Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton
that they should get the tree surgeon in to trim it back. Francis liked the seclusion that it afforded him. The garden really was amazing. An Albertine rose bush bloomed lusciously nearby. He drew in great breaths of salty air, full of the aroma of freshly mown grass. His nerves were giving him nausea. He closed his eyes, hoping it would pass.
‘Frankie! Look at you sitting among the apples and roses. Just like Romeo waiting for Juliet!’ His eyes snapped open. Belinda was coming towards him. Francis jumped up so quickly at the sound of her voice that he forgot about the branches that were dangerously close overhead. As he stood, his skull took an almighty crack from a particularly thick branch.
‘Argh, Jesus!!’ Francis clutched at his head and then, looking up, he saw Belinda heading towards him. The bump on his head had obviously been a nasty one; as he took his hand away from his skull he saw blood on his fingers. Nausea welled within him. Belinda, who had looked quite normal to begin with, suddenly seemed crystal sharp, almost as if he were watching Henry’s HD television, then her outline grew smudged and wonky as if in a dream. Her ample bosoms were dancing like dandelion heads in a soft breeze. Her voice was coming and going in waves of sound he couldn’t make out. Closer and closer she got to him, her mouth moving and her arms outstretched. So close was she now that the light of the sun was dimmed, while the ground beneath him rose up and tipped his stone seat to the left. Her lips were almost on his own. Then darkness came.
Later he was aware of a softness beneath his horizontal body. He heard voices talking quietly nearby.
Belinda first: ‘I saw him sitting there, probably waiting for me, bless him. Then he hit his head on one of those branches and was out cold.’
Greg’s voice: ‘My dear, what a terrible shock for you. Let me get you a brandy.’
Belinda again: ‘Don’t mind if I do. I feel a bit shaky.’
Greg: ‘And I’ll join you, naturally. I’d never let a lady drink on her own.’
He heard footsteps on the front porch, then Pru’s voice: ‘Francis! For God’s sake, get up. You’ll get damp through lying on the grass like that.’
Belinda: ‘He’s had a nasty knock. This gentleman helped me get him flat. Frankie’s bumped his head on the stone, look.’
Pru’s voice now; loud and close in his ear: ‘Francis! Get up.’
Belinda: ‘He’s hurt. We’ve called an ambulance.’
Pru’s voice, cold: ‘Who are you?’
Pru was scanning the woman in front of her. She was on the pretty side – if overweight could be pretty – and overtly girly and feminine. Pru felt rather sorry for her.
‘My name’s Belinda. I work with Frankie.’
‘Ah! Belinda. My name is Pru and I am married to Frankie.’ She corrected herself: ‘Francis.’
Belinda: ‘How do you do.’
Greg again: ‘Here, get this brandy down.’
Pru: ‘Francis doesn’t like brandy.’
Greg: ‘Oh, he does. But only when you’re not around. Besides, this is for Belinda and me.’
Somewhere above the sound of talk and seagulls Francis could hear a siren. The ambulance, he supposed, as he drifted off back into darkness.
*
The hospital discharged him a few hours later, when they were quite sure the bump on his head was nothing serious. They gave him a leaflet to read on watching out for signs of concussion, a box of paracetamol and advised bed rest.
‘Bed rest! He seems perfectly fine,’ interjected Pru as the doctor tended to her husband.
‘Your blood pressure is a little high, Mr Meake. Are you under a lot of stress?’
‘My husband is not stressed or anxious. If anyone is, it’s me. My masseur says she’s never felt such tense and knotted shoulders as mine.’
The doctor ignored her and spoke to Francis.
‘What about your diet? You’re a bit underweight.’
‘His diet would make Gwyneth Paltrow look as if she’s been on the Hobnobs!’ answered Pru, as though Francis were a small child unable to answer for himself.
The doctor admonished her: ‘Please, Mrs Meake, let your husband answer.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Francis.
‘Well, you have a nasty bump on the head and it appears from the blood tests that you are also a little anaemic. I want you to eat lots of leafy green vegetables, dried fruits, nuts. Try a steak every now and then, if you can. And try not to worry about things. Take it easy for the next day or two. OK?’
Pru, who had followed the ambulance to hospital in her own car, was driving him back to Atlantic House now.
‘I’m sorry about all the fuss and bother,’ Francis said.
‘I think it’s your friend, Belinda, you should apologise to. You gave her quite a shock.’
‘I was surprised to see her.’ He looked down at his grazed knuckles.
‘She claimed she works with you,’ Pru snorted, and gave him a short glance.
‘That’s something of an exaggeration. I told you, she’s on the PTA and is a bit of a busybody.’
‘She called you Frankie.’
Francis started to feel sick – his head throbbed. ‘Yes. It’s very annoying.’
They settled into a familiar silence. Francis leaned his head on the half-open window, taking deep breaths.
The car rolled into Higher Barton and finally down the narrow, sweet-smelling lane leading to Treviscum Bay and Atlantic House. Pru helped Francis out and up to their room. As he cleaned his teeth he saw the graze on his cheekbone and the swelling above his eye.
‘That’ll be a shiner tomorrow,’ said Pru, behind him. ‘Come on, Frankie, let’s get you into bed.’ She passed him a glass of water and his tablet.
‘Thank you, Pru.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘For looking after me.’
‘Hmm. Don’t get used to it. Get some sleep and I’ll try not to wake you when I come up.’ She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Sleep well.’
*
He woke the next morning to a gentle shake of his shoulder and a cup of tea from Jeremy.
‘Here you are, Dad.’
‘Thanks, Jem.’ Francis sat up feeling very groggy while his son set the mug down on the bedside table and perched on the bed.
‘How do you feel?’
‘OK.’
‘We’re all worried about you. Maybe we should look after you for a bit, instead of the other way round, eh?’
Francis smiled at his beloved son. ‘I’m fine. You know me, I enjoy looking after you and Mum.’
‘Yeah, well, stay in bed a bit. Mum says she can get her own breakfast today.’
Father and son smiled at each other, sharing the joke.
Jeremy stood up and walked to the door. ‘Shout if there’s anything I can get you. Oh, nearly forgot, your friend Belinda says she’ll be over to see you in a minute.’
Francis didn’t have time to take evasive action. No sooner had Jem left the room than he heard Belinda’s trilled ‘Morning’ through the always unlocked front door.
He sat rigid in bed, his ears straining for any sound, above that of the noisy thumping of his heart, that might suggest she