Hidden Treasures. Fern Britton
you want to come back a bit later. In about an hour?’
‘No thank you. I am here to do the garden.’
‘Well yes, OK. Follow me, then.’
She took Tony out to the back garden, pausing only to slip on her wellies.
‘While I’m getting dressed, perhaps you’d like to start on the big bed here.’ She pointed at an eight-foot-square raised bed where the brambles were at least six feet high.
‘Just weed it and clear it and then I’ll be down to help you. OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No thankee. I’ve got me Ribena.’ He patted his canvas shoulder bag. ‘Don’t hurry, lady. Tony will be all right.’
‘OK. See you in an hour or so.’
Back indoors, Helen struggled to get her wellies off her slightly sweaty bare feet, put the kettle on and looked at the clock: 6.55 a.m. Realising there was no point in going back to bed, she made herself a cup of milky coffee, opened up her laptop and logged on. There were seventeen new messages, fifteen of which were spam. But there was one from Penny and one from Gray. She looked at Gray’s first.
Darling, longing to see you and get the hell out of town. Can you give me a number for the best hotel you can think of? Better book a double in case I can’t escape the bloody girlfriend. Thanks, darling. Your Gray.
‘I am not your bloody secretary and you are no longer MY Gray!’ Helen muttered to herself, but nonetheless she sent a polite email with the number of the swish Starfish Hotel in nearby Trevay.
The Starfish was exactly Gray’s kind of place. In summer you couldn’t move in the old harbour car park for Porsches and Bentleys, and the Starfish was always awash with visiting celebrities pretending they were staycationing (before they jetted off to the South of France or the Bahamas). The Cornish locals didn’t mind a bit. If the townies with more money than sense wanted to spend their bucks down here, well, why not! Never underestimate the commercial nous of a true Cornishman.
Next Helen opened her email from Penny.
Hello, gorgeous, how’s it going? You’ll never guess what … I’m working on a new costume drama based on the books of Mavis Crewe. Have you read them? She’s a poor man’s Daphne du Maurier, but one or two of her books have cracking stories. We’re scouting for a location in Cornwall and, having looked at the map, I’ve told the location manager to come and recce your village. I might come too – can I stay with you? It’ll be in the next month or so. Let me know. Love, Penny
Helen smiled and bashed out a quick reply:
Yes, any time! X
*
After she’d taken a bath and made herself presentable, Helen went out into the garden to see how Tony was faring. There was a bonfire smoking by the compost heap and the rich red soil of the flower bed was turned over neatly with not a weed in sight. Tony was sitting on the upturned wheelbarrow eating a pasty and drinking his Ribena.
‘Is that all right for ’ee, missus?’
‘Tony, that’s wonderful,’ said Helen. ‘Shall we crack on with some more?’
Together they worked for the rest of the day, stopping only for a quick sandwich – chicken salad for Helen and raspberry jam for Tony – until by sunset all of the large raised beds were cleared.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘I’ll ask Polly and tell ’ee later, missus.’
Tony collected his jacket, his bag and his spade and jumped over the low wall into Polly’s garden. Helen watched as he walked to the steps of his shepherd’s hut. He turned and waved to her, then went inside. She could see him turning on the light and drawing the blue gingham curtains.
What a dear man Tony was. Helen thought how fortunate he was to live here and not in a big city. In London he would surely be among the outcast homeless, forgotten by society. But here, among the caring community of Pendruggan, he was protected and safe. She was safe too. Safer than she had felt in years.
Helen turned and walked straight into an imposing male figure dressed head-to-toe in black. She screamed.
5
‘Ssssh sssh. It’s okay.’ The man held her arms tight. ‘I’ve just come to introduce myself.’
Helen kicked out at the stranger’s ankles and he let go of her, hopping about in pain. She ran to her back door, darted inside and bolted it behind her. Two seconds later, there was a gentle knocking.
‘I’m so sorry if I startled you. My name is Canter, Simon Canter. I’m the vicar of Holy Trinity Church here in the village. I’ve only come to say hello. Actually, I think my ankle is bleeding a bit.’
Helen slid the bolt open and looked at him. Amidst the black of his coat and trousers she saw the distinctive white dog collar.
‘Oh my God. You frightened the life out of me.’
‘I am awfully sorry. Shall I come back another time?’
‘No, it’s fine. Come in.’ She stepped aside and he walked into the kitchen.
‘Would you like me to look at your ankle?’
He rolled up his trousers to reveal a white and hairless leg with a long scrape and blood starting to ooze down his shin.
‘Oh God, I’ll get a plaster.’
Once he was fixed and she had apologised for her blaspheming, she brought out the sherry bottle and a tube of Pringles. He made himself comfortable at the kitchen table.
‘I knocked at your front door, but as there was no answer, and I could see you moving about in the back garden, I walked around the side to find you. Promise! Don’t think I’m a Peeping Tom or stalker or anything like that!’
Helen wondered if she would have been able to describe him to a police artist if he really had been an attacker; he had the kind of face you would be hard-pressed to recall. He was slim, slightly under six foot tall, with chocolate-brown eyes enlarged by his spectacles. A shiny bald head made him look older than he was, but she guessed he was about her age. He smiled at her as she looked at him. A lovely smile. Full of humour and sincerity. He had goodness and kindness emanating from him which was instantly likeable.
‘I thought I would just pop round, say hello, and welcome you to the parish and the church. Are you a churchgoer?’
‘I haven’t been for a long time. Not that I’m not a believer! It just hasn’t been on my agenda for a while.’
‘Perhaps I can persuade you to come along and meet some of the flock? We don’t bite!’ Simon’s Adam’s apple wobbled as he laughed. ‘Do you play the guitar? Or piano?’
Helen felt panicky. ‘No, not really. Not at all, actually. Why?’
‘Christmas is nearer than you think and we like to put on a bit of an entertainment in the church. Raise some much-needed funds with ticket sales. The churchyard needs a lot of work. Some of our graves are very old and getting rather dangerous. The parish council are concerned about headstones falling on children or elderly visitors. It all costs money.’ He drained his glass and she poured him another. ‘We may also have to move some graves and re-inter the remains to make a bit more room. The local archaeologist and county council need to be involved with that.’
‘Well, I’d certainly be happy to buy a ticket for the show.’
‘Excellent. How many?’
‘Just me. And maybe my daughter, if she’s down.’
‘Can we persuade your husband?’ He looked up with something in his eyes she couldn’t