by Fern Britton
‘This is it. Have a look and see what you make of it.’ She put it down on the kitchen table next to Penny.
Penny rinsed her fingers under the tap and after drying her hands on a tea towel, opened the lid. She took out the shawl first.
‘Lovely shawl, I could use this for a period drama. And the brooch. Nice bit of jet … touch of rust on the pin though. A photo. What a good-looking couple. They look so old, don’t they, but I expect they were only in their twenties, judging by how young the children are. The baby is wrapped in a shawl like the one in the box … Have you got a magnifying glass?’
‘I think so. Perhaps in my desk drawer.’ Helen rooted through the mess and found a small plastic magnifier from a cracker.
‘That’ll do.’ Penny took it from her and, after a few moments screwing her eyes up, said, ‘I can’t tell. It might be … let me look at the brooch the mum has on her blouse collar.’ Another breath-holding wait, the boiler made a whoomf noise as the central heating came on, and then, ‘Blimey, girl. It looks like she’s wearing the brooch we’ve got here. Look.’
‘My God, it is. So could the baby be Violet Wingham, the woman who used to own this house?’
‘Why not? Who can we ask?’
‘The ghastly Piran Ambrose is the local historian, but I don’t fancy seeing him again. I’ll phone the little museum in Trevay tomorrow, and ask them if there’s anyone other than him.’
‘It sounds like a job for Mr Tibbs. He’s the hero of the Mavis Crewe books I’ve bought the TV rights for. They’re all set in the early 1930s in a small Cornish parish by the sea, and the widowed Mr Tibbs is the local bank manager. He’s very well respected and able to solve all kinds of problems and mysteries, large or small.’ She picked up the biscuit tin with the ashes in and gave it a shake. ‘These are the ashes, are they?’
Helen nodded and winced as the hangover reared its ugly head again.
‘Not enough for an adult, surely? Maybe it’s the boy in the photo. Her brother? Mr Tibbs would have this solved in ninety minutes with five commercial breaks.’ She looked at a limp Helen.
‘You look terrible. Another hair of the dog yet? Or just a cup of tea?’
‘Tea, please.’
‘Right: tea, bangers and mash, and an early night for you.’
*
Helen was downstairs, showered and dressed, and feeling totally refreshed after a good night’s sleep. She had the phone in her hand.
‘Hello, Trevay Heritage Museum. How can I help you?’ said a cheery voice on the other end of the line.
‘Hello, my name is Helen Merrifield. I’ve dug up an old box in my back garden and it’s got several interesting things in it. I wonder if I could bring them in and show them to one of your historians?’
‘Oh, we like things like that, don’t we! Let me see who’s around today. Erm … the roster says it’s Janet – Janet Coombe. She’ll be in around ten-thirty. Shall I tell her you’ll be in?’
‘Fantastic, thank you. See you then.’
Helen still marvelled at the wonderful service you got down here and how friendly everyone was. And she was mightily relieved that Piran clearly wasn’t on duty today.
*
After a quick cup of tea and some toast, she got to the Starfish in time to meet Penny. Together they got the box out of Helen’s car and walked with it down to the museum.
By the look of the architecture it must have been the old seamen’s mission: 1903 was the date carved into the granite arch above the entrance. The front door had peeling red paint and was held open by a huge brass cabin hook. The sign on the pavement outside said OPEN 10 TILL 6 MONDAY TO SATURDAY INCLUDING BANK HOLIDAYS. A smaller handwritten sign said, There is no admittance fee, but we rely on donations to keep our history alive. Please give generously.
Behind a sliding-glass window was a woman in a caramel-coloured twinset, caramel-coloured hair and caramel-coloured glasses. She looked up and, smiling, opened the glass panel.
‘May I help you?’
‘Yes, I phoned earlier to speak to Janet Coombe?’
‘Mrs Merrifield, is it? I would have phoned you to save you a trip, but I didn’t take your number. Janet’s just called in sick, I’m afraid. But if you’re quick, our Mr Ambrose will see you before he goes out to a field study he’s working on.’
Helen’s heart slipped. ‘Oh no, it’s OK. I won’t bother him. I’ll come back to see Jan—’
‘Mrs Merrifield and Penny, isn’t it?’ The rich, sardonic voice was unmistakable. The women turned to face Piran. He looked almost piratical today. The wild curls were glossy, and for the first time Helen noticed a small anchor tattoo on his hand. He was still in his red fishing smock and little Jack was at his heels. ‘How are you ladies feeling after your convivial evening?’
‘Fine. Did you enjoy your night out, too?’ Helen looked him straight in the eye, but he out-stared her until she looked down.
Penny attempted some levity: ‘She wants you to look at her box.’
‘Really? The pair of you had better come into the curator’s office then.’
*
Once he’d silently examined the objects, Piran said, ‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘I just wondered if we could find out who they belonged to. That’s all. But if it’s too insignificant for you, I’ll do some detective work myself.’ Helen went to close the lid and leave.
Piran put his hand on her arm and stopped her. ‘Now don’t get in a huff because I’m not clearing my diary this minute and getting on with it. I do have a lot of work on. You’ve seen me in the churchyard, over at Holy Trinity. I’m trying to get a complete survey of the graves done before the winter sets in. After that, I have to report my findings to the bishop and the coroner. So unfortunately, your little box is not a priority.’
Helen gazed out of the dusty window with a look of bored sarcasm.
‘Don’t look like that, woman. You may be used to having men dance to your tune – your poor husband and the naïve vicar. But not me. I will help you find out about this box, because it is actually quite interesting and there is clearly a story there, but I’ll do it when I’m ready, OK?’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Come along, Helen, let’s give the man some peace.’ Penny, realising that Helen was very close to simmering point, yanked her friend out of there before her temper well and truly boiled over.
*
‘That bloody man! What is his problem? I have never met anyone so rude.’ Helen plonked herself down into one of the comfy leather chairs in the Dolphin. Penny sat down opposite her, feeling the warmth of the open fire on her back.
‘He fancies you.’
‘I hardly think so.’
Dorrie came over with menus. ‘Hello, ladies! Nice to see you, Helen. Are you having some lunch?’
‘Dorrie, this is my best friend, Penny. Penny, this is Dorrie, who is the brilliant interior designer I’ve been telling you about.’
The women shook hands and smiled.
‘Do you know Piran Ambrose, Dorrie?’
‘Know ’im! I used to go out with ’im. Before Don, of course. What a lovely man.’
‘Lovely man! Are we talking about the same one?’
‘There’s only one Piran Ambrose. I think all of us are a little in love with him round here. He’s very discreet, mind. He’ll never let any secrets out about his lady friends. Although I do hear he’s seeing someone at the moment. From Truro way, I’m told.’
‘He took her out for supper at the Starfish the other night.’
‘Did ’e? She must be special then. That must’ve set him back a bob or two. When I knew ’im we’d collect mussels from the rocks at low tide and cook ’em up in his caravan. We all had caravans then. Lovely memories. You should have seen him when he was young. Hair longer than it is now and a proper surfer’s bod. I ’ad a lovely romantic summer with him. I was only eighteen and he was twenty-six, so it wasn’t going to last. I was too young for ’im, and anyway I had m
y eye on Don by then.’
All three women formed their own mental picture of a young Piran wading out of the surf.
Dorrie sighed, and then said, ‘So, what can I get you ladies for lunch?’
Without hesitation they both replied, ‘Mussels, please.’
*
Over coffee, Dorrie and Don joined them. They were very interested in Penny’s work and offered their help with anything that needed doing while she was filming.
‘I am sure we can find you some work as extras, if you’d like. And your boys too. If you’re up for it, Dorrie, I might need your help in sourcing some original props and design ideas on turn-of-the-century interiors.’
‘That sounds ideal! Have you had a chance to look in the Trevay Museum, ’cos Piran’s got some lovely original bits of furniture and knick-knacks on display down there.’
‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’ Helen explained about their meeting that morning, leaving nothing out.
‘Piran is a man of hidden depths,’ said Don. ‘He’s the finest friend a man could have. Look at the vicar: he was in a very dark place when his marriage was called off. Piran spent many evenings in the vicarage, just making sure Reverend Canter had food and company. He’s a very loyal man.’
Dorrie took Don’s hand, ‘He’s been like a brother to you, ’asn’t ’e. Especially after Jenna died.’
‘Aye. My sister, Jenna, died when she was only twenty-one. New Year’s Eve. A horrible wet, dark night. She was walking up the lane back to my parents’ house after a party, and she was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. Police never found who it was. Piran and I were the first on the scene. He held her so tender like, but she was gone. He helped in every way it’s possible to help. My mum and dad love him like a son for what he did for us all.’
In the silence, the fire quietly crackled and hissed.
‘So what I’m saying is,’ Don continued, ‘don’t judge him over a couple of trifles.’
Helen felt ashamed at this rebuke and resolved to be less on the defensive when she saw him next. But he had still been bloody rude.
13
The rest of that Saturday afternoon was spent driving along the cliff road between Trevay and Crackington Haven. Helen enjoyed the pleasure of being driven by someone as confident as Penny. The roof was off the Jaguar and the heaters were on full blast. Penny was wearing an emerald Hermès scarf tied Grace Kelly style over her blonde hair; an odd stray lock flying over her dark glasses. Helen had a rust-coloured beret pulled well down over her ears with a large pheasant feather threaded through the front.
‘Who are we? Mapp and Lucia or Thelma and Louise?’ shouted Penny across the roar of the wind.
‘More Hinge and Brackett!’ shouted back Helen.
The spectacular coastline and azure sea under the bright October sun sent Penny into raptures.
‘Oh my God! We have got to use all of this – the location shots will be just gorgeous. You have so done the right thing in coming down here.’
Crackington Haven, Trebarwith Strand, Boscastle, Tintagel: romantic names steeped in Cornish history and mythology. Penny wanted to walk up the craggy steps to Tintagel Castle and absorb the views that King Arthur and Guinevere may have looked over, but Helen put her off. It was getting dark and cold and Pendruggan was at least an hour’s drive.
The sun was now low on the horizon, spreading a Byzantine glow over the waves. The road dipped and wound its way back along the cliffs to Helen’s home and as they drove into her village, her headlights picked out the figure of Simon walking towards Gull’s Cry. He put up his hand to shield his eyes from the lights and as Penny parked and turned them off, Helen jumped out.
‘Simon, sorry I didn’t get to church last week.’ She looked lamely at her feet. ‘I forgot, to be honest.’
She hadn’t seen Simon since the surf lesson two Sundays ago and, apart from waving to him as she’d been driving off somewhere, or from the garden when she’d been working with Tony, they’d had no contact.
Simon was painfully aware of this. His every waking moment had been saturated with the thought of when he might see Helen again. He’d had to fight the urge to knock on her door and invite her to supper, fearing the humiliation if she refused. He had hoped she’d be at church, but, as she now so succinctly put, she had forgotten.
‘No problem.’ He smiled at her, feeling his guts twist.
‘Meet my best friend, Penny Leighton. She and I worked together years ago at the BBC. Now she’s a big-shot producer.’
Simon’s heart plummeted further. He’d had no idea Helen had led such a glamorous early life. Penny certainly looked a television arty type. Make-up a little overdone, her body swathed in some kind of garment made of linen and layers, and a multitude of beads around her neck. All that, plus her ostentatious car made him dislike her immensely. What was she doing here? Trying to tempt his Helen back to the bright lights? His heart pumped hard at the thought of losing Helen now. But he kept smiling.
‘I was just popping round with a bottle of plonk to thank you for the other evening.’ He proffered the bottle.
‘Come in and let’s open it.’
‘No, you have company. Besides, I’m a bit busy tonight. Sermon to write for tomorrow and all that.’ This was a lie. He had written it earlier in the week.
‘Oh, go on, just a quick one.’ Helen put her arm through his, ‘Come on, Penny, grab his other arm. I want you two to meet each other properly.’
Simon had no option but to be bundled up the path and into the house.
*
When they were inside, Penny threw herself on to the feather cushioned window seat in the lounge and let out a theatrical sigh. ‘What a day! I’ve met so many people and seen so much. I’m exhausted!’
Helen, who was just nipping upstairs, said, ‘Darling, light the fire would you?’
‘Of course.’ Simon fair sprinted to the matches on the mantelpiece.
‘I think she meant me, but thank you anyway. There are some wine glasses in the kitchen and a corkscrew in the drawer, while you’re up.’
Simon, feeling the heat on his burning cheeks, disliked her even more, but was glad to get in the kitchen to allow his blush to fade.
When he came back into the sitting room, Helen was throwing a log on the flames and laughing at something the hateful Penny had said. Were they laughing at him?
Helen saw his chocolate-drop eyes swim behind his owl glasses. ‘Simon, how kind of you to open the wine. Come and sit in my armchair and warm up.’ As he did so, Helen pulled up a stuffed pouffe that doubled as a foot rest, and sat down on it next to him. She wanted to make amends for not seeing him.
‘Penny, Simon is a marvellous surfer. He took me out the other day. It’s much much harder than it looks, but he’s brilliant. He used to be a lifeguard.’
Penny lifted her head from its cushion and looked thoughtfully at him. ‘Really?’
Simon nodded.
‘When are you going again, Simon? Can we watch you?’
The thought of this ghastly woman standing on the beach and sniggering at him was too much to bear.
‘I’m not sure when I’ll have the time.’
‘Oh.’ Helen looked disappointed. ‘Never mind.’ A silence, then Helen again: ‘Have you read the books of Mavis Crewe, Simon?’
‘No.’
Penny laughed. ‘Oh, come on, Hel, Simon doesn’t look the detective-novel type. Although I could see him cast as the vicar of St Brewey.’
‘Sadly, I don’t have time to read novels, though I have heard of her work. I think my mother used to read them back in the sixties.’ Simon poured a little more wine into Helen’s glass. Penny stretched out her arm, indicating she wanted her glass filled too. Simon grudgingly obliged.
‘Yes, they were published in the late fifties and well into the sixties, but they eventually fell out of favour and were forgotten. I’ve acquired the television rights and we are casting now to start filming in the new year. Helen has been
out showing me all the glorious coast locations this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, while she’s at church, I shall have a look round the village here and see if any of it is suitable.’
Simon pursed his lips. Pendruggan was a Cornish jewel of a village, the question was not whether it was fit for this woman’s film, but whether she was fit for Pendruggan!
‘The St Brewey vicar is a naïve man. Would you say you were naïve, Simon?’ Penny tossed this into the conversation while keeping her eyes on her glass of wine.
‘If by naïve you mean I only see the good in others, then, no. I am certainly NOT naïve.’ He fixed his magnified eyes on Penny with what looked to Helen like a spark. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s something Piran Ambrose said today, isn’t it, Helen?’
‘What?’ Helen spluttered.
‘He said that you may be used to having men dance to your tune, like your poor husband and the naïve vicar, but it wouldn’t work on him.’ She looked straight at Simon. ‘Did he mean you?’
‘Penny, Piran was just being horrible, as he normally is. Don’t embarrass Simon.’
‘I’m only asking.’
Simon got to his feet. ‘I really must be off. Things to do, as I said.’
Helen stood too and put her arm on his sleeve. ‘Oh, please stay and have some supper. Penny certainly needs to eat and soak up the wine that’s making her say silly things.’
‘Charming!’ came Penny’s response from the window seat.
‘Thank you, Helen, but I really must go. Goodbye.’ He bent to brush his cheek against hers. ‘Goodbye, Penny.’
When he’d left, Penny burst out laughing.
‘Oh God! You do pick them! First the grouchy historian and now the blushing vicar! Who’s next on your list?’
‘What are you talking about? Simon is my friend and someone I like very much. Don’t be mean.’
‘Hmm … well, he’s got the hots for you, just as Piran does. How many more are there?’
‘None. As I told you, I am only interested in making good friends with everybody here. You were rude to Simon, and he isn’t used to women like you.’