Hidden Treasures

by Fern Britton

  ‘Did you see that?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied, his full mouth and white teeth still laughing. ‘That dog must be an excellent judge of character.’

  She laughed too. ‘Thanks! I feel as if I have half a gallon of pee in my shoe, but it’s probably only a teaspoon.’

  ‘Well, I hope your day improves.’ And he walked off in the same direction as the incontinent Stuart, leaving Helen feeling confused. Had she just been teased or insulted?

  She couldn’t decide whether to head back to the car and go home or nip into a shop for a cheap pair of beach shoes, then look for breakfast. Beach shoes and breakfast won. When she came out of the shop, her trainers and socks tied up inside two plastic bags, she left the harbour behind her and walked into the little town. The streets were narrow and traditionally quaint. Some local businesses like the butcher, baker and greengrocer still survived, but most of the shops were geared to the wealthier holiday visitors. She enjoyed half an hour of window shopping, but didn’t succumb. There’s plenty of time for me to do shopping here – the rest of my life! she told herself.

  Finally she arrived at an all-day café that she’d been to once with Dorrie, when she had treated Dorrie to lunch as a thank you for all her help and input into Gull’s Cry. The tables were set outside and she parked herself at a table for two in a sunny, sheltered corner. The waiter came out and took her order for a cappuccino and full Cornish breakfast (just the same as an English one, only better, he said).

  Tilting her head up to the sun, Helen closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax. She was aware of how her new shoes touched the cobbles beneath her; the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. Then she tuned in to the sounds around her. She heard voices, a van door slide open, the clip-clop of a woman’s shoes on the cobbles and … a male voice she thought sounded familiar, coming from inside the café.

  ‘I’ll have a black coffee, boy. Three sugars. How’s the summer been for you?’

  She heard her waiter’s voice: ‘Handsome. But I’ll be glad when the visitors have all gone ’ome.’

  ‘The last six weeks have been heaving, haven’t they?’ the familiar voice responded. ‘You’d think these grockles would want to do more than just mooch about spending too much money in the shops and eating cream teas and fish and chips. Still, if it pays for us to have a good winter, who cares. I saw one just now. Looked arty, like. Expensive handbag and haircut – you know the type. Then a dog peed on her leg. You should’ve seen her face! Proper townie and no mistake.’

  Helen heard her waiter laugh. ‘I’d ’ave paid good money to see that!’

  The laughter continued. Her veins felt as if they were being flushed through with ice-cold water and yet her face was burning. She reached down to her Mulberry handbag and fumbled for her Tom Ford sunglasses. She must stick out like a sore thumb.

  The waiter came back out with her coffee and breakfast, followed immediately by the handsome man she had met on the harbour. His dark, tightly curled hair bounced in the breeze, one hand holding a takeaway cup, the other shoved in his pocket.

  ‘Bye, Bernie.’

  ‘Bye, Piran. Look out for those leaky dogs!’ the waiter called to him and, laughing, turned back into the café.

  ‘Bastard. Bloody bastard,’ muttered Helen, turning her face so that he couldn’t see her.

  She ate her breakfast and drank her coffee as quickly as possible. So much for enjoying a leisurely hour people-watching.

  She paid the bill, left a minimal tip and drove home, fuming all the way.

  *

  On her doorstep there was a large bunch of rusty-coloured dahlias, wrapped in newspaper and tied with green twine. A small note read:

  Thank you for listening and welcome to our village.

  Regards, Simon Canter

  Smiling at his thoughtfulness, she carried them into the kitchen and dug out an old Cornishware jug to put them in. They looked just right sitting on the stone hearth of the fireplace.

  After putting some laundry in the machine, including the revolting socks and trainers, she collected her brand-new tool box from under the sink and took her new washing line and ironmongery outside.

  It was incredibly liberating not to have Gray breathing down her neck, telling her she was getting it all wrong. She hammered and screwed and swore to her heart’s content, not caring when she chipped a bit of brick or drilled a hole in the wrong place, and it was fun. After about an hour she tested the whole construction. The knots seemed safe enough and everything appeared secure on the privy wall and back-door frame.

  Ten minutes later, she’d hung the first batch of washing out on the line and she couldn’t have been more pleased with herself if she’d climbed Machu Picchu.

  Back inside, she settled down in her rocking chair by the Aga with a pot of tea and phoned Chloe. They spent a lovely hour catching up with each other’s news and Chloe fell about laughing at the story of the dog wee. ‘Everyone’s a critic, Mum!’

  But she felt Helen’s humiliation at the hands of the corkscrew-haired man.

  ‘Mummy, how horrible. What a nasty man. I hope you don’t bump into him again.’

  ‘I’ll make sure to avoid him – not that he’d remember me anyway.’

  There was a knock on the door. Helen looked up through the porthole window of the door and caught sight of a faded red fisherman’s smock. No, it couldn’t be!

  ‘Hang on, darling. There’s someone outside.’ She slid out of her chair and ducked down on her hands and knees so that he couldn’t see her. She crawled towards the door and, very tentatively, looked up through the glass to get a clearer view. He was looking down through the porthole directly at her.

  ‘Chloe, oh my God – it’s him! He’s here.’

  ‘What? Don’t answer it.’

  ‘No, I’ll have to. He can see me. Stay on the line.’

  She stood up, trying to look nonchalant and opened the door. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  ‘I thought it was you. The dog-wee lady?’ He smiled a twisted, sardonic smile.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Ha ha!’ Helen laughed awkwardly.

  ‘What were you doing crawling on the floor just now?’

  ‘Erm …’ She couldn’t think of an answer, so said instead, ‘I’m on the phone … long distance … Is this important?’

  ‘Well, no, not to me. But I thought you’d like to know your washing line’s broken and your knickers are blowing all over the churchyard.’ He looked her up and down slowly. ‘Bye, then.’

  ‘Right. Thank you. Goodbye.’ And she slammed the door.

  ‘Mum! Are you OK? I heard his voice. Quite sexy.’

  ‘Chloe, he may sound quite sexy, he may look quite sexy, but that man is not sexy.’

  *

  Out in the garden the washing was ruined. She collected it all up and then climbed over the wall into the churchyard to find a tea towel and two pairs of the frilly knickers that Gray had bought her for her last birthday. He had always bought her pretty undies. He loved her legs and was never happier than when they were encased in stockings and suspenders. But then he’d loved any woman in stockings and suspenders. She wished he’d stop giving them to her.

  With everything safely in her laundry basket, she hoiked herself back up over the wall and into her garden. She heard a wolf whistle behind her and turned. That bloody man was in the churchyard, looking at her, and laughing. She clutched the basket tightly to her chest and stomped indoors, giving the back door a satisfying slam.

  7

  Sitting at his desk in the vicarage, Simon Canter gazed out of his study window overlooking the church car park. He smiled and returned Piran Ambrose’s wave as he drove off in his rusting Toyota truck. Good man, Piran. A bit surly, but a good heart and he was really helping the Graveyard Committee in identifying which plots needed to be renovated, relocated or simply removed all together.

  Just beyond the church was the churchyard, and beyond that Helen Merrifield’s back garden. Simon was in love.
She was perfect; a goddess of medium height with what looked like shapely long legs. He hadn’t been able to see much because of the gardening trousers she’d been wearing, but he had noticed her full bosom when she’d taken her coat off and stood there in her T-shirt looking at his ankle. Her hair was dark auburn with a natural curl. Her eyes amber. Her creamy skin was scattered with freckles. Her lips stained as if with raspberry juice, plump and wide …

  He sighed. Meeting Helen had shaken his orderly world. He’d felt the same when he first saw Denise and then, a couple of years after the Denise debacle, when he’d met Hillary, a woman in her thirties who came to him for confirmation classes. Week after week they’d sat here in his study, just the two of them, discussing her faith and the challenge of believing in a God who didn’t show himself so magically these days; no vivid dramas and burning bushes like in the Old Testament. Her faith had been strong, but she seemed to be having trouble allowing God to accept her as she was. Simon had high hopes of getting her to trust God and eventually trust him too. Then her trust would turn to love and he would have the wife he so very much wanted.

  What’s that old saying? Simon thought. ‘Man plans and God laughs.’ Never had it been truer than when Hillary confessed she was struggling with her lesbian feelings towards one of her married colleagues. Sometimes Simon didn’t like God’s sense of humour.

  And now there was Helen Merrifield. Her name sounded like crystal water sparkling into a little pool.

  ‘Canter S.,’ he heard his Latin teacher’s voice in his head, ‘get on with your work.’

  He looked down at the scribbled notes he was making for tomorrow’s sermon. All nonsense. ‘Come on, man, get a grip.’ Living alone was a wonderful excuse for talking aloud to yourself. ‘Yes, yes, now where was I? Helen Merrifield … did she get my flowers? Did she like them? Shall I go over and see her? Erm … no, I’ll phone her instead. Drat, don’t have her number. She’ll phone me. I am in the book. And if she doesn’t, I’ll see her at church tomorrow. And I’ll talk to her about … stuff. Yes. Now, what am I doing? Writing tomorrow’s sermon. That’s it. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Which he did, and tried to knuckle down to the task at hand, but Simon was unable to keep thoughts of Helen at bay for long.

  ‘I wonder what she’s doing now?’ he mused.

  *

  Helen was on the beach. She’d followed the path from the village green down the side of Pendruggan Farm and walked half a mile across the fields from Gull’s Cry to where the Atlantic Ocean swept in and out of Shellsand Bay. It was a beach which the holiday visitors rarely found as it was awkward to trek down to, especially with windbreaks, cool boxes and buggies. Today it was empty.

  She walked down to the tideline and turned over lumps of seaweed with her wellies, looking for interesting bits of wood or shells. She found a cork ring attached to some green fishing net and a beautiful piece of slate shaped like a heart. She put them both in her pocket and then walked down to the sea. The breeze was mild, ruffling her wavy hair, and with every buffet she felt her humiliation at Piran’s hands slowly dissipate. The tide was out quite a way, but the swell was big and she spotted two surfers looking like seals in their wetsuits. They were lying on their boards waiting to catch a big wave. She took a great lungful of the salty air and reminded herself that this was why she was here. The wildness of the elements and the freedom of a life without responsibility. She watched as the surfers paddled furiously just ahead of a big breaker and then leapt up on to their boards and expertly rode the wave almost right up on to the beach.

  Years ago, when she had come to Cornwall as a child, her father had bought her a little wooden bodyboard. He had spent long, patient hours in the shallows, teaching her how to catch a wave and ride it on her tummy. She so wanted to do it again. Perhaps she could get lessons in real stand-up surfing? She’d ask Queenie.

  She stayed for another twenty minutes or so, watching the surfers and then turned for home.

  Back at Gull’s Cry, the washing machine had done its stuff and she hung the wet laundry on the drying rack above the Aga. Her attempt to fix up the washing line outside was a failure; the bracket had fallen off. The pulley system installed in the kitchen to haul it all up to ceiling height made a satisfying squeaky noise. And at least if that fell down, it wouldn’t lead to another ignominious episode with the rude man in the fisherman’s smock.

  She put a jacket potato in the oven and got the paper out to see what was on the telly. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Perfect.

  A couple of hours later and she was ready for bed. It was only 9 p.m. A bit earlier than she was used to, but that was country life for you. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t getting bored already, was she?

  8

  It was 7 a.m. on Sunday morning and the Reverend Simon Canter was putting on his robes of office. On Sundays he took a no-frills, spoken rather than sung communion at 8 a.m. for those few communicants who wanted the peace of a child-free service first thing, leaving them free to get on with their day.

  He’d got up earlier than usual today in order to give the vicarage a bit of a spring clean. His weekly help had been off with her hips for a couple of weeks now and the place was showing signs of neglect, so he’d vacuumed round the vast and largely unused Victorian sitting room and opened the French windows to allow the autumn air to disperse the smell of must and old hymn books that he felt must be hanging around. Then he cut another large bunch of his bronze dahlias from the garden and placed them in a vase on the modest grand piano. Not bad. Next he gave the downstairs loo a quick bleach and the kitchen a wipe.

  When he finished getting dressed and came downstairs, he sniffed the air and immediately ran back upstairs to his bathroom. He returned with his aftershave (a Christmas present from Queenie, who’d assured him that David Beckham wore nothing less) and proceeded to squirt it liberally through the rooms downstairs. He sniffed again. Much better. Taking one last look round, he left to tend his flock.

  *

  Later that morning, walking over to the church, Helen mulled over the possibility that she might be missing London. Or, if not London itself, then maybe her friends. So she resolved to get some dates in the diary and encourage them to visit her.

  Getting ready that morning, she’d looked in the mirror and decided she really ought to make an effort with her appearance. Once she’d applied a little mascara, rouge and lip gloss, she realised that it made her look much better than she had in weeks. She had decided on a cream and bronze chiffon tea dress which accentuated her freckles, over the top of which she was wearing a cream cashmere cardigan in case the church was cold. She’d kept her legs bare, with tan strappy sandals on her slim feet.

  The church was fourteenth century with Victorian additions, most notably the clock tower. The bell ringers were calling the village to prayers and sending the rooks up into the trees like black plastic bin liners flapping in the breeze. As Helen came out of her gate, Polly and another man caught up with her. They were both in green ambulance uniforms.

  ‘Hello, Helen,’ said Polly, walking alongside her. ‘We’re on call today, but we don’t like to miss the service. We’ve got the pager, haven’t we, Pete?’ The man on the other side of Helen nodded. ‘You do look nice today,’ Polly continued. ‘I was saying to Pete, I wondered if we’d be seeing you at church today. Seeing as you and the vicar had quite a long chat the other night.’ Polly was smiling conspiratorially.

  The man with Polly greeted Helen with a grin. ‘Hello. I’m Pete. Pleased to meet you. And so’s Reverend Canter, apparently.’

  ‘What?’ But Helen’s voice was lost as, flanked by the couple, she was swept into the church.

  The entire congregation of twenty-five turned to look at her. Queenie, who was sitting near the front, waved the three of them over, and they sat down alongside her. For the next five minutes, Queenie, Pete and Polly introduced Helen, very proprietorially, to the entire church until, at exactly 10 a.m, Simon entered from a side door and the service began. A
s he introduced the first hymn he gave a little nod of hello to Helen and there was a definite thrum of excitement from the congregation.

  *

  The service was a good and simple one. Apart from a mild hiatus when Pete and Polly were called out to an emergency heart attack in Trevay, it went smoothly. Helen hadn’t taken communion for many years and was surprisingly moved by the gentleness of Simon’s touch and the blessings as he gave her the bread and wine.

  When it came to giving the sign of peace, he made a beeline for her and held her hand a fraction longer than necessary while asking if she’d care to come over to the vicarage after the service to have a glass of sherry with several of the other parishioners. Helen felt she could hardly refuse in front of so many expectant faces.

  ‘Thank you. Just a quick one.’

  Simon visibly relaxed and went on to shake hands with the rest of the throng.

  *

  ‘Come in. Come in.’ He ushered his eight or so guests in to the sitting room. Helen could see that it hadn’t benefited from a woman’s touch for several years, but she noticed the flowers on the piano and the same musky smell that Simon carried with him. He’d tried hard to make it welcoming. She offered to help him hand around the sherry and small cubes of cheese sprinkled with paprika, from which he’d just taken the cling film.

  She was surprised to find she enjoyed herself much more than she’d expected. Everybody was so kind and interested in her. She was definitely the celebrity of the day!

  ‘How do you know the vicar then?’ an elderly man in tweed and corduroy asked her.

  ‘Well, it’s a very funny story actually.’ Simon hovered with a bowl of cashews. ‘Tell Jack, Helen.’