The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read. Fern Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ You are very lovable.’ He put Jenna down. ‘You’re in shock. Your mother has died and you need time to process it all. There’s plenty of time to think about the future. How about a drink? Tea – coffee? Or would you prefer something stronger?’

      Penny gave him a wry smile. ‘This morning I was drinking too much, wasn’t I?’

      ‘Yes, well. I think this calls for a drink.’

      Instead of the kitchen he walked towards the drinks cupboard. ‘Brandy? I’ve some lovage cordial too – shall I put some in?’

      Penny said nothing. Jenna climbed onto her lap and, putting a thumb in her mouth, stroked Penny’s hair.

      ‘Get this down you.’ Simon placed the glass in front of her.

      *

      Penny was just seven when her father had his first heart attack. That day she had woken early, about six, she supposed. The sun was already up because it was summer. She had heard the back door open and click shut. Her father must be checking on his greenhouse. She crept out of bed and just missed the creaking floorboard outside her mother’s bedroom. She stopped and listened for anyone stirring. All quiet.

      In the garden the birds were busy chatting to each other and a fat thrush was pulling at an early worm. She threaded her way across the dew-soaked lawn, past the scented orange blossom bush and under the golden hop archway into the vegetable garden. There was her father, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes screwed up against the smoke as he tied up a stray branch of cucumber.

      He jumped when he saw her and closed his eyes, holding his chest. ‘Oh my goodness, Penny. You gave me a fright.’ Then he laughed and she giggled as he held his arms out to wedge her on his hip, the cigarette still dangling from his lips.

      ‘Naughty, naughty,’ Penny admonished him.

      ‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he said conspiratorially, stubbing it out in a flowerpot.

      She smiled. She liked sharing his secrets. ‘I won’t,’ she said.

      ‘Good girl.’ He looked up towards the house. ‘All quiet on the Western Front?’

      She nodded.

      ‘Want a cup of coffee?’

      ‘With sugar?’ she asked hopefully.

      ‘Of course.’

      In the far corner of his greenhouse was hidden a little camping stove, a bottle of water, jars of coffee and sugar and a tin of Carnation milk. There was also, hidden in a large cardboard box, a bottle of Gordon’s gin: another delicious secret that no one else shared.

      The smell of the methylated spirits and the match as it caught the flame for the camping stove was intoxicating.

      ‘Do take a seat, madam.’ Her father snapped open a rickety folding chair and placed an ancient chintz cushion on the seat. She sat, her bare feet, with sodden grass stalks sticking to them, barely touching the gravel floor.

      ‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked. ‘You must be cold in your nightie. Here, would you like my cardigan?’

      She nodded and enjoyed the warmth of his body heat stored in the wool as he draped it over her shoulders. The kettle was boiling and he made them drinks. He had two spoons of coffee, no sugar and black. She had one teaspoon of coffee, two of sugar and a large dollop of the condensed milk. She didn’t really like coffee but she didn’t want to hurt him by saying so.

      He sat on an old wooden crate and pulled a serious face.

      ‘So, young lady, what have you got on at school today? Latin? Quantum Physics? Or a little light dissection?’

      She giggled. ‘Daddy, I’m only seven. I’ve got reading. Sums, I think. Music and playing.’

      ‘A full and busy day then.’

      She nodded. ‘Yep. What about you?’

      He lit another cigarette. Rothmans. Penny thought them terribly glamorous.

      ‘Well, I’ve got to show a lady and a man around a very nice house that I think they should buy.’

      ‘Why do you think they should buy it?’

      ‘Because it is pretty, has a sunny garden, and their little boy will be able to play cricket on the lawn.’

      Penny drank her coffee. The sugar and the Carnation milk made it just about bearable. ‘Can I come andsee it?’

      ‘No. Sorry, madam.’

      ‘Is it as nice as our house?’

      ‘Gosh, no. Ours is much nicer. And do you know why it’s nicer?’

      Penny shook her head.

      ‘Because you live in it.’

      ‘And Suzie. And Mummy,’ she said loyally.

      Her father stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Of course. Them too. Now, are you going to help me open these roof lights? It’s going to be hot today.’

      For twenty minutes or so she helped him with the windows and fed the little goldfish in the pond and put out some birdseed while he pottered in the veg patch checking on the peas and lettuces.

      They heard the back door open. Her mother stood on the step. ‘Mike? Are you out there with Penny?’

      ‘Yes, my love.’ He smiled and waved to his wife. ‘We’ve just been doing the early jobs.’

      ‘Well, come in or she’ll be late for school.’

      Penny couldn’t recall the next hour or so, although over the years she had tried. There must have been breakfast, getting ready for school, kissing her mother goodbye and hugging her baby sister. But try as she might there was a blank. Her memory jumped straight from her father holding her hand as they walked back across the lawn, to the interior of her father’s car. It was big and dark green and the leather seats were warm under her bare legs. When it was just the two of them her father let her sit in the front next to him. Sometimes he let her change gear, instructing her when and how to do it. This morning was one of those days.

      ‘And into third. Good girl. And up into fourth.’

      It was a happy morning. Even the man on the radio reading the news sounded happy. When the news ended and some music came on, her father lit another cigarette and opened his window, leaning his right elbow out into the warm air and tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. She was looking out of her window at a little dog walking smartly on a lead with a pretty lady in a pink coat when they stopped at the traffic lights. The noise and impact of the car running into the back of them was like an earthquake.

      There was silence and then she started to cry. Her father asked in a rasping voice, ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said through shocked tears.

      ‘Thank God.’ Her father, ashen, and with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, was finding it hard to speak, gasping for every word. СКАЧАТЬ