The Newcomer. Fern Britton

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      ‘I might make a picnic for us all. If it’s not raining.’ Angela looked around her. ‘Lovely kitchen, isn’t it? I’m a bit afraid of the Aga, though. Never used one before. Is anybody hungry?’

      ‘Those pasties filled me up. I had two.’ Robert patted his stomach. ‘How about you, Faith?’

      ‘I think I’ll have a bath now that I’ve got my own en suite.’ She picked up her iPad and strolled to the door.

      ‘Well, don’t take all the hot water because Daddy and I will want one too.’

      ‘Gross,’ said Faith with a curled lip. ‘TMI.’

      ‘Married people do take baths together sometimes, you know,’ Robert called after her.

      Faith ran up the stairs. ‘La-la-la-la, I can’t hear you.’

      ‘Well, that’s got rid of her,’ smiled Robert. ‘Come and sit next to me.’

      ‘I’ve got stuff to do.’

      ‘No you haven’t. The removal men are delivering our meagre essentials tomorrow and I know you don’t have to make any beds up because, thoughtfully, Penny told me that she had done them already.’

      ‘I know,’ Angela sighed gratefully.

      ‘So, sit here and give me a cuddle.’

      ‘Can’t we just lie on the sofa, and watch television?’

      Robert checked his watch. ‘That’s a point. Chelsea were playing Tottenham earlier. We might get the highlights.’

      Robert woke the next morning in the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room. The mattress was supportive but seemed to mould to his body. The pillows were the perfect mix of comfort and yield. The duvet exactly the right weight.

      He stretched his limbs, feeling the blood tingle through his body, then relaxed once more.

      The light creeping over the top of the curtains drew long, bright fingers over the Victorian corniced, whitewashed ceiling. The walls were painted in a subtle eau-de-Nil, which highlighted the old and uneven plaster. He wondered, as men do, about the workmen who had built this vicarage. How long it had taken them. The families they went home to, covered in sawdust and sweat. They had done a good job. The outer walls were built of sturdy granite and slate. The inner walls probably plaster and lathe with horsehair to bond and insulate.

      He closed his eyes and pictured the men working in this room. Caps on. Tweed jackets. Aprons over trousers tied at the ankle. Feet shod in sturdy boots.

      They might have sat right where he was lying, eating pasties and smoking pipes.

      How many of them had gone on to fight in the Great War? How many had returned? How many were remembered?

      He somehow felt connected to them, through the house: now was his turn to make these walls his home. Well, Angela’s turn really …

      He reached across for Angela and carefully folded himself around her, feeling the strength in her sinewy back and shoulders and the warmth of her hips on his thighs. His hand reached round and held her taut flat tummy before travelling up to stroke her small breasts. He kissed her neck and she stirred.

      ‘Good morning, my love,’ he whispered.

      ‘Hey,’ she whispered back with her eyes still closed.

      ‘Do you want anything?’

      ‘What are you offering?’

      ‘Coffee? Tea? Me?’

      ‘Faith will hear us.’

      ‘I’ll be quick and quiet.’

      ‘Smooth talker.’

      Somewhere in the village an engine at full throttle disturbed the moment. It was getting closer and slowing into a lower throatier gear.

      Robert and Angela knew at once, even before the two-tone horn set the churchyard crows chattering. Robert rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling before saying, ‘Bloody Mamie.’

      The Jensen Interceptor drew to a halt outside their gate. Robert and Angela listened as the car door opened and slammed shut. A feminine, well-educated, husky voice shouted up, ‘Hellooo! Anybody home?’

      ‘Put your pyjamas on, quick,’ ordered Angela as she flew out of bed and over to her dressing gown. Fastening it round her, she went to the open bedroom window and looked out. The village green, thick with dew, sparkled fresh and green at her. A murder of crows, roused from their sleep by the noise of the engine, flapped and cawed furiously from the churchyard.

      A tall woman dressed in a tight pencil skirt, white blouse, with too many buttons undone, and a wide patent leather belt gripping her waist, looked up at her.

      ‘Darling.’ She opened her arms wide. ‘Am I too early? I have come straight from the dullest dinner date in town. A banker. Three ex-wives. Last one dead. Died of boredom, I suspect. But anyway, the sunrise was so divine I decided to drive straight down. Missed all the traffic. The old Jensen really opened up. If it wasn’t for the traffic cop stopping me I’d have been here even earlier. He was terribly sweet, though. Turned out he was a Jensen fan and wanted to know all about her.’

      Angela was still fighting with her dressing gown sleeve. ‘Were you speeding? Is that why he stopped you?’

      Mamie shook a white chiffon scarf from her coiffed blond curls and looked sheepish. ‘Maybe. A little. But he was awfully nice. Just a little ticking-off. Wasn’t that sweet? Aren’t you going to open the door and let me in? Mr Worthington is dying for a pee.’

      ‘An Aga, darling!’ cried Mamie as if she were looking at the crown jewels. ‘God, I am so jealous. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to have one of my own, but darling Jeremy’s mother – you know, the one who was married to the Home Secretary – cooked divine things on hers.’

      ‘Oh, good,’ said Angela, who didn’t have a clue who darling Jeremy was. ‘You can show me how to use it then.’ She reached for the big old steel kettle. ‘I can just about boil this on it.’ She lifted the left-hand lid of the Aga and plonked the kettle on it.

      ‘Now, darling, don’t be silly. You know I don’t cook. By the way, has my early arrival interrupted a little something between you and Robert?’

      Angela pulled her dressing gown closer around her. ‘No.’

      ‘Ah.’ Mamie smiled wickedly. ‘It’s just that you’ve got it on inside out.’

      Angela blushed and then began to laugh. ‘Oh, Mamie, I am so pleased to see you.’ She hugged her aunt.

      ‘Me too,’ said Faith, arriving with a yawn. ‘Group hug, please.’

      Mamie held her arms out for the three-way embrace. ‘Look at you. So beautiful, and so tall.’

      ‘Children do tend to grow,’ said Robert from the doorway. ‘Hi, Mamie. Welcome to Cornwall.’ The group hug separated and Mamie gave Robert СКАЧАТЬ