by Fern Britton
*
Upstairs, she ran a quick bath in her luxurious bathroom. Don had done a marvellous job. The Cornish understood what folk from upcountry liked. Years of accepting wealthy second-home owners into their communities meant they were acquainted with all the latest design fads. Helen would have been happy with a B&Q job, but Don soon persuaded her that what she wanted was a limestone tiled floor, huge white sink, a bath with space-age taps and a shower with a head so big its pressure was like a riot hose. This was now her favourite room in the cottage.
Don had said that he’d be with her at just after eleven to take a look at the new boiler and set the thermostat and timer, which was completely beyond her.
By 11.15 a.m. she was bathed and dressed. Her shoulder-length brown hair was still wet and her face free of make-up. She hadn’t put make-up on for days. In West London it was considered rude to be seen without it. Here it was considered rude to be seen with it.
Don eventually rolled up at 12.15 p.m.
‘Hello, Helen.’
‘Don! Hello, I expected you an hour ago.’
‘Yeah. I got here directly. By the way, do you want any bass or lobster? My mate’s going out in his boat later. I could drop it over?’
‘Well, yes. How much are they?’
‘Nothing to me, maid. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Well, thank you. Anything that’s going, please. Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Wouldn’t say no. This colour’s lovely in ’ere, isn’t it?’
Don had his head through the door into the sitting room. Four months ago, when she first got the keys to the Gull’s Cry, she had a vague idea of chintz and Laura Ashley, but it was Don who steered her to the soft pastel emulsions and barley-coloured painted floorboards, and it was Don who pushed her into buying her patchwork armchair.
‘That’s what designers call a hero piece, that is.’
She had met Don when she first came house-hunting in Pendruggan. It had been at the end of May and she had driven her soft-top Mini through the sun-dappled lanes with the roof down. The smell of the wild garlic and salt on the breeze brought back childhood memories that had her hugging herself with joy and excitement, feeling sure that she was going to find her dream home any minute. However, the first few houses she’d looked at were too dark, too damp or too expensive. When she’d seen them all and the sun had gone in, giving way to a few spits of rain, the smile had gone and she needed something to cheer herself up. According to her map, she was somewhere between Trevay and Pendruggan. Hungry and needing to regroup, she stopped at the first pub she saw, the Dolphin. It was a proper pub, probably three hundred years old and granite tough. Parking her Mini in the empty car park, Helen walked past the tubs of jolly geraniums, stepped in to the dark of the bar, and immediately liked what she saw. An open fire gently burned in the large grate, a huge copper punchbowl full of perfumed peonies stood on the bar and half a dozen candles flickered in thoughtfully placed bell jars. She ordered a tomato juice and a crab salad from the hand-written menu, then took her drink to a table with two ancient leather chairs and sat down thankfully. When the barmaid brought her the cutlery, she noticed the pages of house details that Helen had placed in front of her.
‘House-hunting, are you?’ the woman asked.
‘Yep. But no luck so far,’ Helen said glumly.
‘Don,’ the barmaid called, ‘is Gull’s Cry still for sale down in Pendruggan?’
A man with the build of an ex-boxer came through the door behind the bar. ‘Old Vi’s house? I think so. Why?’
‘This lady is lookin’, that’s all.’
Don, pulled the tea towel from his shoulder and pushed it on to the bar. ‘Oh yeah? Needs a bit doin’, mind. Is your ’usband good at that stuff?’
‘I am looking for myself, actually. I’m thinking about moving down here from London.’
‘Holiday ’ome, is it?’
‘No. A home home.’
‘Pendruggan is a lovely place mind, but the cottage is small. People want lots of bedrooms, see. To let out.’
‘How big is it?’ she asked.
‘Just a little two-up two-down. Wanna look at it? I’ll call Neil, the agent who’s selling it, if you like.’
‘Well, I’m here so, yes!’
Don disappeared back into the gloom behind the bar and the barmaid introduced herself. ‘I’m Dorrie. Me and Don ’ave been here for nearly twenty years. There’s not much we don’t know about round here. In a good way,’ she added, seeing Helen’s face. ‘We look out for each other here, you see. A bit different from being in London, I expect.’
Helen took in the surf-blonde short hair, sawn-off denims and lime-green hoodie with its washed-out, illegible message. She reckoned Dorrie must be in her early forties.
‘It’s a lovely place to live. We get really busy in the summer and then the winter is quiet, but we love it and the people are really friendly. I take my boys down to the beach to surf in all weathers, and always on Christmas Day.’
‘I’m not sure my kids would like that.’
‘My two’ll show them. Ben’s twelve and Hal’s fourteen.’
‘Well, Chloe is twenty-two and Sean’s twenty-five.’
Dorrie’s face lit up, ‘Perfect! We got gorgeous lifeguards for yer daughter and lots of bar work for yer son.’
Helen thought of sweet and earnest Chloe being pursued by bronzed lifeguards. No way. And as for slick ad-man-about-town Sean serving pints of cider in a pub – absolutely no way!
Don came back rubbing his hands together with pleasure. ‘Spoke to Neil up at the estate agents and he’ll meet you there in half an hour. I’ll draw you a quick map. It’s only a couple of miles, but the signposting isn’t good. In fact, there isn’t any. A cup of coffee while you wait?’
It took her twenty minutes to find the village. The lanes all looked the same, but when she finally found the small village green with a sign saying Pendruggan, and saw the granite cottage with the FOR SALE sign, it was love at first sight. The front drystone wall of Gull’s Cry had a wonky gate that drooped on to the brick path and over the years it had worn a groove in the clay. Lavender lined the path to the cottage and the huge pots of tall agapanthus either side of the front door were heavenly. She stooped to look through the brass porthole set in the middle of the door but couldn’t see much besides dusty floorboards.
Neil took out the huge old metal key from his pocket, put it in the lock and they stepped inside. It smelled of dust and disuse, but no damp.
‘It’s been empty a couple of years. The old lady who lived here, Miss Wingham, was in a nursing home till she died. The estate have had it on the market ever since. Too expensive for the local first-time buyers and too small for the upcountry folk who want holiday lets.’
He let her walk round the kitchen, through to the sitting room. She tried to lie down in the wide window seat. Not quite long enough, but perfect to curl up in with a book. Or a cat? She opened the far door, which led to the stairs, and made her way up. Polished oak with a circular bend bringing her out to the landing and two bedrooms. The view from the bedrooms was to the front, overlooking the village green, while the window on the stairs gave a view of the garden and the church. After a quick tour of the overgrown garden, she and Neil retired to the Dolphin to discuss terms.
When her offer was accepted by the executors, Dorrie poured them all a large glass of vodka and cranberry to celebrate.
The vodka left Helen feeling unsure about driving, so Don invited her for supper upstairs in their private bit of the pub. ‘Dorrie’s got a chicken in the oven for tea. There’s plenty to go round.’
Completely seduced by her new house, the village and its people, she followed him upstairs. She had never seen the landlord’s accommodation above a pub before, but this was certainly not what she expected. It was like something out of a glossy magazine. Light and airy with a beachy feel to it, the colours were cream and café au lait. The bleached floorboards were strewn with richly colour
ed rugs, one wall was adorned with a fabulous painting of boats in a harbour, all broad strokes and bright colours. There was a pile of driftwood by the wood-burning stove, and a coffee table made entirely of wide planks. The sofas were deep and squashy and scattered with slightly crazy cushions, each embroidered with a single rose-pink seagull and embellished with real feathers.
‘Wow! This is amazing! And look at the view. You can see the sea and the cliffs.’
Don looked embarrassed. ‘Dorrie and I worked on it over the winter. Do you like it? The floor’s a bit wonky, but after I sanded it we decided it looked all right.’
‘It’s fabulous! What the London women I know wouldn’t give for this! Where’s the coffee table from?’
‘That? I made it from some old scaffold boards I found. Rubbish really.’
‘You did it? Don, I want my cottage to look just like this! Will you do it for me?’
3
Don and Dorrie had sorted out all the building and decorating after that, while Helen set about packing up her old life. She couldn’t wait. The London house was lovely, but it held too many memories. The good she could file away, the bad she would delete.
Sean thought she was mad.
‘Ma, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Lots of older people get an idea in their heads to retire to the seaside, only to find they miss their old life and end up dying lonely.’
‘Sean, I am forty-seven. Not quite in my dotage, thank you very much! In fact, still young enough to give you a little brother or sister, if I cared to.’
‘Ma, what a revolting idea. And what are you doing with that pile of vintage comics?’
‘Throwing them away.’
‘They’re worth a lot of money. Hang on to them for me, would you?’
‘Nope. All your stuff is yours from now on. Take it away or never see it again.’
Within an hour Sean had salvaged what childhood possessions he could fit into his absurdly small car and driven off in a huff.
Chloe had been more understanding. She understood that her mother had had enough of a painful marriage, but she adored both her parents and hoped that somehow they would get back together again.
On her last day, Gray came round to give her a bunch of flowers and a hug. They walked round the old place together and it felt right. He helped her pack her last few things in the car, slipped a wad of notes to the removal men as their tip, and together they shut the front door for ever.
‘Bye, old girl. Give me a bell to let me know you got there OK.’
‘I will.’ She kissed him briefly and with only a quick glance in her rear-view mirror, pointed the snub nose of the Mini in the direction of the M4.
*
And now here she was. Ten days later and everything settled. No looking back and certainly no regrets.
Don called to her, ‘Helen, I’ve set the timer and the thermostat.’
He tried again to explain the procedure to her, but although she nodded at the right moments, she didn’t understand it at all. It didn’t matter, he’d said she could call him again if she had any trouble.
As he was leaving, she said, ‘You don’t do gardening as well, do you?’
‘Nope. Don’t like worms. Ask Queenie, she’ll know someone.’
She’d been planning to nip into Queenie’s in any case, so she gathered up her things and a few minutes later she was ducking through her low front door. From force of habit, she turned to lock up, then decided instead to leave caution to the cautious. Nobody seemed to lock their front doors in Pendruggan and cars were never locked either.
Don had laughed at her when he had caught her frantically looking for her keys on first moving in: ‘Leave them where they’re meant to be, maid. Either in the front door or in the ignition. You’ll never lose them then.’
*
Queenie’s Post Office and General Store was the centre of village life. The day after Helen arrived in Pendruggan she had gone in for a pint of milk and Queenie, thrilled to find new blood in the village, had immediately launched into her life story. She had originally come to Pendruggan as an evacuee from London’s East End, but when her parents were tragically killed in the Blitz, the Cornish family with whom she’d been billeted took her under their wing. She stayed with them until she was eighteen, when she left to marry the local farmhand she’d fallen in love with.
‘I was married to Ted for fifty-two years, until he died of emphysema in 2000,’ Queenie sighed and lit a small roll-up cigarette.
‘The only way I’ll be leavin’ ’ere is in a box. My daughter Sandra wants me to move up to Coventry to be near her, but what do I wanna do that for? This is me ’ome and this is where I’ll stay until the day comes when I can rest next to my Ted in the churchyard. Would you like a pasty, duck?’
‘Yes, please. They look delicious.’
‘Homemade, they are! I do fifteen a day to order. When do you want yours?’
‘Can I have one now?’
‘No, duck. To order, like I said. Shall I put you on me regular list?’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, please. Can I have one tomorrow?’
Queenie took a gnarled pencil from her ear and pulled out a thumbed red exercise book. ‘What’s your name, dear?’
And Helen found herself telling Queenie her own life story in return.
‘That ex-husband of yours sounds like a right bastard, and no mistake. Still,’ Queenie adopted a look of wisdom, ‘that’s men for you.’ She paused. ‘And now you’re ’ere in Miss Wingham’s old ’ouse. She was a lovely lady, you know. Very old-fashioned in her ways, and ever so intelligent. She came ’ere to live before the war, you know. Lived in Gull’s Cry for seventy-seven years. She was on her own for all of ’em, no fella or nuffink. She never told me, but I fink she lost the love of her life in the war. She never said in so many words, but I could tell. Loved ’er cats too. Her last one was called Raven. She named ’em all after birds – I dunno why. Died peacefully in the nursing ’ome aged ninety-seven. She’ll be ’appy to think you’ve brought the old place back to life. Will you be doin’ the garden? She loved it. I’d like to get Alan Titchmarsh down ’ere to give it a going over. If you see ’im, you tell ’im!’ She laughed, then coughed a crackly cough that had been cultivated over decades of dedicated smoking.
Now, Thursday had become Pasty Day, and Helen was looking forward to another chat and a chance to browse the shelves, which were lined with greaseproof paper and red gingham. Queenie’s stock was extraordinary. Replacement suspenders for corsets and Blakey heel caps sat amongst the more mundane requirements. There was a well-stocked magazine rack, which Queenie devoured – showbiz gossip could have been her specialist knowledge on Mastermind – reading at the counter by the dim light of two bulbs suspended from the ceiling, the standard lamp with its pink shade by the freezer and the Tiffany lamp next to the till.
Queenie greeted Helen warmly as she entered. ‘Hallo, duck. I ain’t seen you much this week – you OK?’
‘Yes thanks, Queenie. I did a bit of a shop at Tesco in Trevay yesterday.’
‘Tesco? They ain’t got nothing in there! I go up sometimes on the bus, but they’ve never got anythin’ I want.’
‘Well, it was only to get a few things like balsamic and olive oil.’
‘Olive oil? We used to go to the chemist to get that, duck. And Balls Amic? What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’
‘A kind of vinegar.’
‘I got malt if you want it?’ Queenie turned to look at the gloomy shelf to her right.
‘Actually, what I do want, Queenie, is a gardener. Do you know anyone who would help me clear the garden?’
‘Oh yeah, me duck. Simple Tony’s the one you want.’
‘Tony?’
‘Simple Tony. ’E’s simple, poor lad, but a good worker. Very green-fingered.’
Helen was shocked at Queenie’s description of Tony as ‘simple’, but knew that Queenie’s generation had little truck with political correctness. She hoped that Queenie was
more sensitive around the poor boy and didn’t call him ‘Simple Tony’ to his face.
‘Where does Tony live?’ she asked.
‘Next door to you. In that shepherd’s hut in the garden.’
Helen remembered the hut. The day she moved in, Polly – the owner of the house next door – had come round with mugs of camomile tea for the unimpressed removal men, who would definitely have preferred a more energising builder’s brew. Helen hadn’t had a chance to chat to her properly or find out anything about her, but since then there had been several occasions when she’d looked over into the garden and caught sight of a youngish man in a navy-blue boiler suit, sitting on the steps of the hut boiling a kettle on his camping stove. This must be Tony, Helen realised. She was glad to have an excuse to go round and find out more.
‘Is that all, duck? Want a magazine? I got some good ones there. Julia Roberts is a lovely girl, ain’t she? I like to read about ’er. And Fiona Whatsit what reads the news. Not enough about ’er. She’s very popular in my ’ouse, you know.’
‘I’ll have a bottle of wine please. I’ll take it round to Polly.’
‘Righto.’ She handed Helen a dusty bottle. ‘This has been ’ere since the Easter Raffle. Should be good by now.’
4
The smell of woodsmoke drifted over from Polly’s chimney and mingled with the damp of the conkers lined up in a row on the doorstep.
Polly opened the door with a smile.
‘Hello, Helen. Welcome to Candle Cottage. Don’t mind the conkers. I put them there to keep the spiders away – apparently they don’t like the smell of them. It’s for Tony, the big softie. He hates them! What can I do for you?’
She greeted Helen with a kiss and showed her into a room decorated with beachcombing finds and filled with vintage furniture.
‘Polly, what a wonderful room – is that a real crystal ball?’
‘Oh, that’s my ball to do the village fayres. I like a bit of fortune-telling, but only for fun. Occasionally I’m right. Little Michaela up the way came to see me last year with a broken heart and fretting about her GCSEs. I told her that her life would change in twelve months, and now she’s got five grade Cs and is five months’ pregnant! We’re all very proud of her. Cup of tea?’