Читать книгу Fern Britton Short Story Collection: The Stolen Weekend, A Cornish Carol, The Beach Cabin - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 10

Helen ended up waiting in all day for ‘Gasping Bob’. Despite leaving him numerous messages, there had been no word from Piran. Presumably he’d been so absorbed in his Roman fort that he’d forgotten all about her. That evening, the storm took a nasty turn as another weather front settled in over the region. Helen made her way up to bed with a strong sense of foreboding about what the latest bout of wind and rain would do to her little cottage. She slept fitfully and was already awake when a large chunk of her bedroom ceiling caved in, the water cascading down the flaking plaster and all over her John Lewis symmetric weave, thick-pile rug.

Not normally given to crying, she sat in stunned silence and surveyed the wreckage of what used to be her bedroom. Feeling the hot well of tears threatening to bubble over, Helen realised she had reached some sort of breaking point. Grabbing her dressing gown, she made her way down to the front door and pulled on her wellies. Within minutes she’d jumped into her little car and driven the short distance to Piran’s house. It took a few angry thumps on the old wooden front door before his gruff voice could be heard from within.

‘All right, keep your ruddy ’air on. Where’s the fire?’

The words died in his mouth as he took in the vision of his usually elegant and graceful girlfriend. Sopping wet and looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, Helen fired out her words like short, sharp pistol shots.

‘If I have to suffer one more night of Chinese water torture in my own home, I, Helen Merrifield, am personally going to beat you, Piran Ambrose, to death’ – she yanked a sodden and muddy welly from one foot – ‘with this Wellington boot!!’ She brandished it at him.

For a moment Piran could only stand there in his hastily pulled on boxers, gawping at her. Then he collapsed into gales of helpless laughter. Helen promptly burst into tears and Piran scooped her up, took her inside and then tucked her up in his bed.

It was now Thursday morning and Helen was watching slightly aghast as a man of indeterminate age, but somewhere between eighty-five and one hundred and five years old hoisted a ladder from the top of a battered white van and staggered towards the door of Gull’s Cry. His wispy grey hair was tied back in a ponytail, he wore the tightest of skimpy shorts that showcased the knobbliest of brown knees. He was wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend Cornish Men Do It Slowly and a brown roll-up poked out of the side of his mouth.

‘This is Gasping Bob? The man who’s going to fix my roof?’ she whispered to Piran, incredulous.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, maid.’

Piran greeted Gasping Bob like a long-lost friend and Helen was surprised to see the old man shoot up the ladder and on to the roof with the agility of a geriatric Tarzan.

Moments later, he’d assessed the damage and was back down again.

‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Helen.

Gasping Bob shook his head and said, ‘Ah …’

‘Is that good news or bad news?’

He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Ah …’

‘Well, are you going to fix it?’

‘Ah …’

Helen turned to Piran. ‘Please tell me that this man is going to fix my roof. I don’t think I can take much more of this.’

Piran looked at her with irritation. ‘Leave the man to do his work and stop wittering, woman.’ And with that, he and Gasping Bob wandered off in a huddle and carried on their private conversation in what sounded to Helen like more ahs and umms.

Helen balled her fists in annoyance. ‘Bloody Cornwall! Bloody Cornish men!’

And with that she headed off across the village green to the vicarage in hope of finding a cup of tea, or something stronger.

‘So, you’re camping out at Piran’s until further notice then?’ Penny poured them each a cup of tea from the shiny brown tea pot and offered her friend a chocolate HobNob.

‘Looks that way, but we’ll drive each other nuts after a few days. He can’t bear to have a woman cluttering up the place and he’s impossible to live with – just so bloody male, and Cornish male to boot.’ Helen sipped her tea. ‘Got anything stronger?’

‘Brandy? Can’t join you – Simon’s car is playing up again and I’ll have to pick him up in Trevay.’

‘No fun tippling on your own,’ Helen responded. ‘What about you – you look exhausted?’

‘I am. It’s been one thing after another. What with the shoot, then Simon’s stress levels, plus the whole village contriving to drive us into an early grave … I spent most of yesterday baking with Queenie for this Pendruggan Bake-Off thingummy and then, to top it all, we only went and won the first heat.’

‘Congratulations!’ Helen registered the thunderous look on Penny’s face. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Pleased? That’s the last thing I needed! Now I’ll have to go through the whole blooming thing again next week. There’s four heats and then a grand final, with Mary Berry herself coming to judge. Still, it’ll be a lovely feeling if we beat Audrey Tipton. That woman is the bane of my life.’

‘Oh yes, very satisfying.’

‘All I want to do is to crawl into bed and shut the world away. The post-production of Mr Tibbs will be a walk in the park compared to this lot. Living in Pendruggan can sometimes feel like being beaten to death with a tea cosy!’

The two friends nibbled on their HobNobs glumly.

‘Wait a minute! I’ve had an idea.’ There was an excited gleam in Penny’s eye. ‘I got a call from the director of Mr Tibbs today. We’re all supposed to be having a break before post-production starts, but he told me there are a few problems with the sound quality and he’s getting David Cunningham to come to the dubbing studios to re-do a couple of things.’

Helen nodded, wondering where this was leading.

‘David’s only free for a few days before he moves on to a new project, so they’re recording this weekend,’ Penny continued, her voice bubbling with excitement. ‘While they don’t need me, strictly speaking I should be on hand to make sure all goes well. Which gives me the perfect excuse to nip up to London for the weekend. All I’d have to do is literally pop my head in to make sure that everything’s tickety-boo – once I’ve done that, we can have the whole weekend to ourselves. What do you think?’

Helen sat up and clapped her hands together.

‘London! Oh, Pen, that would be just the tonic we both need. Cornwall’s lovely, but right now, I could just do with a bit of an urban fix. Pizza Express!’

‘Yes!’ said Penny. ‘Twenty-four-hour corner shops that sell everything from corn plasters to condoms!’

‘Harvey Nicks, Selfridges, M&S!’ Helen said gleefully. ‘And I’m sure we could squeeze in dinner at Chez Walter. I’ve such a craving for their slow-roasted pork belly!’

‘I’m a sucker for their venison cottage pie, myself.’ Penny grabbed her friend’s hand conspiratorially. ‘We could even have a night at Mortimer’s.’

‘Oh, God! Champagne cocktails to die for, in the heart of Mayfair! Let’s go now, now, now!’

Suddenly the excitement evaporated from Penny’s face and she slumped back in her seat. ‘Hang on, what about Simon? He’s really under the cosh at the moment. It would be too awful if I left him to it.’

‘Oh, come off it, Simon’s got loads of help. What about the blue-rinse brigade? They always muck in, don’t they? And it’s only for a couple of nights. Piran will be glad to get rid of me and my constant nagging.’

‘I’m not so sure about Simon. We all agree that I’m not the greatest vicar’s wife, but he does rely on me. The trouble is, I’ve had it up to here with it all.’ She waved a hand above her head. ‘If I don’t get away, I’m afraid our marriage will suffer. Is that terribly selfish of me?’

‘Of course it isn’t.’ Helen gave her friend an encouraging smile. ‘You do more for Simon than you realise: you keep him on the straight and narrow; you’re his gatekeeper, holding all the busybodies at bay. You’ve just worked twelve weeks solid, around the clock – you deserve a break.’

‘I know,’ said Penny, miserably. ‘But I’m not sure Simon will agree.’

‘But the timing is terrible.’ Simon’s face was full of consternation. He had been in the study, working on his sermons for the coming weekend’s services, when Penny had come in to broach the subject of going away. His reaction had been much as she’d expected.

‘I know. But they really can’t manage without me,’ she said guiltily, knowing it was a fib. ‘It’s my job to be there,’ she added, which at least was technically true.

‘Well, I’ll just have to manage without you then. I’m sure that some of the other villagers will help out here in Pendruggan.’

‘Of course they will, darling. They’ve never let you down.’ Unlike me, she thought.

‘But you will be back here on Tuesday, in time for the blessing of the bell tower?’

‘Yes, Simon, I’ll make sure we’re home by then.’

‘We?’ Simon raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Oh, Helen and I are travelling together – didn’t I mention it?’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Simon’s face was suddenly serious. ‘I realise that you have your own life, Penny, but being a vicar’s wife is important too.’

Penny felt a hot flush of shame creep up her neck, but she needed a break, dammit. Couldn’t he see that? It wasn’t as if she was running off to join the bloody circus!

‘Simon, I promise, I’ll be home on Sunday. It’s just a quick hop. You’ll hardly even notice I’ve gone.’

She gave him a hug that was returned only reluctantly.

Leaving Simon to his sermons, she closed the study door, tiptoed down the hall and then did a little dance for joy. Despite the pangs of guilt, the prospect of her forthcoming great escape filled her with euphoria.

She sent a text to Helen:

Pack that Mulberry weekend bag. I’m booking us on tonight’s sleeper. Bring wine! Px