Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton

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       1

      As the wind whipped at her silk scarf, Dorothy struggled to tighten the knot that secured it under her chin. Although it was a sunny day with clear blue skies, it was bitterly cold. Not the ideal weather for motoring in an open-topped car.

      Henry took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her. ‘Not too cold?’

      ‘A little.’ She shrugged herself further down into her sheepskin coat.

      He smiled, not hearing her. ‘Jolly good.’

      They had set off from their house in the Home Counties that morning, en route for Cornwall and a property described in the Country Life advertisement as:

       An unmissable and rare opportunity to purchase this perfect Cornish Holiday/Family house. Accommodation comprises six bedrooms, two bathrooms, drawing room, dining room, morning room and study. Spacious original Victorian family kitchen. The master bedroom, with dressing room and en-suite bathroom, has its own balcony offering panoramic ocean views. All rooms on the ocean-facing side of the house boast equally stunning aspects. Set in half an acre of mature cliff-top gardens with private access to the public beach of Treviscum Bay. The property is in need of some modernisation. Despite its age (built circa 1720) it is currently unlisted.

      ‘Take the next left,’ Dorothy, fighting with the turning pages of her road map, shouted above the wind as her husband sat grinning at the wheel of his new Aston Martin Virage Volante.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Next left. To Bodmin.’

      ‘Left here?’

      She nodded vigorously and pointed with her gloved hand at the signpost.

      He smiled. ‘Righto, Number One.’ He slowed the V8 engine to a throaty rumble and took the exit.

      Henry couldn’t believe how wonderfully his life had turned out. Who’d have thought he’d rise to this, given the dire straits he’d found himself in a decade ago.

      On the death of his father, Henry had inherited Carew Family Board Games. Unfortunately the firm that had been his father’s pride and joy was by this time a dinosaur in a shrinking market. Nobody wanted to play board games any more, even if they did have beautifully hand-crafted pieces and block-printed boards. Henry had been left an albatross, complete with a mountain of debt, a loyal workforce he couldn’t afford, and a factory with outdated machinery making parlour-game staples such as Ludo, Snakes and Ladders and Draughts. Settling the death duties on his father’s estate had left him with no means to pay his own mortgage, let alone bail out the firm. In despair, he invited his bank manager out to lunch, hoping that a sumptuous five-course meal would secure him an extension to his business loan. It took the manager less than fifteen minutes to turn down the request. Indeed, if the current overdraft wasn’t reduced forthwith, Henry’s factory and machines would be repossessed by the bank.

      ‘But my father was with your bank for more than forty years. Please, if you just bear with me a while longer, I won’t let you down,’ pleaded Henry.

      The bank manager, a fat man who enjoyed golf and making his customers squirm, shook his head sadly.

      ‘Henry, your father was a close friend and a good man, but he didn’t move with the times. Unless you can give me a sound business plan, some reason why the bank should reinvest, my answer has to be no.’

      Henry took a deep breath and looked the smug slug in the eye. ‘I have an idea for a game that will knock Trivial Pursuit, Cluedo and Monopoly into a cocked hat. I can’t say more because our competitors must not get wind of it.’

      ‘My dear boy, what is it?’

      ‘I told you, I can’t say. But if I were to offer you my house as collateral, would you let me have the money I need?’

      The slug stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into his coffee, thinking.

      ‘OK, I’ll authorise the loan – but only for six months. After that …’ he continued stirring, his lips curving upward in a smirk, ‘… the bank moves in.’

      The relief Henry had felt at securing the loan evaporated at the prospect of this odious man and his bank getting their hands on his home and Carew Family Board Games. Unfortunately there was a major flaw in his new business plan. The top secret game that was going to take the world by storm didn’t exist.

      Henry drove back to the factory and locked himself into his father’s old office. How could he have been so rash and stupid? How the hell was he going to invent a blockbuster of a game in a year, let alone six months?

      He pulled out the bottom drawer of his father’s desk and found the bottle of Scotch Dad had always kept there. He opened it and put it to his lips with a silent prayer: Dad, I need your help. I’m in the shit and some of it’s your fault. Give me an idea, a way out of this mess.

      He sat back in the tilting revolving wooden chair and put his feet up on the desk.

      What am I going to do, Dad? I’m going to lose the factory and my home. A hundred people will be out of a job. People who loved you and trusted you. They are expecting me to make everything all right, but I’m afraid I’ve cocked it up. He took another swig of Scotch.

      It was some time later when Old Reg, the foreman and longest-serving member of staff, came to say good night. He found Henry, his eyes red from tears, sitting in his father’s chair, the bottle of Scotch half-empty. Reg saw it all and knew without asking that it was only a matter of time before Carew Family Board Games became a footnote in history. Murmuring, ‘Good night, Mr Henry,’ he closed the office door gently behind him.

      *

      Henry’s brain was in turmoil. Had he committed fraud? Could making a false promise be construed as extorting money from the bank? Would he be arrested? Could he afford a lawyer? What would happen to Dorothy and the girls? Lawyers were expensive. He was only trying to do the best for his workforce, his family. Oh God, he’d go to jail. He’d better get a lawyer.

      In a panic, he dug out his father’s old address book and flipped to the ‘L’ tab. His finger traced down the pages.

      ‘Lawyer, lawyer,’ he muttered under his breath. He stopped for a moment and said the words again: ‘Lawyer, lawyer.’ Feverishly he picked up a pencil and began writing the words, followed by DEFENDANT. JUDGE. JURY. Then he drew two boxes and wrote GUILTY in one and NOT GUILTY in the other.

      He phoned home and told Dorothy not to expect him back for supper.

      *

      The next morning he called a meeting on the shop floor for every member of staff. He hadn’t slept all night, he reeked of body СКАЧАТЬ