Fern Britton Short Story Collection: The Stolen Weekend, A Cornish Carol, The Beach Cabin. Fern Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ of yes, Audreys, no Audreys, and three-bags-full, Audreys before Penny was able to get her off the subject and onto another one. But predictably, even then, it was an unwelcome topic.

      ‘So, as vicar’s wife, it is incumbent upon you to represent the qualities of charitable benevolence, which is why the Old People’s Christmas Luncheon Committee have nominated you as chairperson. Our first meeting will be held in the church hall tomorrow at five p.m., we will expect you there.’

      ‘What?!’ Penny couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Who nominated me? I’ll have you know that I’ve given myself two weeks’ holiday after a very long and punishing shoot. I’ve no intention of doing anything other than putting my feet up!’

      ‘The committee nominated you.’

      ‘Who’s on the committee?’

      ‘Geoffrey and I, of course, and Emma Scott – Pendruggan’s Brown Owl. It’s a great honour for you. And it’s not merely a token role, either. Your task will be to drum up support. The Old People’s Christmas Luncheon is a village institution. The old folks rely on it.’

      ‘But it’s only April.’ Penny said, weakly.

      ‘December will come around sooner than you think. Tomorrow at five p.m., remember.’ And with that, Audrey rang off, leaving Penny under a cloud of doom.

      Helen Merrifield was feeling damp, cold and miserable. Cornwall had just endured its wettest and wildest winter on record, and while Pendruggan had got off lightly compared to many of the coastal communities, it hadn’t emerged completely unscathed. The lovely, cosy charm of Helen’s old farmworker’s cottage, Gull’s Cry, had been severely compromised by the constant deluge of rain. The tiny, slow trickle that had started in one corner of her bathroom had turned into a steady drip-drip, the drips multiplying with each fresh rainfall until the upstairs ceilings were a patchwork of weeping stains and the bedroom floors were littered with pots and pans and buckets.

      ‘Piran! Come and look at this – the one in the bathroom is definitely getting worse!’

      Piran Ambrose was Helen’s boyfriend and the epitome of brooding masculinity. They’d been together for a while, but they didn’t live together. Both valued their independence and knew that sharing a house would drive them nuts. Much of the time Helen found his dark and mercurial nature quite thrilling, but it could also be a blooming pain the arse. This was one of those pain-in-the-arse moments.

      His deep Cornish bass reverberated up the stairs. ‘’Aven’t got time. Gotta dash.’

      This was immediately followed by the clatter of buckets being overturned as Helen came dashing out of the bathroom and down the stairs. She managed to catch him before the front door of the cottage had creaked fully open.

      ‘Where are you going? You promised me that someone would come out to have a look at it. That was days ago and we’re still waiting.’

      ‘Think you’re the only one with a leaky roof? There’s plenty worse off than you, maid, and I can’t be expected to sit twiddling my thumbs, waiting!’

      ‘So I have sit around and twiddle mine! But of course, my time isn’t important, unlike Piran Ambrose, historian of note!’

      Piran frowned at the sarcasm in her voice. ‘What exactly have you got to do that is more important than my job?’

      ‘Er …’ Helen faltered momentarily, but then rallied: ‘I promised to run Queenie down to the surgery later. Her bunions are playing up.’ She jutted her chin out defiantly.

      ‘Bunions, eh? Really? How taxing for you.’ Piran was quite good at sarcasm himself when it suited. ‘Look, maid, we’re talking about the discovery of a Roman fort here! This is the most significant find Cornwall’s seen in decades – and it’s only two miles from my own doorstep. Opportunities like that don’t come along very often in a historian’s life. The archeological team need all the local support they can get. The bad weather has hampered the dig and they’ve got to work quickly if the site isn’t going to be washed away by more bad weather.’

      Piran and Helen stood at the door and looked out at the ominous sky.

      ‘But what about me and the cottage? Aren’t we in danger of being washed away too?’ she asked plaintively.

      Piran shook his headed and headed off towards his car, speaking as he went: ‘Look, I’ve asked Gasping Bob to come out, He should be here later.’

      ‘Who?’ Helen shouted after him.

      ‘Gasping Bob!’ And with that, Piran climbed into his pickup and sped off.

      ‘For some reason,’ Helen said to herself, ‘that name doesn’t inspire me with confidence.’

      ‘Where’s my phone?’ Simon’s panicked voice carried through the hallway and upstairs to where Penny was hunting for some ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet. She was finding it impossible to wind down. Even though the shoot was over, the phone hadn’t stopped ringing with requests and queries for Simon. His stress levels were starting to get to her now. She’d slept badly and had a throbbing pain in her shoulder, not to mention the remnants of a hangover.

      ‘By the front door, on the sideboard,’ she shouted back, riffling through the packets of aspirin, indigestion remedies and vitamin C tablets.

      Moments later, another anxious shout: ‘My car keys, where are they? I just had them in my hand.’

      ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Penny gave up her fruitless search and headed downstairs. She found Simon anxiously hopping from foot to foot. ‘Where did you have them last?’

      ‘Just now!’ His voice was a strangled screech.

      ‘Calm down, darling. They won’t have gone far.’

      Penny’s eyes spied his Nokia, still on the sideboard, and next to it a set of keys.

      ‘Here you are, Simon. You must have put them both down when you put your coat on. Now, is that everything?’

      ‘Er … not sure, possibly not. Look, I’ve got to go – I’ve should have been at St Peter’s ten minutes ago! Bye.’

      He planted a distracted peck on her cheek and then dashed out the door.

      As the house settled into silence, Penny let out a sigh of relief. ‘Right, now for half an hour on the sofa with a hot-water bottle on my shoulder.’

      Switching her mobile phone off, Penny boiled a kettle, filled her hot-water bottle with its Paddington Bear cover – tatty and much loved since childhood – and headed off to put her feet up. She’d no sooner arranged herself on the sofa than the doorbell rang. Penny pretended not to hear it. It rang again. More insistently this time.

      ‘Bother, bother, bother.’

      Penny launched herself from the sofa and stomped down the corridor. She threw open the door, ready to tell whoever it was to bugger off, but managed to bite back on the words when she found herself confronted by the toothless grin of Queenie Quintrel.

      Normally Penny would have been delighted to welcome the ancient Cockney proprietress of the village store, but right now she wasn’t it the mood. She offered a tight smile. ‘Queenie. СКАЧАТЬ