Читать книгу Hidden Treasures - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 11

Don and Dorrie had sorted out all the building and decorating after that, while Helen set about packing up her old life. She couldn’t wait. The London house was lovely, but it held too many memories. The good she could file away, the bad she would delete.

Sean thought she was mad.

‘Ma, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Lots of older people get an idea in their heads to retire to the seaside, only to find they miss their old life and end up dying lonely.’

‘Sean, I am forty-seven. Not quite in my dotage, thank you very much! In fact, still young enough to give you a little brother or sister, if I cared to.’

‘Ma, what a revolting idea. And what are you doing with that pile of vintage comics?’

‘Throwing them away.’

‘They’re worth a lot of money. Hang on to them for me, would you?’

‘Nope. All your stuff is yours from now on. Take it away or never see it again.’

Within an hour Sean had salvaged what childhood possessions he could fit into his absurdly small car and driven off in a huff.

Chloe had been more understanding. She understood that her mother had had enough of a painful marriage, but she adored both her parents and hoped that somehow they would get back together again.

On her last day, Gray came round to give her a bunch of flowers and a hug. They walked round the old place together and it felt right. He helped her pack her last few things in the car, slipped a wad of notes to the removal men as their tip, and together they shut the front door for ever.

‘Bye, old girl. Give me a bell to let me know you got there OK.’

‘I will.’ She kissed him briefly and with only a quick glance in her rear-view mirror, pointed the snub nose of the Mini in the direction of the M4.

*

And now here she was. Ten days later and everything settled. No looking back and certainly no regrets.

Don called to her, ‘Helen, I’ve set the timer and the thermostat.’

He tried again to explain the procedure to her, but although she nodded at the right moments, she didn’t understand it at all. It didn’t matter, he’d said she could call him again if she had any trouble.

As he was leaving, she said, ‘You don’t do gardening as well, do you?’

‘Nope. Don’t like worms. Ask Queenie, she’ll know someone.’

She’d been planning to nip into Queenie’s in any case, so she gathered up her things and a few minutes later she was ducking through her low front door. From force of habit, she turned to lock up, then decided instead to leave caution to the cautious. Nobody seemed to lock their front doors in Pendruggan and cars were never locked either.

Don had laughed at her when he had caught her frantically looking for her keys on first moving in: ‘Leave them where they’re meant to be, maid. Either in the front door or in the ignition. You’ll never lose them then.’

*

Queenie’s Post Office and General Store was the centre of village life. The day after Helen arrived in Pendruggan she had gone in for a pint of milk and Queenie, thrilled to find new blood in the village, had immediately launched into her life story. She had originally come to Pendruggan as an evacuee from London’s East End, but when her parents were tragically killed in the Blitz, the Cornish family with whom she’d been billeted took her under their wing. She stayed with them until she was eighteen, when she left to marry the local farmhand she’d fallen in love with.

‘I was married to Ted for fifty-two years, until he died of emphysema in 2000,’ Queenie sighed and lit a small roll-up cigarette.

‘The only way I’ll be leavin’ ’ere is in a box. My daughter Sandra wants me to move up to Coventry to be near her, but what do I wanna do that for? This is me ’ome and this is where I’ll stay until the day comes when I can rest next to my Ted in the churchyard. Would you like a pasty, duck?’

‘Yes, please. They look delicious.’

‘Homemade, they are! I do fifteen a day to order. When do you want yours?’

‘Can I have one now?’

‘No, duck. To order, like I said. Shall I put you on me regular list?’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, please. Can I have one tomorrow?’

Queenie took a gnarled pencil from her ear and pulled out a thumbed red exercise book. ‘What’s your name, dear?’

And Helen found herself telling Queenie her own life story in return.

‘That ex-husband of yours sounds like a right bastard, and no mistake. Still,’ Queenie adopted a look of wisdom, ‘that’s men for you.’ She paused. ‘And now you’re ’ere in Miss Wingham’s old ’ouse. She was a lovely lady, you know. Very old-fashioned in her ways, and ever so intelligent. She came ’ere to live before the war, you know. Lived in Gull’s Cry for seventy-seven years. She was on her own for all of ’em, no fella or nuffink. She never told me, but I fink she lost the love of her life in the war. She never said in so many words, but I could tell. Loved ’er cats too. Her last one was called Raven. She named ’em all after birds – I dunno why. Died peacefully in the nursing ’ome aged ninety-seven. She’ll be ’appy to think you’ve brought the old place back to life. Will you be doin’ the garden? She loved it. I’d like to get Alan Titchmarsh down ’ere to give it a going over. If you see ’im, you tell ’im!’ She laughed, then coughed a crackly cough that had been cultivated over decades of dedicated smoking.

Now, Thursday had become Pasty Day, and Helen was looking forward to another chat and a chance to browse the shelves, which were lined with greaseproof paper and red gingham. Queenie’s stock was extraordinary. Replacement suspenders for corsets and Blakey heel caps sat amongst the more mundane requirements. There was a well-stocked magazine rack, which Queenie devoured – showbiz gossip could have been her specialist knowledge on Mastermind – reading at the counter by the dim light of two bulbs suspended from the ceiling, the standard lamp with its pink shade by the freezer and the Tiffany lamp next to the till.

Queenie greeted Helen warmly as she entered. ‘Hallo, duck. I ain’t seen you much this week – you OK?’

‘Yes thanks, Queenie. I did a bit of a shop at Tesco in Trevay yesterday.’

‘Tesco? They ain’t got nothing in there! I go up sometimes on the bus, but they’ve never got anythin’ I want.’

‘Well, it was only to get a few things like balsamic and olive oil.’

‘Olive oil? We used to go to the chemist to get that, duck. And Balls Amic? What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’

‘A kind of vinegar.’

‘I got malt if you want it?’ Queenie turned to look at the gloomy shelf to her right.

‘Actually, what I do want, Queenie, is a gardener. Do you know anyone who would help me clear the garden?’

‘Oh yeah, me duck. Simple Tony’s the one you want.’

‘Tony?’

‘Simple Tony. ’E’s simple, poor lad, but a good worker. Very green-fingered.’

Helen was shocked at Queenie’s description of Tony as ‘simple’, but knew that Queenie’s generation had little truck with political correctness. She hoped that Queenie was more sensitive around the poor boy and didn’t call him ‘Simple Tony’ to his face.

‘Where does Tony live?’ she asked.

‘Next door to you. In that shepherd’s hut in the garden.’

Helen remembered the hut. The day she moved in, Polly – the owner of the house next door – had come round with mugs of camomile tea for the unimpressed removal men, who would definitely have preferred a more energising builder’s brew. Helen hadn’t had a chance to chat to her properly or find out anything about her, but since then there had been several occasions when she’d looked over into the garden and caught sight of a youngish man in a navy-blue boiler suit, sitting on the steps of the hut boiling a kettle on his camping stove. This must be Tony, Helen realised. She was glad to have an excuse to go round and find out more.

‘Is that all, duck? Want a magazine? I got some good ones there. Julia Roberts is a lovely girl, ain’t she? I like to read about ’er. And Fiona Whatsit what reads the news. Not enough about ’er. She’s very popular in my ’ouse, you know.’

‘I’ll have a bottle of wine please. I’ll take it round to Polly.’

‘Righto.’ She handed Helen a dusty bottle. ‘This has been ’ere since the Easter Raffle. Should be good by now.’