Hidden Treasures

by Fern Britton

  ‘Hello, Helen. I’m Dawn.’ She proffered a slender hand. Her generous bosom and curvaceous hips were ostentatiously clad in clingy mulberry-coloured jersey.

  Helen shook the hand. It was soft and dry, the nails long and French-polished. She felt slightly intimidated.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Isn’t Piran amazing? Look at him working the crowd.’

  Helen looked up at the pulpit and then around at the audience. They were relaxed; smiling and laughing, clearly thrilled that Piran had replaced the dull Geoff.

  ‘It must help that they’ve all had second helpings of the mulled wine,’ said Helen, meanly. Dawn laughed, oblivious, and then focused adoringly on Piran.

  *

  The first half went better than anyone could have hoped for. Polly’s poem was performed with real verve, and when she got to the bit where the landlord’s daughter shoots herself, Helen felt shivers down her spine. The judging panel gave her an excellent critique and Penny praised Polly for her ability to focus after having dealt with a medical emergency. The crowd murmured their agreement.

  The magician was next. Billed as The Great Xanardi, he was in fact the local primary school head teacher with dreams of topping the bill at the London Palladium. His wife, the Lovely Letitia, the school secretary, deftly assisted him. The children lapped it up, especially the bit where the rabbit was supposed to magically emerge from the cake tin, but resolutely refused to do so.

  Queenie, taking a leaf out of Louis Walsh’s book, told them, ‘You owned that stage and Letitia’s satin Chinese dress is very exotic. Reminds me of Princess Diana.’

  Third on the bill was the Trevay Lifeboat Choir singing a medley of Christmas hymns in close harmony. After their performance, Simon told them it was an honour to have such brave men supporting the church tonight and that they were certainly in with a shout of getting the top prize.

  The first half closed with the Brownies’ Christmas dance. Dressed as shimmering faerie sprites they pirouetted and thumped about the makeshift stage in a way that can only make a parent proud. The finale was the wholly unexpected sight of the magician’s rabbit hopping across the floor to centre stage and sitting on its hind legs, twitching its little whiskers at the laughing audience.

  Fearing the wrath of mothers, all three judges praised the girls effusively.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ boomed a handsome, Helen begrudgingly acknowledged, Piran from the pulpit, ‘we shall now have a short intermission. Drinks are available at the back and the vicar has made his vicarage cloakroom available to those who need it, although to save queuing I dare say it’d be quicker for you to nip home. See you back here in twenty minutes for more “Pendruggan’s Got Talent”!’

  Helen immediately set off for the vestry. Aware of someone following her through the curtain, and thinking it was Penny or Simon, she said without turning, ‘Well done. Very professional.’

  ‘Thank you, Helen,’ came Piran’s voice in reply. ‘Coming from you, that’s a real compliment. I’m glad I’ve got you on your own. I was wondering if—’

  ‘There you are, you naughty man!’ Dawn came sweeping through the vestry curtain. ‘What are you two gossiping about?’

  Piran gave Helen an apologetic look and then escorted Dawn back into the church. As the curtain fell back into place behind them, Helen was left wondering what it was he was going to ask her.

  *

  The intermission over, the audience took their seats with mulled wine fumes settling upon them like smog over New York.

  Piran took the pulpit steps two at a time. He had lipstick on his cheek, Helen noticed, and the fragrant Dawn was smirking next to her. Double yuck.

  The second half opened with The Ravers. The all-girl band were dressed in hot-pants so skimpy they immediately elicited wolf whistles from the young farmers standing at the back. After watching them gyrating filthily to, and murdering the lyrics of, The B52’s ‘Love Shack’, there wasn’t a person in the church who didn’t have a strong opinion of them one way or another.

  Helen glanced at Piran, whose piratical smile and glinting earring looked evilly lascivious in the warm lights, as he nodded along to the music. She then looked at Dawn, whose smile had tightened a fraction.

  Jealous of a few teenage girls, are you? Grow up! was Helen’s silent thought.

  Again the judges were kind and suggested that The Ravers should audition for The X Factor.

  The Women’s Institute folk singers were much as you would expect, and the muscle man – Mickey the Mussels of Mousehole, as he was billed – gave an eye-popping display of body-builder poses to ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’. The crowd loved him and so did Queenie, who found herself lifted into his arms and given a kiss at the end of his routine.

  It was now down to the last two acts. Don, wearing a white catsuit and sideburns, gave his rendition of ‘It is No Secret (What God Can Do)’ from Elvis’ 1957 Christmas Album to an audience who sat in awed silence as if in the presence of the King himself. As he left the stage to cheers and applause, Piran quipped, ‘Don has left the building.’ More laughter as Don popped his head back on stage and took another bow.

  The last act was Tony Brown, Helen’s very own Mr B., singing ‘Walking in the Air’. After much agonising about where to put him in the running order, she had felt that there would be so much goodwill towards him that he’d be the ideal act to close with. She had helped him choose an outfit for the evening too. He was wearing his newest jeans with a Viyella shirt and tweed jacket that they’d chosen together at the charity shop. Helen would have bought him something new, but he insisted that he pay for it himself and that he liked the feel of clothes that had been worn in. ‘New clothes make me itchy,’ he’d explained.

  As Piran began his introduction, Tony walked through the vestry curtain and straight up on to the stage. Someone from the back of the church shouted encouragingly, ‘Get on, boy!’ then Tony smiled, took a deep breath and, without any musical accompaniment, opened his mouth to sing. For the next three and a half minutes the crowd sat transfixed, listening to the simple purity and musicality which he poured into the song. At the end there was a short hush before the crowd slowly rose to their feet for an ovation that lasted several minutes. Tony smiled and waved broadly, his lovable, sleek, black-haired head bobbing in little bows of thanks.

  The winner was decided by who got the loudest cheers and applause from the audience. Mickey the Mussels and Polly came joint second. She chose the M&S voucher and Mickey chose the dinner for two at the Dolphin because, as he explained, he’d just got engaged and wanted to take his fiancée out somewhere special to celebrate. Helen thought she detected a slight air of disappointment in Queenie’s reaction to this news.

  The overwhelming cheers and applause for the first prize of a walk-on part in the new Mavis Crewe drama went to … Tony. Everybody hugged him or pumped his hand in congratulations. When asked if he wanted to say a few words, he came to front of the stage and said, ‘Thanks to my mum.’

  There wasn’t a dry eye in the house and Helen thought that Tony coming first was the nicest and most heart-warming thing she had ever had the pleasure of being part of.

  Soon after, people started to shrug themselves into their coats, collect their programmes and gloves, and brave the cold night for their own cosy beds. Queenie was commandeering Mickey the Mussels to escort her home and Polly was collecting up the beaming Tony. As he left, he caught sight of Helen and, like a shy young school boy, he walked up and sort of leant into her, burying his head in her shoulder while his arms hung loosely by his side. She put her arms round him, gave him a squeeze and kissed the top of his moleskin head.

  ‘I am very proud of you, Mr B. Well done.’

  ‘Thank ’ee for helping me with my new clothes, Mrs M.’

  ‘My pleasure. Off you go. Polly’s waiting.’

  The crowd had thinned out by this time. Just the few good souls who remained to tidy up the mulled wine and mince pie detritus. Helen saw Simon and Penny t
alking to Piran, who had Dawn draped over his arm.

  ‘Helen!’ Simon called her over. ‘I was just telling Piran how we couldn’t have coped without him.’

  Helen took a deep breath and smiled as sincerely as she could. ‘Simon’s right. You were marvellous.’

  Dawn looked up into Piran’s face and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘If I was looking for people for a TV drama, I’d cast you. Not that simpleton of a village idiot.’

  Piran turned on her so fast it made all of them jump. ‘If you think that young man doesn’t deserve to have won tonight then you, my dear, are the idiot.’

  Freeing himself from her arm, he said, ‘Simon, Helen, Penny – would you care to join me for a drink at the Dolphin? I promised Don I’d see him before closing time.’

  ‘Oh yes, do join us,’ Dawn asked breathlessly.

  ‘No, Dawn. You go on home. I’ll call you.’

  Dawn haughtily collected her bag, pulled her coat more tightly round her, and reached up to plant a large, red-lipsticked smear of a kiss on Piran’s face. ‘Don’t forget what you’re missing, gorgeous.’ She gave Helen a malevolent glance. ‘I know how you like to do your bit for the older folk.’

  Piran grabbed her by the arm. ‘Insult other people if you must, but not my friends. Helen and Tony have done more for this evening than you ever could or would. I’ll see you to your car.’

  Helen was rather impressed by Piran’s show of manliness, and more than pleased by his comments about her.

  ‘What a cow,’ whispered Penny. ‘I hope he’s dumping her. We’ll find out in a minute.’

  They waited for about ten minutes. Then Penny, who could no longer stand the suspense, went out to see what was going on. When she came back she had disappointing news.

  ‘They’ve gone. No cars left outside. No sign of anyone. Is he always that outrageous?’

  ‘No,’ said Simon, ‘Yes,’ said Helen in unison.

  20

  With just a week to go before Christmas, the days were short and extremely cold. The night frosts lingered through the daytime and Helen was concerned for her palm tree. It rustled its frost-nipped leaves loudly in the easterly wind, but at least remained upright. She bought several strings of outdoor fairy lights and wound them round the garden walls, up the path and over the frame of the front door.

  She had asked Tony to go out and buy a Christmas tree for her and he came back with a fat little one which fitted snugly into the right-hand nook of the fireplace. When they’d secured it inside a weighted wicker basket, Tony nipped out over the back wall saying he’d be back in a minute. He returned with a shoe box tucked under his arm and a parcel wrapped up in newspaper in his hand.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Mrs M.’ He handed her the shoe box. Inside were about two dozen tree decorations made entirely of shells and driftwood.

  ‘Mr B.! These are gorgeous. Did you make them yourself?’

  ‘Aye. My mum and I used to make them together, but I made these special for you, see.’

  ‘Help me put them on the tree.’

  The end result was rustic and charming. Tony put a couple of strings of fairy lights round the branches as a finishing touch.

  ‘I got this too …’

  He opened the newspaper-wrapped parcel. This was also made from shells but stuck on to a piece of plywood and shaped like a cross.

  ‘It’s to go on the top, see.’

  They sat back and admired their handiwork.

  ‘Mr B., I couldn’t have asked for anything better.’ She gave him a kiss. ‘Do you have any more of the crosses? I’d like to give one to the vicar as a Christmas present.’

  ‘I’ll make ’ee one tonight.’

  ‘How much will I owe you?’

  ‘Nothin to you, Mrs M.’

  ‘Well, in that case, how about you and I have some Christmas cake and a drink to celebrate?’ She got up to go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. ‘It’s a Wonderful Life is on the telly in a minute. Shall we watch it together?’

  ‘I watched telly before and it don’t agree with me.’

  ‘Does it make you grumbly? Like the car?’

  ‘No. It hurts my eyes. But I’ll have the cake and a Ribena, then I’ll be off.’

  Helen dished them both up a generous slice of cake and they sat in companionable silence admiring the tree as it twinkled attractively in the approaching dusk.

  *

  A couple of days later and Helen was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, writing her Christmas cards. There were many old London friends who had bothered to send her a card, and as many again who hadn’t. She crossed them off her list. It was a good feeling to cut the dead wood from her life.

  Once the cards had been done, she turned to wrapping up the presents she’d bought that day in Trevay. She hadn’t gone mad but had tried to choose thoughtfully for her new Cornish friends.

  Simon was easy. Tony had been as good as his word and had made a stunning cross out of mussel and limpet shells. It was about twelve inches high and made to stand on a shelf or desk. She wrapped it in tissue paper and lay it in a box covered in glitter, tying it with red ribbon.

  Tony was easier. She got him a pair of new secateurs, a spade and a fork. She had them engraved TO MR B. WITH LOVE MRS M.

  For Terri, Sean and Chloe, she had bought a selection of typically Cornish bits and pieces for their stockings. Pots of Cornish salt, slate coasters, shell wind chimes and thickly warm hoodies individually printed with their names on the back and the legend TREVAY LIFEGUARD.

  She’d picked up some little gifts for her other new friends too, Dorrie and Don, Polly and Pete. But she had something special in mind for Queenie, and couldn’t wait to surprise her. They’d all done so much to help her settle into Pendruggan and Helen wanted to show them her gratitude.

  *

  Cards posted, presents wrapped, all she had to do was get the last-minute food shop done and she was ready.

  The phone rang. ‘Hello, sexy, thought you might like my contact details in Verbier. I’m off tomorrow lunchtime. Can’t wait. All those fur rugs and log fires. I’ll be thinking of you all the time.’

  ‘Hello, Gray. Presumably your mobile will work over there, so if the children wish to ring you, they can. I don’t need the details, thank you. You just enjoy yourself with the luscious Selina.’

  ‘Oh, darling, don’t be jealous. Anyway, Chloe tells me you have at least two suitors drooling over you.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘The limp vicar and a rude pirate, apparently.’

  ‘It’s none of your business, but Simon is not limp, he’s a good man who happens to be coming to share Christmas lunch with us. And Piran is nothing at all.’

  ‘You’re making me jealous now. If a woman says a man is nothing, it means he’s definitely something.’

  Helen sighed. ‘Oh, do shut up.’

  ‘But haven’t I spoiled you for any other man?’

  ‘Happy Christmas, bon voyage and goodbye.’ She put the phone down.

  21

  During the three days running up to Christmas Eve, Helen braved the battle of the fruit-and-veg aisle at the supermarket, filled her car with petrol, reorganised the fridge, changed her sheets and towels and double-checked the Dolphin room bookings for Sean and Terri. Don and Dorrie had decorated the pub with fresh holly and mistletoe and three beautifully dressed trees. The fire was never allowed to die and the big copper punchbowl was filled with scarlet cyclamen.

  It was all arranged that Helen, Sean, Chloe, Terri and Penny would have Christmas Eve supper in the pub and then go down to midnight mass. On Christmas Day, Simon would join them all for lunch at Gull’s Cry.

  Helen hadn’t felt so excited about Christmas for years. She hadn’t seen too much of Penny, who was using her room at the Starfish as an office to finalise casting, shooting schedules and budget calculations, but they usually managed a catch-up for elevenses or afternoon tea.

  *

  Christmas Eve dawned with the promise of snow s
howers on the local weather report.

  Helen immediately rang Sean, who told her, ‘We’re leaving at about midday, picking Chloe up on the way and we should be with you by early evening.’

  ‘There may be some snow coming in down here, so do drive carefully and don’t take any risks.’

  ‘Ma, I’m a big boy now. See you later.’

  Later that morning, a satellite TV van pulled up and Helen raced outside to join the engineer, a capable chap called Jim. Helen had racked her brains to think of the perfect present for Queenie, then it had hit her. It was rather extravagant, but satellite TV would be ideal for the celeb-hungry pensioner. No longer would she miss seeing the Oscars live; she could sit up all night and watch them as they were actually happening.

  Helen and Jim went in together to surprise Queenie with her Christmas present.

  ‘Oh my good gawd! What you gone and done that for!’ Queenie wiped her eyes free of her tears. ‘It’s wonderful, that’s what it is, and no mistake! Wait till I tell my Sandra!’

  Jim did his job skilfully and, when he’d finished, Helen manned the shop while he showed Queenie how to use the remote. She got the hang of it pretty quickly. Before departing, he left his phone number with her in case of problems.

  ‘Helen,’ she shouted from the top of the stairs, ‘pretend to call me down.’

  ‘OK … Queenie, could you come down a minute, please?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll just pause me Celebrity Cash in the Attic first.’ Helen could hear her to talking herself: ‘’old on. Right. I press this one ’ere and Gloria Hunniford can wait a bit.’ Footsteps. ‘Yes, Helen, how can I help you?’ And then one of Queenie’s special crackly laughs. ‘This will keep me busy all Christmas. Marvellous what they can do nowadays innit.’ She sat on her stool behind the counter and rolled one of her skinny cigarettes. ‘Thank you, ’elen. You ’ave made my day.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. You deserve it.’

  As Helen left the shop and walked back to Gull’s Cry, she felt the cold brush of the first snowflakes falling on her face. Turning, she looked at the Christmas tree on the village green. The snow had started to fall in a little flurry and the handsome green branches were catching the flakes.