Читать книгу Hidden Treasures - Fern Britton - Страница 12

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

Polly opened the door with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re joking!’

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

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

*

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

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

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

‘No you’re not.’

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

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

‘Well yes, OK. Follow me, then.’

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

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

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

‘Yeah.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

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

‘OK. See you in an hour or so.’

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

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

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

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

Next Helen opened her email from Penny.

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

Helen smiled and bashed out a quick reply:

Yes, any time! X

*

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

‘Is that all right for ’ee, missus?’

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

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

‘How much do I owe you?’

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

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

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

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