrows at her as he bit into his sandwich. She raised hers back. ‘A proper job. And I’m going to send out Hedgerow Adventures to another literary agent.’
He couldn’t hide his frustration. ‘Not another one?’
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s a good story and the pictures are some of my best. Every child I’ve ever nannied for has loved it.’
He shrugged. ‘Ever thought they may have been being polite?’
‘Charming! Thank you, you really know how to boost confidence, don’t you? Ever thought of life coaching? Writing a best-selling personal help book, such as Achieve The Ultimate You by Henry Huntley, Fuckwit with Hons?’
‘Ella, I’m trying to be helpful. Hedgerow Adventures is very charming, but it’s not going to turn you into J.K. Rowling overnight, is it?’
She couldn’t disagree.
‘So …’ He stood up and put his plate in the sink before doing up the top button of his shirt and straightening his tie. ‘By all means send it to a new agent – but promise me you’ll check out the job agencies too?’
It was lunchtime and her feet were tired. Not having enough money to top up her Oyster card she’d walked for miles, checking every job agency before setting off on the long hike up to Bedford Square and the offices of the latest hotshot literary agent she’d read about in The Bookseller.
The brass plaque outside was freshly polished. She walked up the short flight of steps and pushed the doorbell on the intercom. A buzzer sounded and the blackly glossy front door opened to reveal a silent marble hall with a grand staircase curling up to the right. On her left was an open doorway and a smart young man behind the desk spoke without looking up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Thank you, yes. I was wondering if I could have a meeting with someone about my book.’
His eyes scanned her from head to toe and back again. Expressionless, he asked, ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but perhaps I could—’
‘I’m sorry, but we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts.’
‘I see. It’s a very short story, it would only take a few min—’
‘You must have an appointment first.’
‘May I make one?’
‘Has anyone asked to see your manuscript?’
‘Well no, but—’
‘Then I can’t make an appointment.’
‘But how do I make an appointment if no one’s read my book? And how do I get someone to read my book if I can’t get an appointment?’
He smiled wanly. ‘It’s a very difficult business.’
The phone on his desk rang and he took the call, making it clear that he’d terminated his dealings with her.
Ella was angry and felt humiliated to boot. She pulled herself up tall and walked back into the hall to let herself out.
Running down the staircase was a young woman with her hair scraped messily back from her face and a smudge of red ink on her cheek. She was heading for the front door as Ella was struggling with the handle.
‘Here, let me help you,’ said the woman.
The door opened with ease under her practised touch. She smiled at Ella. ‘Are you Gilda’s temp?’
Ella wished she were. ‘No, but …’
The woman spotted Ella’s manuscript.
‘Oh, an author?’
‘Well, not exactly, I—’
The woman smiled knowingly. ‘Supercilious Louis wouldn’t let you hand it in? Give it to me and I’ll read it. You’ve got your contact details on it, I assume?’
‘Yes, on the front page.’
‘Great. Sorry, I must rush. Meeting someone for a coffee. I’ll be in touch. You never know, this just might be our lucky day. Bye!’
Ella watched as the woman walked quickly across the square.
‘Granny,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’
5 (#ulink_38026da2-7d00-54b9-81a2-97249c74c5c4)
In the vicarage in Pendruggan the sun was still hiding behind the cliffs – and Penny wished she could hide under her covers. She felt lightheaded. She hadn’t slept well because Jenna had had her up three times in the night. Teething was horrible for both of them. Night feeds were usually rather special. Jenna and she would sit in the silence, staring into each other’s eyes, sharing comfort and love. But last night had been awful. Jenna had wanted to bite down on Penny’s nipples to relieve the pain in her gums but she did it once too often and Penny tapped her leg in anger. In the split second before she opened her lungs and screamed, Penny saw her look of shock and disbelief.
‘Jenna, darling! I’m so sorry. Shh, Daddy’s sleeping. Shh. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Penny was beside herself. How could she have hurt Jenna like that? She wrapped her up in a cot blanket and held her close as she carried her downstairs. She went to her study, the room furthest from their bedroom, so that Simon wouldn’t be disturbed.
‘Darling, shh, shh. I love you. I’m so so sorry.’ She rocked Jenna back and forwards until she calmed a little and reached out to touch Penny’s face. Penny kissed the tiny palm and smiled. ‘Forgiven?’
She fumbled for her handbag, which was on the floor next to her desk, and found the travelling sachets of Calpol. ‘Here, darling, open wide.’ Then she found the teething ring she’d bought the day before and offered that to Jenna too. At last peace reigned again.
Penny got herself and Jenna comfy in her desk chair and she idly turned on her computer to see if there were any messages from Mavis. There were about fifty messages. She scrolled through them. The first dozen were spam or unimportant. Then she saw Jack Bradbury’s name. Three emails, one after the other, all of them with the same subject. URGENT: MRTIBBS
She felt her pulse quickening and her breathing become shallow. Her fingers were shaking. She couldn’t make herself open the emails. She scrolled down to see if Mavis had replied. Nothing. A black dread settled over her. She heard the roar of her own blood in her ears. Shit shit shit. What was she going to do? Where was the old Penny who would have known what to do and would have done it? Overwhelming grief at the loss of herself bore down on her shoulders and she wept silently, her tears falling on the sleeping Jenna. She deleted Jack’s emails and shut her computer down again.
And now it was just after midday and she was exhausted, but this feeling was not simply tiredness. Since she’d heard about the death of her mother an extra layer of darkness, an invisible membrane, was separating her from the world. She had often felt like this as a child, particularly after her father had died. A feeling that she didn’t really exist, that life rushed around her and she simply glided through it like a ghost. Occasionally she’d reach out a hand to touch a wall or her leg, just to make sure she was real, but it still didn’t feel right.
As a child, she had tried explaining it to her mother. ‘You’re liverish,’ Margot had sniffed.
‘What does that mean?’
‘That there’s nothing wrong with you.’
It was one of the many things she looked up in later life. Her computer dictionary gave the meaning as ‘slightly ill as in having a liver disorder’ or ‘unhappy and bad-tempered’.
Well, she’d certainly been unhappy.
And now her mother was dead and the feeling had come back. She wandered through the downstairs rooms and hovered at the closed door to her office. She told herself that she should go in and get on with some work. Work had always been her salvation; a raft to cling to when storms raged.
‘Keep going, Penny, keep going,’ her father had told her when she started to learn to use her Hula Hoop. She had kept going every day of the summer holidays until she became really very good at it. It was the same mantra she had applied to her work and to every contraction that had squeezed Jenna into the world.
Keep going, Penny, keep going.
Now, standing outside her office door she said it to herself again. ‘Keep going, Penny. Just open the door. Keep going.’
‘Hellooo.’ A stranger’s voice came from the back door and startled her.
She jumped in fright.
Her heart was in her mouth. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’
Thank God Simon had taken Jenna out for the day. If she was to be murdered by a stranger at least they were safe.
The voice called out again. ‘Hello? It’s your new neighbour. Kit?’
The bloody man with the uncontrollable dogs! She’d tell him where to go.
Penny stomped to the kitchen where she found Kit standing apologetically at the open back door with a large bunch of flowers. He smiled, not unattractively she was annoyed to notice, and proffered them to her. ‘Good morning. These are from Terry and Celia and me.’
Penny’s pursed lips were not the reaction he had expected but he continued valiantly, ‘As way of an apology for the way they behaved yesterday.’
‘I’m very busy, but thank you.’ She took the flowers. ‘I’d offer you tea or something but—’
He stepped over the threshold. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’d love a coffee. I won’t keep you long as I have a busy afternoon ahead.’
Penny frowned. She had been about to tell him that she had a busy afternoon ahead. ‘I don’t have much time myself,’ she said acidly.
He pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down. ‘What a lovely kitchen.’
‘Thank you.’ She filled the kettle whilst quietly hating him.
‘Are all the cupboards original?’ he asked, looking around.
‘Yes. Do you take milk? Sugar?’
‘Black, two sugars. They look Edwardian.’
‘They are.’ What was this, Bargain Hunt? ‘Here’s your coffee.’
‘Thanks. How long have you been here?’
‘A while.’ She looked pointedly at the wall clock above the Aga.
‘I’m sorry – I’m being intrusive. I’m just interested in getting to know the village and my neighbours and all that stuff before Adam comes down.’
In spite of herself she was interested. ‘Ah yes. Where is he at the moment?’
‘Finishing off some odds and ends at his old practice – he’ll be here before Christmas though. I’ve been sent ahead to get the cottage set up with all his little home comforts. I’ve got a builder coming later this morning. I have permission to put in a couple of skylights.’
‘Oh? I thought all the building work had been finished.’ She took a mouthful of coffee and thought of all the noise and dust she had just endured.
‘I’m a painter. The spare bedroom will be my studio and the roof windows will give me the northern light that is so good.’
‘Who’s your builder?’
‘Bob. Bob the builder.’ Kit laughed at his own joke.
Penny smiled and said ‘Sinewy bloke? Very brown? Favours short shorts and always has a cigarette on?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He’s known as Gasping Bob.’
‘Behind his back, I hope?’
‘No, no. To his face. Almost all the locals have nicknames here: Dreadlock Dave, Flappy, Twitcher, Simple Tony—’
‘Simple Tony? That’s a bit un-PC, isn’t it?’
‘Not here, and anyway, it’s what he likes to be called. He’s a dear man and a very good gardener.’
‘I’m looking for a gardener. Perhaps you could give me his number?’
‘He doesn’t have a phone. He says they make him go all fizzy or something. But you’ll find him in the back garden of Candle Cottage. Polly owns the house and she lets Tony have the Shepherd’s Hut there. Best let Polly introduce you to Tony as he’s a bit shy.’
‘Is he good? At gardening?’
‘Well, put it this way, a couple of years ago Alan Titchmarsh came to open the village summer fayre and Tony gave him a few tips.’
Kit drained the last of his coffee. ‘Great. I’ll get in touch.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’d best be off. Gasping Bob said he’d be here by two thirty and I know you’ve got a lot to do.’
Penny felt a sudden fear of being left on her own in the house. Simon had taken Jenna out in order to let her absorb the news of her mother and think more about contacting her sister. ‘Go for a walk on the beach,’ he’d said. ‘The fresh air will help clarify your thoughts.’ But now she found the company of Kit, a stranger, very important to her sanity.
‘Don’t go. Not yet. Bob’s not known for his timekeeping. Let me make you another coffee?’
Kit looked surprised but he accepted and watched as Penny filled the kettle from the old brass tap over the butler’s sink.
With her back still to him, she said, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. I had some bad news yesterday. My mother died.’
Kit looked at her with concern. ‘I’m so sorry. And it’s me who has been rude. I shouldn’t be here. Would you like me to go?’
‘No. Please stay. She and I didn’t get on very well and I haven’t seen her for quite a while. But, it’s still been a shock.’
‘It must be.’
Penny nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s made me feel rather numb and … I can’t explain it.’ She brushed away the embarrassing tears that had sprung from nowhere. ‘It feels unreal.’
‘I’m a good listener and very discreet if you want to talk?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s kind, but I’m fine. It has felt good just being able to say the words out loud to somebody. I am going to have to say it a lot more now, I suppose. I have to tell people that my mother is dead. It’s convention, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. We could practise it a few times if you like.’ She shook her head and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.
He continued, ‘Or we could talk about something else?’
‘Oh, let’s talk about something else.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and rubbed at her tired eyes. ‘Let’s talk about you. What do you paint?’
‘Ah well, I paint landscapes for myself, and portraits for money. That’s why I’ve come down here with Adam, actually. I have a commission to paint Lady Carolyn Chafford of Chafford Hall, near Launceston.’
‘How very posh!’
‘Not quite as she sounds. She and her husband bought the title – feudal, of course, so not in the peerage – with the manor, but they are very nice and very loaded, so she’ll do for me.’
‘And tell me about your partner, Adam.’
‘Partner?’ A frown wrinkled Kit’s clear brow then he started to laugh. ‘He’s not my partner. He’s my cousin.’ He sat back in his chair and tipped his head to the ceiling, letting out a deeply infectious laugh. ‘Oh my God, that’s why Queenie said the dogs were like children to me!’ He reached for a handkerchief in his jeans and wiped his eyes. ‘She’s very open-minded, I’ll give her that. Wait till I tell Adam.’
Penny was smiling too. ‘Typical Queenie. She loves a gossip. She was convinced you were going to be the only gays in the village.’
Kit blew his nose and put his handkerchief back. ‘Oh, that’s so funny. Sorry to disappoint her, but Adam and I have lived together, practically from birth. Adam lost his dad in the Falklands War and so his brother, my dad, took him and Auntie Aileen in and we grew up as brothers.’
Penny’s mobile phone interrupted him. Penny looked at the screen and saw it was Jack Bradbury from Channel 7. A familiar surge of panic made her clench her hands. She could feel her pulse quickening. She reached for the phone and cancelled the call.
Kit felt her mood change. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine, yeah.’
‘I barely know you but I can see you are upset,’ he said gently.
Penny flashed a wide smile at him and pushed the phone under a pile of newspapers. ‘Just a work thing. It can wait. Want a biscuit?’
Penny and Kit spent the rest of the lunchtime swapping snippets about their lives, work and village characters.
‘Just look out for Queenie,’ Penny warned, ‘she’s not the sweet innocent old lady that she likes to pretend to be. She has a sharp business head with a love of gossip but a heart of gold. Pendruggan wouldn’t be the same without her.’ Penny hesitated for a moment then added mischievously, ‘Let’s not tell her just yet that you and Adam aren’t a couple.’
‘You are very naughty for a vicar’s wife, aren’t you!’ Kit nudged Penny’s arm with his elbow.
Penny sighed. ‘Well, I used to be naughty – before I married – but let’s just say this last couple of hours have been the most entertaining I’ve had in a long time.’
‘Intriguing. What was your life before this one?’ he asked.
Penny told him about what she did, about her production company and Mr Tibbs, her thrilling time in Hollywood with the film Hats Off Trevay.
‘That was your film?’ asked Kit in amazement.
‘Yep. Well, me and quite a few other people too, but it was amazing.’
‘What a life you’ve had. How on earth have you managed to settle down in sleepy Pendruggan?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh. You know. I have a wonderful husband and Jenna my gorgeous daughter. Lots of blessings.’
‘You must miss the excitement of your old life, though?’
She picked up their coffee mugs and took them to the sink. ‘Maybe. A bit.’ She kept her back turned so that Kit wouldn’t see the disloyalty she felt at having suggested her marriage wasn’t happy. She and Simon were going through a difficult patch admittedly. Everything he did annoyed her. The way he ate, breathed, looked— She pulled herself up sharply at these terrifying thoughts. Keep going, Penny, keep going.
‘Well, I’d better be off.’ Kit was standing and tying his stripey jumper round his neck.
Startled, Penny stood up straight. ‘Yes of course. Well, thanks again for the flowers and the company.’
She opened the back door to let him out and found her best friend Helen rounding the corner.
‘Oh Helen, you must meet Kit. Helen, this is Kit, our new neighbour at Marguerite Cottage.’
Helen shook his hand. ‘Lovely to meet you. Queenie is all agog with the news of two young men arriving in Pendruggan.’
‘We’ll try not to disappoint,’ smiled Kit, tapping his nose conspiratorially.
Penny turned to him. ‘If you want any fish or lobster, Helen is the woman to go to. Her partner, Piran, catches them all the time.’
‘Sounds amazing. Adam loves my curried lobster.’
Helen beamed excitedly at him. ‘Oh, Piran and I love curry.’
‘Well, I must cook for you when we’re settled.’ Kit bent to kiss Penny’s cheek and shook Helen’s hand. ‘Lovely to meet you, but I have a date with Puffing Bob.’
‘Gasping Bob!’ Helen and Penny shouted in unison and they watched Kit stroll over to Marguerite Cottage just as Gasping Bob’s rusty Rascal van rattled its way towards him.
‘He seems nice,’ said Helen.
‘He is. Very,’ said Penny, and immediately burst into tears.
Helen bundled Penny back into the kitchen. ‘What’s happened, darling?’
‘It’s my mother,’ sobbed Penny. ‘She’s dead.’
‘What?’ Helen was shocked. ‘When?’
When Helen had heard the whole story, short though it was, she became very practical.
‘You must phone your sister and ask her when the funeral is.’
‘I don’t think I have her number.’ Penny’s head was in her hands. ‘And the last time we spoke it was so awful. I can’t ring her.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Penny, she’s your sister. She should have phoned you by now, anyway.’ Helen stood up and looked purposeful. ‘Right, where is your address book?’
Penny looked at her, pale-faced. ‘In my office somewhere.’
‘In your desk?’
‘Probably.’
‘Right. I’ll get it and we’ll call her.’
‘I’m not sure I’m up to that.’ Penny struggled out of her hair and followed her friend to the office. ‘Please, Helen. I can’t. I need to feel a bit stronger before I—’
It was too late. Helen was in the office and pulling at a drawer. As she did so the house phone rang.
‘Don’t answer it!’ Penny almost screamed. ‘Leave it.’
The two women stared at each other before the answerphone picked up. They listened to Penny’s recorded voice telling the caller that she was unavailable and to please leave a message. She would get back as soon as possible.
It was Jack Bradbury.
He was shouting. ‘Penny! Jesus. Don’t you ever answer your calls or look at your emails? Mavis Crewe is pulling out and if you don’t get me six new scripts and a Christmas special soon I can promise you that you will never work for me or Channel 7 ever again!’
He hung up.
Helen looked at her friend properly.
Penny shoved her hands inside the saggy pockets of her ancient cashmere cardigan dropping her pale,swollen-nosed and red-eyed face to the floor.
It was the first time in twenty-five years that Helen had ever seen Penny Leighton look defeated. ‘Open your emails,’ she said.
Penny hovered for a moment; she’d got into an awful habit of hiding things and Helen would be cross with her if she knew the emails were deleted. She took a deep breath and then made her decision. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.
6 (#ulink_0e49e5cd-ab08-5dab-b8df-9ebd628973f1)
Helen was back in Gull’s Cry, her cosy cottage across the village green from the vicarage. She’d listened to Penny as she’d sunk a bottle of wine and then eventually been persuaded to go to bed. Helen nestled the phone between her shoulder and chin and put a pan of water onto the Aga for spaghetti. ‘I’m really worried about her, Simon.’
Simon, sitting in his study, phone in one hand, his head in the other, was feeling helpless. ‘She’s just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘I think it’s more than that.’ Helen saw her boyfriend, Piran, walking up the path with a brace of mackerel in his hand. ‘I think she should go to the doctor.’ Piran pushed open the front door and Helen put her finger to her lips and mouthed ‘Simon’ at him before pointing to a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
She heard Simon attempt a half-hearted laugh before he said, ‘I’m not sure she needs the doctor, just a couple of good nights’ sleep. Jenna’s teething, work’s a bit stressful, and her mother dying …’
Helen rolled her eyes at Piran and said, ‘Simon, seriously, for my sake, could you go to the doc’s with her? Tell her you’ve made an appointment to check on Jenna’s teeth or something. Go together, the three of you. Then throw in that you’re worried about Penny. Please?’
Simon fiddled with his propelling pencil, a wedding gift from his parishioners, and sighed. ‘OK.’
Helen was relieved. ‘Good. Is she still asleep?’
‘Yes. I checked on her a little while ago and she’s fine. What actually happened earlier?’
‘I think Mavis Crewe isn’t going to write any more Mr Tibbs scripts and Jack Bradbury is taking it out on Penny. Also, I think she really should get in contact with her sister about when the funeral is. But when I suggested that she looked so … well, the only way I can describe it is that she seemed to have all her legendary courage drained from her. I ran her a bath and popped a hot water bottle in her bed and she didn’t argue. Just did it and got into bed. That’s not like her, is it?’
Simon pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. ‘No. It isn’t.’
‘Can you phone the sister?’ asked Helen hopefully.
‘I’m not sure. Pen won’t want me interfering behind her back. She never talks about them, not even when Jenna was born. I don’t want her more upset than she is.’
‘Understood. Let’s see how she is tomorrow.’ Piran handed Helen a glass of chilled Sancerre and sauntered into the small drawing room where Helen heard him turn on the television news. The water on the Aga began to boil. ‘Simon, I must go …’
Simon drooped in his chair a little. ‘One last thing, Helen: do you think a nanny might be a good idea? A little help with Jenna might help Penny a lot.’
‘Yes I do. Just try persuading her of that.’
Upstairs, Penny had woken from her sleep and was furtively searching for her tablet. She found it in her bedside drawer. She got back into bed and listened carefully in case Simon had heard her. Nothing. She turned the tablet on and the stream of ignored emails plus others popped up. She deleted a fair majority and managed to answer the simple ones. The three she’d deleted from Jack, she retrieved but there were two new ones, one of which sent a flood of panic through her abdomen. It was from Mavis. The other was from an old school friend, Marion Watson. A jolly hockey sticks sort of girl who married well and became an MP. The subject line said SUZIE. Penny didn’t know which to go for first.
The one from Mavis could be good, could be bad.
The one from Marion spooked her, so that had to be last.
The ones from Jack? Well, at least they wouldn’t hold any surprises.
She opened Jack’s first email.
TO: Penny Leighton
FROM: Jack Bradbury
SUBJECT: URGENT: MR TIBBS
P,
Mavis has flatly refused to write any more scripts.
What are you going to do about it?
Bloody call me.
J.
Penny thought it could have been worse. It could have been the sack.
She hovered between opening the next two.
She opened the one from Mavis.
TO: Penny Leighton
FROM: Mavis Crewe
SUBJECT: Jack Bradbury
Dearest Penny,
I really cannot deal with Mr Bradbury any longer. What an arrogant bully. Even if I were able to write more Mr Tibbs tales, I would never again let them go to Channel 7.
I can see now why your last email was trying to butter me up. Oh yes, I can tell. I wasn’t born yesterday. The odious Mr Bradbury has been leaning on you, hasn’t he? No wonder you made the wild suggestion that another writer could take over. No no no, my dear. That is never going to happen. Mr Tibbs is my creation and I will never give permission for another writer to take on the franchise while I have the copyright.
I understand this may be inconvenient for you and Penny Leighton Productions, but all good things come to an end, don’t they?
I have adored working with you and am still waiting to hear that you can come and join me on this marvellous cruise. How about hopping over for LA?
With affectionate regards,
Mavis
Penny felt dizzy. Black spots were clouding her vision. She was breathing in little rapid pants. She heard her father’s voice: Keep going, Penny. She wished she had a drink but couldn’t face Simon’s disappointment if he caught her creeping to the fridge.
She concentrated on getting herself calmer then she opened the email from Marion.
TO: Penny Leighton
FROM: Marion Watson
SUBJECT: SUZIE
Darling Pen,
Long time no see and all that. I have received an email from Suzie, which she has asked me to forward to you. She contacted me at my House of Commons address (very easy to find) wondering if I had your contact details. Apparently she has mislaid them. I sent them to her but she wants me to be an intermediary, God knows why, given that she and I only met at sports days and the like, hence my involvement. Being a nosy old cow, I did read it and may I say how very sorry I am to hear of your ma’s death. She was always the most glam of all the mothers at speech day.
Anyway, next time you’re in London drop in. I’d love to show you off in the Stranger’s Dining Room.
Regards,
Marion
Penny scrolled down.
Dear Penny,
Since you lost contact with Mummy and me, I have had to resort to going through Marion as she is a trusted friend of yours.
I’m sorry to break the news in this impersonal way. I would have rather phoned you or come to your home, but since I have no idea where you are, this is the best I can do.
Mummy died. She was very, very brave and was terribly ill at the end. I nursed her myself and friends and neighbours were very kind, bringing in meals. They have all said how marvellous Mummy was and how she wouldn’t have lasted as long as she did if it weren’t for me. I was with her till her last breath. It was so peaceful and such a privilege for me. She died listening to that lovely Schubert that she and Daddy adored. I made sure we played it at her funeral as she left the church for the crematorium.
I thought long and hard whether to contact you before the funeral but, honestly, after we last spoke I think Mummy wouldn’t have wanted you there.
As you can imagine, I am exhausted with it all and, even after all that happened, feel the need to make contact with you again. We are sisters and have been through so much together. Your life has been a lot luckier than mine. You have forged a career and now have a family of your own. I couldn’t have selfishly left Mummy to do what you have done. I forgive you for all the upset of the past and would like to come and visit you. Perhaps in the New Year? I am taking a little sunshine break over Christmas. Doctor’s orders. Too many memories of Mummy … You are my only family and my dearest wish is for us to reach the hands of goodwill towards each other in my bereavement.
Yours truly,
Suzie
Penny’s breathing became ragged again. She clutched at her bed sheets as if the bed was tossing on an open sea and she was to be cast into its chilled depths. Her eyes scanned the horrible words again.
Lost contact. Mummy died. Last breath. Schubert. Funeral. Wouldn’t have wanted you there. I forgive you. Penny had never felt so alone. Not since she had walked away from their last meeting. How could they have held such secrets from her? And Suzie, her sister. Always on target when inflicting emotional pain. Suzie, the sister who had kept the secret that Margot, their mother had shared with her but not with Penny. But the secret had popped out over that terrible lunch a few years ago. No apology. No comfort. A secret that had blind-sided Penny. A secret she still hadn’t processed. A secret she’d swept under the carpet where it could stay.
Would her father have told her the truth?
*
The memories that Penny had kept so tightly locked inside her were flashing back thick and fast, so real it was as if she’d stepped back into the shoes of her younger self. Little Penny standing in the kitchen holding her hands over her ears as her mother scolded, ‘You are responsible … If he dies now … it will be your fault.’ Penny still felt the pain of her mother’s words after almost forty years.
She hadn’t been allowed to visit her father in hospital.
‘He’s very ill. He certainly doesn’t want the stress and noise of a silly little girl like you,’ her mother had said.
Penny had watched as her mother had put Suzie’s little coat on and carried her out to the car.
‘Is Suzie allowed to see Daddy?’ she’d asked.
‘Of course. Daddy wants to see Suzie. She’s a good girl.’
Penny would sit on the monks seat of the small hallway, watching out of the window and waiting until they returned.
‘Is Daddy coming home soon?’ she’d ask.
Her mother would look at her with impatience. ‘Absolutely not. He’s much too ill.’
Then one day the answer was different. ‘The doctors say he can come home tomorrow.’
Penny was filled with happiness. ‘I shall make a coming-home picture for him.’ She ran up to her room and found her crayons and drawing book. She drew a picture of her father wearing his old jumper. He was in the garden and a big smiley sun with curly rays was over his head. Behind him was the greenhouse with red blobs of ripe tomatoes and long green cucumbers. She wrote welcome home daddy xxxxx across the fluffy clouds and along the bottom by Penny Leighton age 7.
She kept it under her bed as a surprise for the next day.
Penny had been waiting impatiently for her mother’s car to pull into the drive. When it did, she opened the front door and rushed to meet her father. She stopped a few feet away as she saw him climb out. His perpetual suntan had faded and his clothes were loose on him, but as soon as he saw her he beamed and spread his arms out wide. ‘Penny,’ he said lovingly, ‘I’ve missed you.’
She ran to him and hugged him close, his stomach soft on her face, ‘Have you missed your old dad?’ he asked, ruffling the top of her hair.
‘I have. I wanted to see you but Mummy said you were too ill and that I’d get you over excited.’ Her words were muffled by his jacket and her tears.
‘Did she? Well, I think you would have been the best medicine. I feel better already just seeing you.’ He took her hand and together they walked to the front door.
The daily, Linda, came out on to the step. ‘Welcome home, Mr Leighton. I’ve got the kettle on.’
Margot had caught up now, carrying a small suitcase and Suzie. She thrust both at Linda. ‘I’ll do the tea. If you could just put Mr Leighton’s case upstairs, in the spare room, and see to Suzie, please.’
Linda did as she was asked.
‘Come and sit in your chair, Daddy.’ Penny led her father to the sunny drawing room that ran the length of the house. At one end you could see the front garden and the road and at the other end the back garden. His chair was facing the back garden. Mike sat and patted the arm for Penny to sit on. ‘So, Pen, have you been looking after my greenhouse?’
‘Mummy said I wasn’t to touch it.’
‘Well, we’ll go and have a look later, shall we?’ He held her hand and squeezed it.
‘Oh, that reminds me …’ Penny jumped down. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
When she came back, Margot was fussing with teacups and plates of bread and butter. ‘Here you are, Daddy.’ Penny handed him her drawing. ‘I did it for you last night.’
He took it and admired it carefully. ‘You’ve got it all just right. My old jumper, the greenhouse … And I love the sun shining down.’
Penny glowed with this praise.
Margot admonished her. ‘Penny, don’t just sit there, help with the tea.’ She helped to pass round the little plates and gave Suzie her beaker of milk. ‘Mummy, Daddy says we can go and look at the greenhouse together later.’
Margot looked incredulous. ‘Look at the greenhouse? Oh no you won’t. Either of you. The doctor has told Daddy to take things easy which means no more digging and lugging heavy watering cans around.’
‘But I can do that for him,’ smiled Penny, thrilled with the idea of helping her father. ‘Can’t I, Daddy?’
Mike smiled at his wife. ‘Seeing to the greenhouse isn’t hard work; and anyway, the doctor said I need to take exercise to keep me fitter.’
‘No,’ said Margot flatly. ‘The greenhouse is too much and I’d never be able to trust you again. As soon as my back is turned you’ll be smoking again and worse.’
Mike chuckled and gave Margot one of his most handsome glances. ‘Come on, old thing. A man is allowed the odd bit of fun.’
She remained impervious. ‘In case you have forgotten, you nearly died because of your secret smoking and drinking.’
Two bright spots of colour formed on his cheeks. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he said angrily.
‘Now don’t lose your temper. I’m trying to help you,’ said Margot.
‘Help me? Castrate me you mean.’
‘Drink your tea and calm down. You know you’re not to get agitated.’
Penny watched this exchange with mounting anxiety. ‘Mummy. Daddy. Stop.’
Margot sniffed and sat on an upright chair, balancing her teacup on her lap. Mike looked out of the window at his greenhouse and drained his cup. ‘Penny, put this on the table, would you, darling?’ He handed her the empty cup and stood up. ‘I’m going to have a look at my greenhouse,’ he said. ‘Care to come with me, Pen?’
She glanced quickly at her mother who was finding the toe of her shoe fascinating.
Penny took her father’s hand. As they got to the kitchen and unlocked the back door they heard her mother shout bitterly, ‘Take a good look. I’ve got a man coming to take it down tomorrow.’
*
Penny leant back against her pillows feeling the familiar tears pricking her eyes. Why were these memories flooding back now? Drowning her. The death of a parent? The fact that she hadn’t shared the truth with a soul? The opening of old wounds? The fear of what would happen next? Or just a deep dark sorrow …
*
ELLA
At exactly the same time in London, Ella was wiping tears away too. Tears of fury and frustration because of her mother, her irresponsible, unreliable mother, who had left her and her not-much-older brother, Henry, two tiny children, with their grandmother and disappeared to God knew where. Ella blamed her mother for the early death of her darling granny – after all, she had worried night and day about where her daughter had disappeared to, as well as being left in sole charge of two young children. But Granny had devoted every breathing moment to making their childhood magical.
Ella thought back to a time when she was about eight years old and she and Granny were walking on Shellsand Beach looking for shells.
‘I want you to find the prettiest, the smallest, the most colourful and the biggest,’ Granny had said. Ella had dashed down to the rock pools and begun scrabbling through the seaweed and sand. Something caught her eye. ‘Granny!’ she shouted excitedly. ‘I think I’ve found a hermit crab. Look.’
Her grandmother was settled on a dry piece of sand. She was sitting on a beach towel and wearing her usual garb of blue linen trousers and fisherman’s smock, faded through sun and wear. ‘Put it in your bucket and show me,’ she called back.
Ella had some trouble catching the little hermit crab that sidled speedily under a cloud of seaweed, but eventually she got him and trundled up the beach, trying not to slop the bucket. ‘Look, Granny.’
Her grandmother always took the time to examine treasures fully. ‘Oh yes. He’s a beaut. What shall we call him?’ she asked.
‘How about Crabby?’
‘Perfect. Crabby he is. I’ll look after him while you find me those shells.’
Ella smiled at the memory. How she missed her grandmother. There was nothing to miss about her mother, who just hadn’t been there.
Straightening her shoulders and wiping her eyes, Ella called Henry’s mobile. ‘Hey, it’s me. Granny’s solicitor in Trevay has just called. He thinks he may have another lead on Mum’s whereabouts.’
She heard Henry swear under his breath. ‘Hasn’t she done enough damage? If they find her she’ll swoop in and inherit everything. Granny will be spinning in her grave.’
7 (#ulink_e2cbeeed-bd6c-594e-9999-2da1105bbea0)
Getting up the next morning, Penny couldn’t remember when she’d had more than a two-hour run of sleep. She felt weak and dizzy most of the time. Her appetite had drifted and her eating had become chaotic. Jenna was the centre of her being and yet she was being grizzly and difficult and Penny had started to berate herself for being a terrible mother. Simon, who was caught up in his preparations for Christmas and all the needs of his flock, hadn’t appreciated how low she was until last night.
Penny had had too much wine and accused him of ignoring the most important commandment of all. ‘Remember, do unto others as you would have them do unto you!’ she shouted at him. ‘Would you love me more if I dressed up as Mary and slept in the garage with Jenna in the wheelbarrow? Chuck in a couple of sheep and an angel or two then we’d have your full attention?’
‘Penny,’ he said, ‘you and Jenna are my top priority but I’m a vicar and this is one of the busiest times of the year for me.’
She clung to him, starting to cry. ‘It’s busy for me too. Christmas is less than four weeks away and I haven’t done anything. No presents. No cards. No tree. No husband to help me.’
Simon had held her tight. ‘OK, my love, OK. You tell me what you’d like me to do and I’ll do it.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ he’d said.
Penny drooped down the stairs and sat at the bottom to listen out for Jenna who was settling down for her morning sleep. Satisfied that all was quiet she hauled herself to her feet and made her way to the office. She was exhausted mentally and emotionally but, with wearying inevitability, she knew she had an email to write.
To: Mavis Crewe
From: Penny Leighton
Subject: The Mr Tibbs Mysteries
Dear Mavis,
I can’t tell you how upset I am by your decision but I will honour it. In the next day or two I shall talk to David Cunningham and Dahlia Dahling’s agents and let them know that there is to be no more Mr Tibbs. David and Dahlia have worked so hard on their lead characters and I know they will be as distraught as I am seeing Mr Tibbs and Miss Trumpet leave our screens. I shall have to work on a press release that will go out once all the cast and production team have received the news.
On a personal note, I can’t express how much I shall miss you. Your friendship has meant a lot to me. However, as you said, all good things come to an end and I guess this is the end.
With fondest memories,
Penny.
She pressed send and quickly wrote another email, this time to Jack Bradbury, confirming that she accepted Mr Tibbs was no more and that she would not be presenting Channel 7 with plans for a future series.
In the kitchen she opened the fridge and took out an opened bottle of Chablis. She looked at the kitchen clock. Just after eleven fifteen. She reached for a wine glass. The bottle of wine was cool in her hand and, as she pulled out the cork the nostalgic smells of hot, uncomplicated summers assaulted her. She poured just half a glass. That would be plenty to take the edge off. She pulled her chair, with the soft cashmere cushion on it, out from under the table and sat down. She put the glass to her mouth and drank. The wine slid down like oil into a rusted engine. She could feel her body waking to its silky caress and took another mouthful; almost as good as the first; and another, until the glass was empty. She went to the fridge and took a last refill from the bottle. With every sip a new fear tripped into her mind: how could she ever be a good mother when her own mother had hated her? When her sister hated her so much? She sat and closed her eyes, hoping it would help shut out the memories. She knew there was another bottle in the fridge. Maybe just one more glass? The more she drank, the more relaxed she became, and the more it didn’t matter. She stood up and knocked her chair backwards, making a loud clatter. ‘Shhhhh,’ she said to the empty room, ‘mustn’t wake Jenna.’ She took the remains of the bottle to the fridge. Her legs felt wobbly. ‘Oh Penny,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘you’re pissed. You need a little lie down on the sofa. Just forty winks.’
*
Penny had come home from school and her mother was sitting in the drawing room looking wronged. ‘Hello, Mummy, are you OK?’ asked Penny.
Her mother shot her a look. ‘The doctor says your father needs a holiday. He needs a holiday? What about me? I’m the one who has suffered. I need a holiday more than he does.’
Penny went to put her hand on her mother’s knee. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll swim with him and you can get some rest.’
‘You’re not coming.’
Penny was baffled. ‘But Daddy likes to swim with me.’
‘You are staying with your aunt and uncle. You have school to go to. Daddy, Suzie and I are going to the south of France where it is warm.’ She pushed Penny’s hand away. ‘God knows how we can afford it.’
Penny didn’t understand why her mother was always going on about money when she was always at the hairdresser’s or coming home with a new dress.
‘But Daddy can, can’t he?’
‘He’ll have to. I certainly can’t.’
Penny thought about the other bit of news. She wasn’t going to join them on holiday. That hurt. She liked her uncle, her father’s brother, very much and her aunt was cuddly and kind, but she would rather be going on holiday with her family. ‘How long will you be away for?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Can I go and look at Daddy? If he’s asleep I won’t wake him. I promise.’
‘You must not go near his room. I have enough on my plate.’ Her mother got up and went looking for Suzie.
Penny sneaked upstairs and opened the door of the spare bedroom as quietly as she could. Her father was lying on his side, facing away from her, his breathing deep and rhythmic. She crept a little closer and tiptoed around the bed so that she could see his face. His eyes were shut but he looked a lot better than he had done. She climbed on to the bed and snuggled next to him. She kissed his nose. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her with a smile. ‘Hello, Pen.’
‘Hello, Daddy.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too – and I’m going to miss you when you go on holiday with Mummy and Suzie.’
His face clouded momentarily. ‘Ah, Mummy’s told you, then?’
Penny nodded.
‘I’m sorry, sausage, its doctor’s orders apparently and you don’t mind being at Uncle Nick and Auntie Dawn’s do you?’
‘Not really, but I’d rather be with you.’
He put his arm around her and hugged her to him. ‘And I’d rather be with you.’
‘Penny!’ Her mother was shouting at her. ‘Penny! Wake up. Jenna’s screaming.’
Penny opened her eyes – and Simon was standing in front of her …
‘Penny, have you been drinking? What’s going on?’
She couldn’t think of a suitable answer. He turned and walked away. ‘I’d better see to Jenna. One of us has to be a responsible parent.’
*
‘He looked at me with such – disappointment.’ Penny was sitting at Helen’s kitchen table in Gull’s Cry, nursing a dry mouth and a headache.
‘Well, can’t you see why?’ said Helen worriedly. ‘Penny, how could you have done something like that when you had Jenna upstairs. Anything could have happened.’
Penny looked at her forlornly. ‘I’ve never felt as low as this. I have no energy. I look forward to nothing. I want everything to just stop. I feel I’m going mad. Mr Tibbs has come to an end, my mother has died – wouldn’t you have a little drink too?
Helen, who had had a particularly unpleasant argument with Piran not half an hour before Penny had arrived, had little patience left. ‘Penny, I’m worried about you. It’s just not like you to be so defeatist. Yes, it’s a tough time right now but you have so many blessings to count. Your life is peachy compared to others.’ She started to tick the list off on her fingers. ‘A house, a husband, a daughter, a business, money in the bank, friends – what more do you want? If I were you I’d be skipping round the village green every day, thanking my lucky stars. Couldn’t you use this time to take a little break, enjoy being with Jenna while she’s still so tiny and get back into all the TV stuff in a year or two?’
Penny was stung. ‘But if I was out for that long people would forget about me! And I know I should be grateful, of course I do. But why do I feel so unhappy? Why don’t I feel the happiness I should feel?’
Helen felt out of her depth and said more gently, ‘Penny, you must snap out of it. Go for a walk. Read a book. Go to a spa?’
‘Simon says I need to get a nanny.’
‘You do need to get a nanny.’
‘I don’t want a nanny.’
‘It wouldn’t be for you, it’s for Jenna.’
‘Because I’m such a useless mother?’ Penny’s voice started to rise in panic.
‘No, no,’ Helen tried to calm her. ‘No one is saying that but …’ She took a moment to think of the right words. ‘But you need a break and some help.’
‘I just need some sleep and for Simon to be around a bit more.’
‘And you could have that if you had a nanny.’
Penny sat back in her chair and rubbed her make-up-less eyes with her fingers. ‘I’d love a spa day.’
‘Then let’s do it.’ Helen leant across the table and held her best friend’s hand.
‘Who will have Jenna?’ countered Penny.
‘Simon will.’
‘But he’s always so busy.’
‘I’ll ask him. Anyway, it’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’ll tell him it’s an early birthday present. Or a late one. ’
When Penny got back to the vicarage, Simon had more than a whiff of burning martyr about him. ‘Jenna’s had her supper and bath.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sure she’d like a story from you … if you aren’t too tired.’ To Penny’s mind he put the emphasis on the word tired to suggest she might still be full of wine.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Right.’ He collected up some leaflets for the Parish Council meeting. ‘Well, I’m off.’ He picked up the keys to his Volvo. ‘See you later.’
As the door clunked shut behind him Penny had to fight the urge to run after him, tell him she was so sorry for getting drunk. Sorry for being a horrible harridan. Sorry for being a bad mother. Anything to stop him from leaving her. She needed his reassurance, his security. She wanted him as she had wanted her father when he had finally left her.
She looked at herself in the mirror behind the kitchen door. Who was she? She looked like a mad woman. Her face frightened her.
Frantically she splashed herself with cold water, dried her hands by running them through her uncombed hair. She could hear Jenna calling from upstairs.
‘Come on, Penny. You can do this,’ she said to her reflection before calling out, ‘coming, my love.’
When Jenna had finally fallen asleep, Penny crept out on to the landing and down to her office. She knew she couldn’t bury her head in the sand and checked her emails. Nothing from her contacts or Jack Bradbury or Mavis Crewe. This is how it starts, she thought, one day the phone stops ringing and your career stops too.
She scrolled down her list of opened emails and found the one from her sister via Marion. She read it again. What kind of sister would withhold the information about her mother being ill, let alone dead? And to go ahead with the funeral, which she wasn’t sure she’d have attended anyway, without letting her know. Penny’s hurt balled into the back of her throat where it writhed and tightened until her body spat it out in one long wail. She sat rocking backwards and forwards on her office chair, unable to stop the noise or the tears, which now ran down her cheeks in a constant stream. She found her voice and sputtered into the air. ‘Help me! Someone help me. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t do this any more. I’m so tired. Please help me someone!’ Her throat constricted again and more sobs followed, but there was no one to come. After some time, and experiencing the odd sense of floating outside her body that had recently been so strong, she went to the downstairs cloakroom and rummaged on the shelves behind the coat racks where she kept the first aid tin. She opened it and the familiar smell of Savlon leaked out. She found what she wanted and put them in her cardigan pocket. She went to the kitchen, filled a large glass with tap water, and walked up the stairs
She took the strip of tablets from her pocket and carefully popped each one from its foil blister, lined them up on the bedside table, then went to look in on Jenna. She stroked the sleeping face and whispered ‘I love you so much’ to her tiny daughter. Her tears dripped on to the warm cheek of her beloved girl, causing her to give a little reflex jump, but she didn’t wake. ‘Night-night, darling. Mummy will always love you. I’ll always be here for you.’ As she left the room she saw Sniffy on the shelf. She picked him up and sniffed him before taking him to her room.
She cleaned her face and her teeth and brushed her hair. She spritzed on a little of the perfume that Simon liked and then got into bed. She lay down for a moment and, with the scene set, she felt a peacefulness that had eluded her for months. She propped herself on one elbow and picked up all the pills, put them in her mouth one by one, taking a mouthful of water with each and swallowed. She lay down with Sniffy in the crook of her arm where he had always belonged.
8 (#ulink_ddc42b41-fefb-5763-aeac-e4dffb9fec40)
‘Can you hear me, Penny?’
Penny didn’t want to open her eyes. Who was this person disturbing her?
‘Penny, love, my name is Sandra. I’m a paramedic. You’ve taken some pills.’
Penny answered silently. Yes, I did, and now I’m sleeping. Stop tapping my hand.
‘Penny, stay with me. Can you say “Hello, Sandra”?’
Penny mustered the words. ‘Hello, Sandra.’ There, satisfied?
‘What was that? You’re mumbling a bit.’
Are you deaf? I’m trying to sleep.
‘Your husband’s here.’
Oh shit.
‘He found you and called us. He’s very worried. How many pills did you take?’
Not enough.
‘Penny, come on, stay with me.’ The patting on Penny’s arm was getting quite painful. She tried to pull her arm away but it was held fast.
Now she heard Simon’s voice, anxious, ‘Penny, darling. They’re going to pop you in the ambulance and get you to hospital.’
‘Where’s Jenna?’ she managed to say.
‘Jenna’s OK. Don’t worry about Jenna,’ said the bloody Sandra woman again. ‘She’s with your friend.’
Simon’s voice again, ‘Yes, she’s with Helen. I’m coming with you to hospital.’
She quite liked the feeling of being manhandled onto a stretcher and carried down the stairs. She could at least keep her eyes closed and no one was asking any more silly questions. The ambulance was comfortable but still the bloody Sandra woman wouldn’t let her sleep.
‘Open your eyes for me, would you, Penny?’
Bugger off, thought Penny.
‘Come on now, Penny, open your eyes for me, please.’ The woman started patting the back of Penny’s hand again.
‘What now?’ asked Penny, angrily opening her eyes.
‘That’s it, well done,’ said Sandra who immediately shone the brightest of lights into her eyes. She instantly shut them again.
When she woke next, she was in a hospital bed feeling groggy. There was a canula in the back of her left hand attached to a drip. The room was quiet apart from the beep of what she assumed was a heart machine recording her pulse. She wasn’t dead, then.
Simon was sitting in a plastic-covered armchair at the foot of the bed. He looked grey.
‘Hello,’ he said with a tired smile. He got up and came to the bed, bending down to kiss her forehead then her hand. He started to cry. ‘Oh, Pen. Why did you do it?’
‘What time is it?’ she asked him. Her throat was dry and her head ached.
‘Almost six.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have I been here all night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been here all night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you …’
Outside, the corridor was already rustling into life. She heard a rattle of teacups as a trolley pushed closer to her room. It stopped at a door along from hers and she heard the squeak of soles on the rubber floor, a cheery voice. ‘Morning, Mrs Wilson. You ready for a cup of tea, my dear?’
‘Why did you do it?’ asked Simon again.
She turned her head away from him and felt the pillow cool on her cheek. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Are things so bad that you wanted to leave Jenna and me?’
‘I just wanted to stop for a bit. I wanted everything to stop, just for a minute, and leave me be. I didn’t want to die, necessarily, just … stop … Stop.’
‘Did you think about me?’
She thought and answered truthfully. ‘No.’
He reached for his handkerchief and wiped his eyes before blowing his nose. ‘Don’t you love us any more?’
She closed her eyes. ‘It’s not that. I just wanted to … I don’t know … just have a bit of peace. I was, am, so tired.’ She looked at him, tearfully. ‘Please don’t be angry with me.’
‘I’m not angry,’ he said a little angrily, ‘but I can’t bear the thought that you – that we – nearly lost you.’
The door pushed open and a smiling nurse came in. ‘Good to see you awake, Mrs Canter. Mr Canter has been watching you all night.’
‘I know he has.’
The nurse, whose name badge said Sister Mairi McLeod, busied herself with taking Penny’s blood pressure, temperature and pulse. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ she asked.
‘OK,’ said Penny.
‘Got a headache, I expect?’
Penny attempted humour. ‘Yes. Which is odd considering I took so many pills. You would have thought I’d have slept it off!’
Sister Mairi frowned. ‘You took enough to kill yourself. It wasn’t funny for the team in A & E who had to get them out of you.’
Penny was chastened. ‘Sorry.’ She glanced over at Simon, who was examining his hands. ‘When can I go home?’ Penny asked
‘After Dr Nickelson, the consultant psychiatrist, has assessed you.’
Psychiatrist? ‘I’m fine,’ said Penny, panicking a little. ‘I just needed some sleep and now I want to go home to my daughter, she’s only a baby. I don’t need a psychiatrist.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m not mad.’
Sister Mairi clicked the end of her Biro and began to write on the file of notes that hooked onto the end of the bed. Without looking up she said, ‘Let Dr Nickelson decide what’s what. Once he’s had a look at you, you’ll know when you can go home. I’m going to check your bloods again now. Hopefully you won’t have done any long-term damage. You’ve been lucky.’
Penny wasn’t sure she agreed.
At some point during the following minutes and hours Simon had gone in search of breakfast and a cup of tea and had returned with a copy of the Telegraph and the latest Vogue. He gave the magazine to Penny, who waved it away, and then settled in the plastic armchair to do the crossword. He made no attempt at conversation, which Penny appreciated; although she noticed that he was just staring blankly at the lines of text without reading. She didn’t want to face any of his sad-eyed questioning. She closed her eyes and spent the time drifting in and out of a pleasant slumber.
Just before lunch – she knew it was lunchtime because the smell of mince and onions was drifting through her door – a young man in a check shirt and corduroy trousers came smilingly into the room.
‘Hello, I’m Dr Nickelson. Consultant psychiatrist.’
Simon leapt to his feet and pumped hands with him. ‘Jolly good of you to come,’ he said, delighted, or so Penny thought, that at last there was a male in the room. Someone he could understand.
Dr Nickelson turned and smiled at Penny. ‘Mrs Canter.’ He shook her hand too and dragged a smaller chair up to the bedside. He had a file in one hand, which he opened and quickly scanned, reminding himself of the facts.
Penny lay silent.
‘May I call you Penny?’ he asked pleasantly.
She nodded.
He settled himself. ‘So. Let’s start with the hardest question. Why?’
Penny took a deep breath. ‘I have a young baby.’
‘How old?’
‘Just turned one. And she’s such a good girl but I get so tired. I just …’ Her voice broke. ‘I just wanted a good night’s sleep.’
‘Hm.’ He looked at her notes again. ‘With a large quantity of pills.’
She nodded. She could feel tears gripping her throat. She tried to swallow them down.
‘Have you had suicidal thoughts before?’
She paused, forcing the dreaded tears not to come. ‘I didn’t want to die – I just wanted the world to stop for a bit. So that I could get some rest.’
He smiled again and she saw the understanding in his eyes. ‘I think we all want that sometimes. You’re not mad.’
The tears raced up her throat and into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked.
‘So, apart from managing a young baby, have there been any other difficulties recently?’
She wiped a trickle of snot from her nose. ‘Not really.’
Simon uncrossed his legs and leant forward, passing her a tissue. ‘That’s not true, Penny,’ he said. ‘What about work? And your mother?’
Dr Nickelson kept his eyes on Penny and waited.
She turned her eyes from Simon to Dr Nickelson and all of a sudden found her tears flowing unstoppably. She tried to compose herself. ‘Oh, I work in television and a programme I make has been cancelled.’ She stopped.
‘And your mother?’ prompted Dr Nickelson.
‘She, erm …’ Penny wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue then twisted it around her fingers. ‘She and I hadn’t spoken for a while, and – and she died. A couple of weeks ago I think.’
‘You think?’
‘My sister told me a few days ago and it was … It was a shock.’
‘I’m sure it was. Has there been the funeral yet?’
‘It happened without me knowing.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, no wonder you have been feeling so low. Just one of those events – new baby, problems at work or the death of a parent – would be enough to make anyone feel the way you do.’
‘I suppose.’ She looked at Simon. ‘I’m so sorry, Simon. So sorry.’ Her tears came again.
He blinked his large chocolate eyes behind his spectacles and got up, bending awkwardly to hug her prone body lying in the bed. ‘I’m sorry, too,’ he said. ‘I should have noticed how bad you were feeling. I’m so grateful that I’ve been given the chance to make things better for you. I could have …’ He fought the lump in his throat. ‘I could have lost you. But I know now, and we can get through this, together.’
Dr Nickelson talked a bit more about the tests they’d run. Her liver and kidneys were undamaged but she should get a lot of rest and do only the things she wanted to do. ‘More long baths, walks and time to heal,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to your GP and will see you once a week for the next month or so, after which we’ll see which is the best way forward.’
‘Not the Priory?’ she said as another small joke.
He smiled. ‘No. Not the Priory.’
‘When can I take her home?’ asked Simon.
Dr Nickelson looked from one to the other. ‘Well, as long as you promise to ring me or your GP or even the hospital if you feel the harmful thoughts coming back, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go home now.’
‘Really?’ Simon tightened his hold on Penny’s hand and her own fingers tightened in response.
‘Really. I’ll write a prescription and then you can jump on your horse and ride outta here.’
As soon as Nickelson had gone, Simon sat on the bed and took Penny’s hand. He pressed it to his lips as he looked into her eyes. She saw his fear and his love and squeezed his hand tightly. ‘I do love you, Simon Canter. I’m so sorry.’ She felt a tremendous rush of gratitude for her husband and the life she still had. ‘I love you. I really do love you. I promise, I won’t ever try to leave you again.’
They went home, Simon settling her into the front seat and then driving very carefully to the vicarage. There was too much to say to each other, and neither had the words.
Helen was there when they arrived, opening the front door with Jenna on her hip. Penny took her beloved daughter in her arms and hugged her tight, kissing her sweet-smelling hair. Helen got them both upstairs and ran a hot bath for Penny while putting Jenna into Simon’s care.
Helen watched as Penny undressed and got into the bath. ‘Would you like me to wash your hair for you?’ she asked. Penny nodded, and shed more tears as her friend performed this gentle and loving kindness.
‘I’m so sorry I spoke to you harshly yesterday,’ said Helen, keeping her own guilty tears at bay. ‘I wasn’t a good friend to you.’
Penny shook her head. ‘You’ve been a wonderful friend. Always. I’m so sorry I have let you all down.’
‘All you’ve done is make us realize how very unhappy you have been.’
‘Does Simon think me very selfish?’
‘You’ll have to talk to him about that.’
Penny nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Here, tip your head back and I’ll give you a good rinse.’ Helen took the showerhead and allowed the warm water to do its job. ‘Bloody hell! When did you last have your roots done?’ she mocked affectionately.
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Well, that’s tomorrow sorted then. We’re going to get ourselves pampered.’
Lying in bed that night, Penny listened to the house gently settling around her. She heard Simon see Helen out of the front door, thanking her again. She turned and looked at the bunch of Christmas roses and winter honeysuckle in the blue jug on her windowsill. Helen had put them there, knowing that they were her favourites. Old friends and family … She closed her eyes and felt so grateful. Tonight she could have been in a mortuary, but instead she was in her own bed, surrounded by her true family and the scent of honeysuckle.
At her parents’ house she could remember the breakfast table always had a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers perfectly in the centre, but with the atmosphere crackling with barbed comments from her mother and patient responses from her father. She would always arrive late for school having been hurried and harried and, more often than not, having forgotten some vital piece of homework or kit in the flurry. Life was chaotic and loud and tense.
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