The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read. Fern Britton
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Название: The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read
Автор: Fern Britton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780007562985
isbn:
‘Gasping Bob!’ Helen and Penny shouted in unison and they watched Kit stroll over to Marguerite Cottage just as Gasping Bob’s rusty Rascal van rattled its way towards him.
‘He seems nice,’ said Helen.
‘He is. Very,’ said Penny, and immediately burst into tears.
Helen bundled Penny back into the kitchen. ‘What’s happened, darling?’
‘It’s my mother,’ sobbed Penny. ‘She’s dead.’
‘What?’ Helen was shocked. ‘When?’
When Helen had heard the whole story, short though it was, she became very practical.
‘You must phone your sister and ask her when the funeral is.’
‘I don’t think I have her number.’ Penny’s head was in her hands. ‘And the last time we spoke it was so awful. I can’t ring her.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Penny, she’s your sister. She should have phoned you by now, anyway.’ Helen stood up and looked purposeful. ‘Right, where is your address book?’
Penny looked at her, pale-faced. ‘In my office somewhere.’
‘In your desk?’
‘Probably.’
‘Right. I’ll get it and we’ll call her.’
‘I’m not sure I’m up to that.’ Penny struggled out of her hair and followed her friend to the office. ‘Please, Helen. I can’t. I need to feel a bit stronger before I—’
It was too late. Helen was in the office and pulling at a drawer. As she did so the house phone rang.
‘Don’t answer it!’ Penny almost screamed. ‘Leave it.’
The two women stared at each other before the answerphone picked up. They listened to Penny’s recorded voice telling the caller that she was unavailable and to please leave a message. She would get back as soon as possible.
It was Jack Bradbury.
He was shouting. ‘Penny! Jesus. Don’t you ever answer your calls or look at your emails? Mavis Crewe is pulling out and if you don’t get me six new scripts and a Christmas special soon I can promise you that you will never work for me or Channel 7 ever again!’
He hung up.
Helen looked at her friend properly.
Penny shoved her hands inside the saggy pockets of her ancient cashmere cardigan dropping her pale,swollen-nosed and red-eyed face to the floor.
It was the first time in twenty-five years that Helen had ever seen Penny Leighton look defeated. ‘Open your emails,’ she said.
Penny hovered for a moment; she’d got into an awful habit of hiding things and Helen would be cross with her if she knew the emails were deleted. She took a deep breath and then made her decision. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.
Helen was back in Gull’s Cry, her cosy cottage across the village green from the vicarage. She’d listened to Penny as she’d sunk a bottle of wine and then eventually been persuaded to go to bed. Helen nestled the phone between her shoulder and chin and put a pan of water onto the Aga for spaghetti. ‘I’m really worried about her, Simon.’
Simon, sitting in his study, phone in one hand, his head in the other, was feeling helpless. ‘She’s just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘I think it’s more than that.’ Helen saw her boyfriend, Piran, walking up the path with a brace of mackerel in his hand. ‘I think she should go to the doctor.’ Piran pushed open the front door and Helen put her finger to her lips and mouthed ‘Simon’ at him before pointing to a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
She heard Simon attempt a half-hearted laugh before he said, ‘I’m not sure she needs the doctor, just a couple of good nights’ sleep. Jenna’s teething, work’s a bit stressful, and her mother dying …’
Helen rolled her eyes at Piran and said, ‘Simon, seriously, for my sake, could you go to the doc’s with her? Tell her you’ve made an appointment to check on Jenna’s teeth or something. Go together, the three of you. Then throw in that you’re worried about Penny. Please?’
Simon fiddled with his propelling pencil, a wedding gift from his parishioners, and sighed. ‘OK.’
Helen was relieved. ‘Good. Is she still asleep?’
‘Yes. I checked on her a little while ago and she’s fine. What actually happened earlier?’
‘I think Mavis Crewe isn’t going to write any more Mr Tibbs scripts and Jack Bradbury is taking it out on Penny. Also, I think she really should get in contact with her sister about when the funeral is. But when I suggested that she looked so … well, the only way I can describe it is that she seemed to have all her legendary courage drained from her. I ran her a bath and popped a hot water bottle in her bed and she didn’t argue. Just did it and got into bed. That’s not like her, is it?’
Simon pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. ‘No. It isn’t.’
‘Can you phone the sister?’ asked Helen hopefully.
‘I’m not sure. Pen won’t want me interfering behind her back. She never talks about them, not even when Jenna was born. I don’t want her more upset than she is.’
‘Understood. Let’s see how she is tomorrow.’ Piran handed Helen a glass of chilled Sancerre and sauntered into the small drawing room where Helen heard him turn on the television news. The water on the Aga began to boil. ‘Simon, I must go …’
Simon drooped in his chair a little. ‘One last thing, Helen: do you think a nanny might be a good idea? A little help with Jenna might help Penny a lot.’
‘Yes I do. Just try persuading her of that.’
Upstairs, Penny had woken from her sleep and was furtively searching for her tablet. She found it in her bedside drawer. She got back into bed and listened carefully in case Simon had heard her. Nothing. She turned the tablet on and the stream of ignored emails plus others popped up. She deleted a fair majority and managed to answer the simple ones. The three she’d deleted from Jack, she retrieved but there were two new ones, one of which sent a flood of panic through her abdomen. It was from Mavis. The other was from an old school friend, Marion Watson. A jolly hockey sticks sort of girl who married well and became an MP. The subject line said SUZIE. Penny didn’t know which to go for first.
The one from Mavis could be good, could be bad.
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