The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read. Fern Britton
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