Читать книгу Hidden Treasures - Fern Britton - Страница 16

It was 7 a.m. on Sunday morning and the Reverend Simon Canter was putting on his robes of office. On Sundays he took a no-frills, spoken rather than sung communion at 8 a.m. for those few communicants who wanted the peace of a child-free service first thing, leaving them free to get on with their day.

He’d got up earlier than usual today in order to give the vicarage a bit of a spring clean. His weekly help had been off with her hips for a couple of weeks now and the place was showing signs of neglect, so he’d vacuumed round the vast and largely unused Victorian sitting room and opened the French windows to allow the autumn air to disperse the smell of must and old hymn books that he felt must be hanging around. Then he cut another large bunch of his bronze dahlias from the garden and placed them in a vase on the modest grand piano. Not bad. Next he gave the downstairs loo a quick bleach and the kitchen a wipe.

When he finished getting dressed and came downstairs, he sniffed the air and immediately ran back upstairs to his bathroom. He returned with his aftershave (a Christmas present from Queenie, who’d assured him that David Beckham wore nothing less) and proceeded to squirt it liberally through the rooms downstairs. He sniffed again. Much better. Taking one last look round, he left to tend his flock.

*

Later that morning, walking over to the church, Helen mulled over the possibility that she might be missing London. Or, if not London itself, then maybe her friends. So she resolved to get some dates in the diary and encourage them to visit her.

Getting ready that morning, she’d looked in the mirror and decided she really ought to make an effort with her appearance. Once she’d applied a little mascara, rouge and lip gloss, she realised that it made her look much better than she had in weeks. She had decided on a cream and bronze chiffon tea dress which accentuated her freckles, over the top of which she was wearing a cream cashmere cardigan in case the church was cold. She’d kept her legs bare, with tan strappy sandals on her slim feet.

The church was fourteenth century with Victorian additions, most notably the clock tower. The bell ringers were calling the village to prayers and sending the rooks up into the trees like black plastic bin liners flapping in the breeze. As Helen came out of her gate, Polly and another man caught up with her. They were both in green ambulance uniforms.

‘Hello, Helen,’ said Polly, walking alongside her. ‘We’re on call today, but we don’t like to miss the service. We’ve got the pager, haven’t we, Pete?’ The man on the other side of Helen nodded. ‘You do look nice today,’ Polly continued. ‘I was saying to Pete, I wondered if we’d be seeing you at church today. Seeing as you and the vicar had quite a long chat the other night.’ Polly was smiling conspiratorially.

The man with Polly greeted Helen with a grin. ‘Hello. I’m Pete. Pleased to meet you. And so’s Reverend Canter, apparently.’

‘What?’ But Helen’s voice was lost as, flanked by the couple, she was swept into the church.

The entire congregation of twenty-five turned to look at her. Queenie, who was sitting near the front, waved the three of them over, and they sat down alongside her. For the next five minutes, Queenie, Pete and Polly introduced Helen, very proprietorially, to the entire church until, at exactly 10 a.m, Simon entered from a side door and the service began. As he introduced the first hymn he gave a little nod of hello to Helen and there was a definite thrum of excitement from the congregation.

*

The service was a good and simple one. Apart from a mild hiatus when Pete and Polly were called out to an emergency heart attack in Trevay, it went smoothly. Helen hadn’t taken communion for many years and was surprisingly moved by the gentleness of Simon’s touch and the blessings as he gave her the bread and wine.

When it came to giving the sign of peace, he made a beeline for her and held her hand a fraction longer than necessary while asking if she’d care to come over to the vicarage after the service to have a glass of sherry with several of the other parishioners. Helen felt she could hardly refuse in front of so many expectant faces.

‘Thank you. Just a quick one.’

Simon visibly relaxed and went on to shake hands with the rest of the throng.

*

‘Come in. Come in.’ He ushered his eight or so guests in to the sitting room. Helen could see that it hadn’t benefited from a woman’s touch for several years, but she noticed the flowers on the piano and the same musky smell that Simon carried with him. He’d tried hard to make it welcoming. She offered to help him hand around the sherry and small cubes of cheese sprinkled with paprika, from which he’d just taken the cling film.

She was surprised to find she enjoyed herself much more than she’d expected. Everybody was so kind and interested in her. She was definitely the celebrity of the day!

‘How do you know the vicar then?’ an elderly man in tweed and corduroy asked her.

‘Well, it’s a very funny story actually.’ Simon hovered with a bowl of cashews. ‘Tell Jack, Helen.’

As Helen told the story, the room fell silent as all eyes hung on every word. ‘I’m glad it was only his shin that I kicked,’ she finished.

‘So’s the vicar,’ laughed Jack, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

Within an hour everybody was heading off for their lunch, or to the pub, and Simon accepted Helen’s offer of collecting the glasses and washing them up in the sink.

They chatted comfortably about nothing in particular, Helen enjoying his friendly chatter and Simon enjoying the rarity of female company.

‘When did you decide the clergy was for you, Simon?’

‘It wasn’t a road to Damascus moment, I’m afraid.’ He smiled. ‘I was going to be a vet at first, then maybe a PE teacher, but my heart kept telling me it was people’s souls I needed to attend to, not their animals or their bodies. And I have never regretted my decision.’

Helen dried her hands and looked at her watch. ‘Golly, it’s a quarter to one. I must leave you to the rest of your day.’

As Simon led her back through the dark hall to the front door, she glanced into his office. Books were crammed into the floor-to-ceiling shelves and an ancient swivel chair with a squishy chintz cushion stood in front of a disordered but charming oak desk, which had a view over to the church. Leaning up against the adjacent window was an enormous surfboard.

‘Simon! Are you a surfer?’

‘A bit. We Cornish boys have to, by law.’ They both smiled. ‘I might go out this afternoon, actually. The tide’ll be coming in about two p.m., so just right.’

‘The sea must be freezing.’

‘Surprisingly warm right now. October is usually the warmest month. I have a good winter wetsuit though. Boots, gloves, helmet – the lot.’

‘Well, Reverend Simon Canter, I never had you down as a surf dude.’ He looked at his feet and scuffed one shoe over the other.

‘I-I’d be happy to take you, if you wanted to come.’

‘I can’t surf.’

‘I’ll teach you. I’m very patient and by next summer I’ll have you ready to enter the World Championships down at Fistral Beach.’

She laughed aloud and he smiled back, glad that whatever signals he was sending, they seemed to be working.

‘Great,’ said Helen. ‘Let’s go this afternoon.’

*

Helen nipped home to get her swimming costume and a towel and quickly made a flask of tomato soup to warm them up afterwards. This was fun. A friend to play with at last. She loaded up her beach bag and added a packet of custard creams, just in case.

Simon was parked outside, his surfboard on the roof rack. She hurried down the garden path and hopped in next to him. As he pulled away, he tooted his horn merrily at Polly, who was weeding her front garden with Pete. The pair of them straightened up and waved.

Their first stop was the Trevay Surf Shack, a shop devoted to everything surfy. Helen was poured into a skin-tight wetsuit and fitted with a beginner’s board, both of which she could hire for the day.

‘You’ll be wanting these as well, girl,’ said Skip, the Kiwi shop owner. Flattered at being referred to as a girl, Helen gladly took the boots, gloves and helmet he proffered.

*

‘Right. These are the rules.’ Simon was kneeling on the beach with his wetsuit pulled up only to his waist. Helen looked appreciatively at his strong, hairy chest.

Who’d have thought he’d have a bod like that? she thought to herself.

‘The water likes to find a deep part of the beach to suck itself back out to sea. Look at it now. You see where the smooth water is? Well, that’s usually where the rip or undertow is strongest. Always swim where the water is breaking. It’s safer. Once you’re strong enough, we’ll use the rip to get out to the back of the waves. OK?’

‘Is this knowledge something you Cornish boys are born with?’

‘No, I used to be a lifeguard.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Before I finally chose my vocation.’

‘You are full of surprises! Is that how you got those abs?’

He looked down at his body. ‘Well, I run a bit as well.’

He stood up and swiftly pulled his wetsuit on.

‘Can I just get my balance by holding on to your arm?’ Helen asked as she wriggled first one leg then the other into her suit.

Simon was so unused to this kind of interaction with a woman that he accidentally brushed her bosom as he tried to hold her elbow.

‘I’m so terribly sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ laughed Helen, ‘Can you zip me up?’

Her slender back was also sprinkled with freckles and his hand felt weak as he pulled at the zip. Please, please, God. Is this IT?

Helen was all for jumping straight into the surf, but Simon held her back.

‘There’s one more thing I have to show you, which is how to stand on the board. Lie down and pretend there’s a wave coming. Paddle madly, and at the right moment I want you to jump up on to both feet and stand sideways. OK? Let’s go!’

It was much more difficult than it looked. Catching the wave at the right moment was incredibly hard, and as for jumping up on her feet in one smooth movement – ridiculous! Her legs felt like jelly, her arms were pulled out of their sockets and her lungs were full of sea water. Apart from that, it was lovely. Simon was patient and helpful, just as her father had been, but after forty-five minutes, she was getting cold and had had enough.

Her body felt lead-heavy as she walked back up the beach to her bag. She wrapped her big beach towel round her shoulders and sat watching Simon effortlessly catch wave after wave while she drank all the tomato soup.

*

Piran Ambrose stood at the top of the beach with Jack, his terrier, snuffling in the grass of the dunes. What was that woman doing, surfing with the vicar? Piran had known Simon since they were schoolboys together. It was Piran who had got Simon back on his feet after Denise had jilted him. They weren’t exactly best friends, but they were mates and Piran would always look out for him. Simon was someone who didn’t deserve to be hurt again.

Piran walked down the beach towards Helen.

‘Hello, boy! Where have you come from?’ Helen tickled the ears of the little Jack Russell who was trying to get a custard cream out of its packet. A shadow fell over her.

‘He’s mine. He won’t pee on you.’

She knew who it was before she looked up.

‘I‘m Piran Ambrose and this is Jack.’ He held out his large, rough hand. She stood up and shook it.

‘I‘m Helen Merrifield. I’m sorry we met in such awkward circumstances before, and thank you for letting me know about my washing line.’

‘That’s all right. What you doing down here with the vicar?’

‘Oh … er … he’s teaching me to surf, but I got tired. He’s very good.’

They both turned to watch Simon as a wave crashed over him and he fell off the board.

‘I taught him everything he knows,’ said Piran.

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows. ‘Oh really? He told me he learnt when he was a lifeguard.’

‘That’s true. But I was the lifeguard who taught him.’

His full lips smiled, revealing rather nice teeth, but finding she disliked him more than ever, Helen busied herself with picking up the packet of biscuits and stuffing it back in her bag.

‘What are you doing down here? You’re a London woman through and through, aren’t you? Husband divorced you, I expect.’

She stood up quickly, her eyes burning. ‘How dare you! I’m divorcing him, actually,’ she carried on across his laughter. ‘And what I am doing here has nothing to do with you.’

‘Well it does when your knickers are flying about my place of work.’

She drew herself up to her full five foot six. ‘Mr Ambrose, it is obvious that we have got off on the wrong foot. I suggest that in future we steer clear of each other.’

‘Fine.’ And with that, he whistled to Jack, waved to Simon and walked back up the beach.

Simon strode, dripping, towards her. ‘Has Piran gone?’ She nodded. ‘Damn. I wanted to thank him for all the work he’s putting in on the churchyard restoration plans. He’s our local historian, you know. He can tell you things about the families here going back hundreds of years. Lovely bloke. I am proud to call myself his friend. What did he want?’

‘I really couldn’t tell you,’ said Helen, and smiled tightly.

*

Later that night when she was on her own, wallowing in a steamy bath by candlelight, she thought about Simon and Piran. One handsome but horrible, the other not so handsome but sweet. How could Simon be friends with that great Hagrid of a man? She lit a scented Jo Malone candle and tried, unsuccessfully, to banish all thoughts of Piran Ambrose from her mind.