The Newcomer

by Fern Britton

  When Robert had returned from the school run, it had taken every ounce of her self-control not to run upstairs, retrieve the letter and confront him with it.

  Instead, she had watched as his car pulled up on the vicarage drive, and met him at the front door.

  He had come in, all smiles, with bulging shopping bags and a huge bunch of scented lilies.

  ‘These are for you, my darling.’ He placed them in her arms and kissed her briefly. ‘I thought they might look nice with some of that mollis from the garden. The lime green against the pink?’

  ‘Yes.’ She batted away an unbidden desire to burst into tears.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, clanking the shopping bags towards the kitchen. ‘I am going to cook you a feast of delights tonight.’ He hefted the bags onto the kitchen table and pulled the fridge door open. ‘I don’t want you coming in and ruining the surprise.’

  She had followed him down the darkened hall and was leaning on the kitchen doorframe. ‘Surprise?’ Her gut twisted.

  Satisfied with his survey of the fridge’s interior, he took out a bottle of milk, closed the door and went to the kettle. ‘Yep.’

  Facing her, he flapped his hands and shooed her out. ‘Now, you go back to whatever it is you’re doing and I’ll bring you a coffee.’

  Back in her office, Angela tried to put her mind to the church admin that needed putting in order. But the stocktake of communion wafers and rotas for the volunteer cleaners and flower arrangers were not what her brain needed.

  Her running shoes were calling to her.

  ‘I told you not to come in!’ Robert feigned irritation with her, hands on hips, tea towel thrown over his shoulder.

  ‘Can I fill my water bottle up, please? I fancy a run,’ she said, passing her bottle to him.

  ‘Running on your own today?’

  ‘Yes. Running club is tomorrow.’

  She took in the explosion of half-prepped ingredients on the huge chopping board (a wedding present from her mum and Mamie to them both seventeen years ago), and a large sauté pan spattering the top of the Aga. ‘It smells good in here,’ she smiled.

  He tapped her nose as he passed her the water. ‘Keep your beak out, Mrs Nosy. Have a good run.’

  Coming out of the vicarage, she began to run immediately. She usually did a lap of the village green and then either ran to the beach and along the length of its shore, or up the hill, past the Dolphin and through a loop of lanes that brought her back to Pendruggan.

  As she was deciding, she heard her name called. Helen was outside Gull’s Cry and waving at her. ‘Happy birthday, Angela!’ she shouted.

  ‘Thank you.’ Angela kept her running pace steady.

  ‘Have a lovely day!’ Helen shouted back in return.

  ‘Will do!’ Angela kept smiling but her brain was asking her, How does Helen know it’s my birthday? Could she have sent the note? Have she and Robert been meeting up in secret? No. Why would they? Unless … STOP, Angela. Don’t think about them being together. OK. Is Helen missing Penny? After all, I’m the cuckoo in the nest, taking the place of Helen’s best friend. Does she resent me for that? Or does the crush she might have on Robert make her want to stir up trouble? Or, or … or maybe I’m just paranoid and whoever sent the note did it for some warped pleasure, never to be heard from again.

  Aloud she said, ‘Shut up, Angela, and just run.’

  She decided to do her inland run and turned up the steep and pretty lane towards the Dolphin. The landlord, Don, was outside watering his hanging baskets.

  ‘Morning,’ she panted as she went past.

  ‘Morning!’ he called back.

  No birthday wishes from him. So, the letter isn’t from him. Unless it is and he’s playing it carefully. But why would he send it? Jealousy? Robert is a very handsome man and only the other day he mentioned how lucky Don is to have such an attractive wife as Dorrie. But Dorrie comes to the women’s group and I haven’t noticed her being overly smitten by Robert. But is she boxing clever too?

  Around the bend and out of Don’s sight she stopped, bent over, her hands on her knees, tears beginning to form. She dashed them away angrily. ‘Stop it. STOP IT,’ she shouted in the quiet of the warm and deserted lane.

  She steadied herself, took three deep breaths and a mouthful of water.

  You are tormenting yourself. Robert has no secrets. You would know if he did. So would Faith and certainly Mamie. Mamie would tell me. She wouldn’t let Robert hurt me.

  Like the terrorist who wins with threats of destruction, so this pathetic, anonymous letter-writer was winning by undermining all she knew to be true in her life.

  She stood up straight. Rolled her shoulders. Shook her legs and started to run again.

  Forty minutes later and only half a mile from home, she passed the closed gates of a house set in a severely manicured garden. From nowhere, two large and drooling Labradors rushed at the gates and barked ferociously, their hackles raised.

  Angela stopped in shock and terror.

  A familiar voice spoke to them. ‘Come along, William, Henry. Quiet.’

  The dogs took no notice, continuing to jump at the gates and pin Angela with their evil stares.

  Audrey Tipton strode into view. ‘Ah, Mrs Whitehorn. The boys are very protective. It’s why I didn’t bring them to your pet blessing service. Pedigree dogs like these mustn’t mix with mongrels. And anyway, I didn’t agree with the premise.’ She called the quietening beasts to her side. ‘Such lovely dogs. Why would anyone have children when they can have doggies as lovable as these?’ She bent down to fondle their ears.

  ‘They scared me a bit,’ admitted Angela. ‘I’ve often run down here but hadn’t seen them before now.’

  Audrey curled a lip. ‘Running is a dreadful hobby, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s not for everybody but I find it very therapeutic.’

  ‘Tennis is so much better. I was a very good player in my youth. But it’s golf now. Geoffrey and I are very active members of the golf club. Such a nice class of person plays golf.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ replied Angela, thinking how ghastly it must be if they were all Tipton clones.

  ‘But I mustn’t stop you, Mrs Whitehorn. Enjoy your run, oh and happy birthday.’

  ‘Thank you. How did you know?’

  Audrey was smug. ‘There’s not much in this village that goes by without me knowing.’ She called the dogs to heel and triumphantly walked back towards the house.

  Angela picked up her pace once more.

  Of course! It could be Audrey. Sharp-tongued and unkind. It would be just like her to write a nasty little note like that. She is exactly the sort of person who wouldn’t want a woman vicar in her parish. And she’s made it clear she fancies Robert. Who wouldn’t? Being married to Geoffrey? Hardly an Adonis. Yes. It must be Audrey or someone in her group of friends. Judging. Criticising. Superior to all others.

  Angela slowed to a trot.

  What was she thinking?

  All these unkind thoughts about innocent people?

  This was not why she had been ordained. She had joined the Church because of her faith in Christ’s message of love. She wanted to spread that message and make the world and its people kinder, more understanding, loving. And here she was thinking twisted, unkind and hateful thoughts.

  She began to walk, taking a good drink of her water. A few yards on was a lichened five-bar gate overlooking the fields that ran down to the sea. She rested her elbows on it and took in the view. Peaceful. The young crops bright green against the cornflower sky. The sea sparkling in the distance. This was her home for now. And her home was filled with three people she loved the most and who loved her. She was blessed. No idiot was going to spoil this day. Or her marriage.

  23

  At seven o’clock that evening, Robert called Angela downstairs and put his hands over her eyes as he guided her towards the kitchen.

  ‘No peeking, birthday girl.’

  The touch of his warm, gentl
e hands and the timbre of his voice, both so familiar, brought another wave of near tears, just one of several that day. When she had returned from her run he had filled a steaming bath for her, surrounding it with scented candles. She had lain in it and cried with happiness. He insisted that she relaxed until he was ready to call her down.

  Faith had wandered in and done her nails for her then shaped her eyebrows. ‘Mum, you really need to keep these under control.’

  What would she do without her family? Robert was her best friend and champion.The love of her life. Kind. Dependable. And, she admitted, paternal in a way that her own father had not had the chance to be.

  He was simply everything to her.

  Now, approaching the kitchen blindly, she felt his warm breath on her right ear. ‘Just two more steps and then you can open the door. Keep your eyes shut.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘I promise.’

  He took his hands from her closed eyes, and guided her hand to the door handle.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘In you go.’

  She pressed the door handle down and opened her eyes.

  Waiting for her were Mamie and Faith, and Piran and Helen. They began singing, ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Angela, happy birthday to you.’

  Her hands flew to either side of her mouth with joy.

  Robert stood behind her and slid his arms around her slender waist. She allowed her eyes to weep their unemptied tears. ‘But I’m having my party tomorrow!’ she managed.

  Helen came to her side. ‘Well, that’s the party, this is the birthday supper. Two completely different things.’ From behind her back she produced a small package. ‘I hope you like it.’

  Remorse swept through Angela. How could she ever have imagined that Helen could be the malicious letter-writer? She kissed her. ‘You never said a word this morning! Thank you. Can I open it now?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Inside the carefully wrapped package was a silver bangle with a charm hanging from it.

  ‘It’s an Irish wolfhound,’ Helen said, then added anxiously, ‘Mr Worthington is one of those, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is. Oh, it’s lovely!’ Angela slid it onto her wrist and showed it off. ‘Thank you.’

  Mamie stepped forward and passed her a glass of champagne. ‘Darling, many happy returns and many more of them. I have got you six bottles of this, so I hope you like it.’

  Angela took a sip. ‘Delicious. Thank you, Mamie.’

  Faith was busy picking at a bowl of cashew nuts and told the room, ‘I gave Mum breakfast in bed.’

  ‘You did.’ Angela remembered the birthday cards and the hideous letter among them and swallowed the flush of anxiety that swept through her body. ‘It was a lovely surprise.’

  Robert rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, everyone. Sit down. Piran, next to Angela. Helen next to me and Mamie and Faith opposite each other.’

  Angela was immediately on edge. Why would Robert put Helen next to him? She watched as he pulled the chair out for Helen and said something that made her laugh.

  Piran, next to Angela, touched her arm, making her jump. ‘Had a good day then?’

  She smiled her automatic smile. The one she used for the line of parishioners who waited to shake her hand at the end of each Sunday service.

  ‘Yes. Wonderful.’

  Robert was bending over Helen, pouring her another glass of champagne. He looked up and caught Angela’s eye. ‘Don’t worry. I’m coming to your end now. Piran, pass me Ange’s glass.’ As he poured he kept talking to Helen and spilt the pale bubbles onto the tablecloth. ‘Oops. Not paying attention. Sorry.’

  Angela took her wet and overfilled glass and drank it swiftly. Piran raised his eyebrows. ‘You look as if you needed that, maid.’

  ‘Well, it’s my birthday, isn’t it?’

  Piran sensed choppy waters and held his tongue.

  ‘Helen, I need you.’ Robert, his cheeks flushed, was playing the fool. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Piran?’

  ‘Depends,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I need Helen to be my sous chef and plate up the starters.’

  Helen, Angela thought, looked thrilled. ‘I would adore to,’ she giggled.

  Together they fussed about, going in the fridge, sharing a joke about homemade mayonnaise and all the time feeding nothing but a voracious jealousy that Angela had never felt before.

  The first course consisted of individual and perfectly sized crudities with a garlicky anchovy dipping sauce.

  Helen was in raptures. ‘I must have this recipe, Robert. It’s incredible.’

  ‘I found it online,’ he said. Angela watched him as he watched Helen lick her fingers. ‘Bagna Càuda. Literal translation is Hot Sauce.’

  Faith wiped her lips. ‘Dad, this is the best thing you’ve ever made!’

  Robert looked towards the end of the table. ‘What do you think, Ange? I made it for you.’

  She couldn’t look him in the eye. ‘Yum,’ she managed, fiddling with the napkin on her lap.

  The main course was a huge joint of beef, perfectly pink and seasoned. Robert had made Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, fresh peas, sautéed leeks and buttered carrots to accompany it.

  ‘My wife’s favourite supper of all time. Isn’t that right, my darling?’ He looked at her with a faint question mark.

  ‘Thank you, Robert.’ She wanted to say, ‘No, it’s not my favourite. It’s yours.’ She took a mouthful and tried hard to swallow the food and the slight.

  When the main course had been cleared, Robert stood up. ‘At this point you would expect the birthday pudding, but before I serve it, I want to toast my wonderful wife. Please be upstanding for Angela.’

  There was a scrape of chairs as everyone but Angela stood and raised their glasses. ‘To Angela,’ Robert said.

  ‘To Angela,’ they intoned.

  ‘Speech!’ cried a slightly tipsy Mamie.

  ‘No, no.’ Angela shook her head.

  ‘Come on, Mum!’ cajoled Faith.

  Angela knew she had to say something or endure this embarrassment a lot longer. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet. ‘Thank you for this wonderful dinner, Robert. And thank you all for giving me an evening I may never forget.’ She raised her glass and drained it. She said, ‘More wine please, Robert.’ And sat down.

  Robert pulled a face that said, Uh-oh, someone’s going to have a headache tomorrow, but he went to the fridge and opened a bottle of pale, Provence rosé. He walked to her and poured it, saying, ‘I have a present for you. Would you like it now?’

  There was a hush and five faces turned to her expectantly. More than tipsy, Angela leant back in her chair as if challenging him. ‘Go on then. Surprise me.’

  Robert didn’t take his eyes from Angela’s face. ‘Mamie. Would you make some coffee, please? I’ve got to go and fetch something.’

  He returned with a large, paper-wrapped parcel, which rustled under his touch. He knelt by her side. ‘Happy birthday, my love. I hope you like it.’

  ‘Well, come on. Open it,’ urged Mamie, filling the cafetiere.

  The parcel sat on Angela’s lap. Her hands traced the gold embossment. Her fingers found the taped edges and began to pull at the wrapping until a summer dress in gossamer blue-grey chiffon slid out.

  Mamie and Faith gasped.

  Helen smiled.

  ‘Stand up, Ange,’ Robert asked her. ‘Hold it up against you.’

  It was full length and backless. A high-necked halter giving a demure impression until the wearer turned round.

  ‘Do you like?’ Robert whispered anxiously.

  Angela had no words. ‘Robert. It’s beautiful. I love it. And I love you. Thank you.’

  He smiled, relieved. ‘Thank Helen. She picked it out.’

  24

  ‘There you are! What are you doing out here? It’s six o’clock in the morning.’ Mamie,
first coffee of the day in hand, sat next to Angela. ‘And why this old bench? It’s all damp and rotten.’

  ‘You can’t see it from the house,’ Angela replied quietly.

  ‘Ah. So you didn’t want to be found.’ Mamie crossed her Moroccan-slippered feet, pulled her dressing gown closer and took a mouthful of her strong espresso.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Angela said testily. ‘It’s just that sometimes I need a bit of bloody peace in my own head. OK?’

  Mamie inclined her head. ‘Of course. But …’ she took another sip of coffee, ‘Helen and Robert are not having an affair.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, they most certainly are not. What on earth made you say that?’

  ‘Because I know you and that is why you are out here.’

  Angela ran her hands through her short hair. ‘Oh, Mamie. Last night was lovely. Robert’s present was lovely but …’

  ‘Helen chose it.’

  Angela gave a wretched nod.

  ‘She has good taste.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you wanted to think he had chosen it for you, without anyone’s help.’

  Angela’s eyes brimmed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want to take the bloody thing back to the shop.’

  Angela nodded sadly. ‘It’s so mean and ungrateful of me. Helen is a friend. Our friend. Our family friend. And she has a loving relationship with Piran. But …’

  Mamie threw her coffee dregs into the birdbath. ‘But nothing.’ She put her cold hands around Angela’s cheeks. ‘Listen to me. Robert. Loves. You.’

  Angela’s expression was far from convinced. ‘I love him so much.’

  Mamie kissed Angela’s forehead before taking her hands from her cheeks.

  ‘Good. Now no more silly talk, please. What’s the time?’

  Angela checked her small wristwatch. ‘Six thirty.’

  Mamie pressed her palms on her knees and stood up. ‘I am going to brew a large pot of good coffee and you are going to get back into bed and wait for me to bring it to you both. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  In the half-light of their bedroom, Angela watched as Robert’s chest rose and fell in the innocence of sleep. She crept around to her side of the bed and gently got in, pulling the duvet high around her neck. She longed to reach out for her husband and pull herself closer to him but she was still cold from the garden and didn’t want to disturb him. She closed her eyelids and, without expecting to, fell into a dreamless sleep.