“My brother Symon’s doing the hog roast,” Issie continued without even waiting for a reply. “Why don’t we go and check it out? He’ll give us some crackling if we really grovel – and his cider-apple sauce is to die for.”
“My mum says meat is murder,” piped up Morgan.
“Your mum says a lot of daft things,” Issie told him cheerfully. To Jules she added in a stage whisper, “Utter cow, and had a sense of humour bypass at birth. God knows what Danny ever saw in her. Big boobs, I suppose. Men are thick like that. Don’t look so worried,” she added, when she caught Jules’s gaze flicker to the little boy. “Morgan doesn’t mind me saying that. He knows it’s true and with any luck he might even repeat it.”
“I’m not stupid,” said Morgan mildly. “Tell her yourself.”
“Don’t tempt me,” said Issie darkly. “So, do you want to come for some grub?”
Jules patted her tummy ruefully. “I don’t think I need it. I’ve put on at least a stone since I moved here.”
“So one pork roll won’t make any difference,” Issie countered.
“You have to exercise to lose weight,” added Morgan. He looked at her critically. “My dad was in the army. He knows all about keeping fit. I could ask him to help you if you like.”
A hideous vision of having to do star jumps and sit-ups in an army-style boot camp flashed before Jules’s eyes. Just the thought was exhausting. No thanks.
“That’s a very kind offer,” she told him, “but I’m a bit busy right now.”
“I didn’t mean right now, obviously,” said Morgan.
Issie rolled her eyes. “Can we just get to the hog roast? I swear my stomach is going to start digesting itself otherwise!”
Having safely locked away the ducks, they made their way to the quayside. The hog roast was still cooking, so instead Jules treated her companions to pasties. It was the least she could do after all the help they’d given her with the duck race. The three of them sat on the end of quay to eat, and with the warm sunshine on her face, the salty sea breeze lifting her hair and her new friends next to her, Jules didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything so good. Maybe things were looking up.
“Are you coming to see the band tonight?” Issie was asking, brushing flakes of pastry from her chin. She tossed the crust into the sea and instantly several squawking gulls dived for it while about a hundred others flew over on the off chance of further spoils. Jules was so over seagulls. Six weeks of being dive-bombed, pooped on and forced to play bin wars whenever she put the rubbish out had seen to that.
“They’re really good. My uncle Zak sings,” Morgan added. “All the girls fancy him.”
“Not nearly as much as Zak fancies himself,” said Issie acidly.
Jules laughed at this. “It sounds fun but I hadn’t planned on coming out.”
“Well, you should. Festival nights are a brilliant laugh. All the pubs are packed and there’s music on pretty much everywhere. Why don’t you come out with me? I’ll introduce you to everyone. You may even meet some fit guys!” Issie looked pleased with this idea.
But Jules wasn’t sure. She was lonely after weeks of rattling around the rectory, and a night out with Issie sounded like great fun, but she was the vicar of the parish and Polwenna Bay was a very small place. Sheila and the rest of the blue-rinse brigade would be horrified if they thought their vicar was listening to rock bands and hanging out in pubs. On the other hand, if Jesus were in Polwenna Bay today, where would he be found? Having tea with the WI or talking to fishermen and sinners in the local?
“She might not want to meet men. She could be married or gay,” Morgan pointed out when Jules didn’t reply.
“Me and my big mouth!” said Issie. She paused. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” Jules teased, pretending to look insulted. “Married? Or gay?”
“Err, either? Not that I care; of course not!”
For a moment Jules toyed with the idea of really making poor Issie squirm. However, this wouldn’t be very kind and she was supposed to be setting an example.
“I’m just winding you up. ‘Neither’ is the answer to your question,” she said with a smile. “In fact, the reason I slipped over in the harbour was because I was far too busy looking at a seriously fit guy who was walking to the boats. Did you see him? About six feet and wearing jeans and a white tee-shirt?”
Issie nodded. “Yep. I saw him.”
“And wasn’t he gorgeous? Couldn’t you just gobble him up?” Jules could still picture the man; his image clung to her memory with as much tenacity as the limpets on the rocks. Not that a guy like that would ever look twice at her, but it was still nice to dream. It was all part of glorifying God by appreciating his creation!
“Err, not really. That was my brother, Jake,” Issie revealed with a grin. “Honestly, Vicar, those myths about the Cornish being inbred aren’t really true, you know.”
“Fact,” said Morgan.
“Oh!” Now it was Jules’s turn to feel embarrassed. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Lots of women fancy Jake; in fact, I’d say all my friends do. It’s very predictable,” Issie said airily. “It must be that brooding look he’s got going on.”
Privately Jules thought it had a lot more to do with the ripped body and strong-boned face, but she’d already said way too much about Jake Tremaine for one lifetime. Knowing her luck, Morgan would repeat everything she’d said word for word and her humiliation would be complete. She’d have to spend the rest of her time here hiding in the rectory. Jules supposed Sheila would be pleased, at least.
“Nobody ever gets anywhere with Jake. He’s far too busy for love. He’s even turned down Ella St Milton. Her family own the hotel, and she’s gorgeous – even if she’s such a bitch she should be muzzled and fed Chum.”
“Fact,” nodded Morgan.
“Will you stop saying that?” Issie raised her eyes to heaven. “It’s getting bloody annoying. Fact. Anyway, where was I? Jake’s not been back long from travelling – he was in the Caribbean for years, the lucky git – but he’s certainly making up for lost time bossing us all about now he’s home again. It’s probably a big brother thing but it’s a major pain in the neck. Even Dad and Gran have to do what they’re told, and last night Jake had a huge row with Danny about his bar bill.”
“My dad drinks too much,” Morgan informed Jules. “Fact.”
Jules was losing count. “Sorry, I’m confused. How many are there in your family?”
“Too many,” said Issie bluntly. “Huge families are a Polwenna thing. Jake says that there’s not enough money to go round anymore and that we all need to pull our weight or we’ll lose the lot. Well, that’s easier said than done, because there are lots of us.” She looked at Morgan. “And now there are the ankle-biters too.”
“I do not bite ankles,” pointed out Morgan coolly. “Fact.”
Issie ignored him. She pulled her blonde dreadlocks into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band, then started to tick her family members off on her fingers as though in danger of losing count herself.
“Jake’s the eldest. He runs the marina and the boatyard and has had a total fun bypass. Then there’s Danny, who’s Rug Rat’s father.”
“My dad’s a soldier,” announced Morgan proudly.
Issie smiled at him. “Yes, he is – and a very brave one too. Dan’s been discharged because of his injuries,” she explained to Jules in a lower voice. “He had a tough time in Afghanistan. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Then there’s Morwenna. She’s cool; you’ll like Mo. But don’t get on her bad side, for God’s sake, or she’ll never forget it. Next there’s Symon; he’s the chef. And then there’s Zak, who’s got the band. He’s cool too. I reckon you’ll like Zak. After him there’s my twin Nick, who fishes. And finally there’s me. Seven of us. Just as well Seaspray’s a big house.”
“Seven. Wow.” Jules was impressed. It made being an only child feel even lonelier. What must it be like to grow up w
ith all those siblings around you? She could already picture the Tremaines, a golden-haired and glamorous bunch, squabbling in their kitchen, having picnics down on the beach or sailing across the bay on a breezy morning. It was all a bit Famous Five meets the Waltons, but surely a lot more fun than being raised on a housing estate in Basingstoke with a workaholic father and a mother so bitter she’d have passed for a lemon if you’d stuck her in a gin and tonic. Even years on, Jules could still feel the relief of going to the local church and finding a happy family there instead.
“Yep, Tremaines breed like rabbits,” Issie finished happily. “You’ll never be far from one of us here. It’s a bit like never being more than two feet from a rat. You’ve probably already met Granny Alice? She goes to church and she sometimes helps with the flowers – when Adolf Sheila lets her, obviously.”
Jules, who was only just managing to keep up with everything, nodded. She had met Alice Tremaine and had liked her immensely. A slender woman in her seventies with long silver hair and a face traced with laughter lines, Alice had been one of the first to welcome her to the village. She’d brought a delicious tray of saffron buns up to the rectory too. Hadn’t Alice said something about losing her daughter? Jules racked her memory but she’d been so busy in the early days of her arrival that the details were all a bit hazy.
“Yes we’ve met. She’s lovely.”
“So come up to ours sometime. She’d love to see you. I’ll introduce you to everyone tonight too. Then at least you’ll get to know a few more people besides those old miseries at the church. Joke!” Issie added swiftly, when Jules opened her mouth to protest at this. “I’m sure they’re all lovely really, but you’re way too young to hang out with people who were in nappies when Queen Victoria was on the throne.” She nudged Jules with a bony elbow. “Please come – if you’re really good I’ll put in a good word with Jake!”
Jules laughed, although the thought of the gorgeous Jake knowing that she’d spotted him made her want to curl up and die. Luckily being a vicar was usually a pretty sure-fire way of keeping herself a little safe from teasing.
“I’ll come,” she promised. It was only a few drinks, after all – and what a great way to meet those members of her flock who were highly unlikely to set foot in St Wenn’s. The pub was the real heart of the village.
Jules finished her pasty and the crust too, although she was learning that this was the part the old tin miners had held while they ate and traditionally discarded afterwards. She was just about to ask Issie what time to meet when her new friend jumped to her feet as though scalded. Abandoning the bench, Issie raced to the railing, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun as she peered across the bay. Her hands were clutching the rail so tightly that her knuckles were glowing chalky white through the skin.
“Are you OK?” Jules asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Ghosts don’t exist,” Morgan piped up. “Fact. And neither does God. Fact.”
Jules chose to stay quiet. She was too full and too tired to take on Richard Dawkins Junior right now.
With a trembling finger, Issie pointed to the far side of the bay where a dark-haired woman in huge sunglasses was emerging from a shiny sports car. The breeze stirred her thick hair and even from this distance it was clear that the cut of her clothes was expensive. Jules frowned because there was something very familiar about her, although she couldn’t quite place it.
“I don’t believe it,” Issie said slowly, her voice soft and thrumming with anger. “After all this time she’s back. She’s really back.”
“Who?” Jules asked, but Issie didn’t answer. Their evening plans, the rubbish from lunch and even Morgan were all forgotten in a heartbeat. Whoever this mystery woman was, Jules thought, she must have done something pretty terrible to upset Issie this much.
“How dare she come back here?” Issie stormed. “Nobody wants her here!”
“What’s she done?” Jules asked. “Surely it can’t be that bad?”
Issie was scowling. “Yes it can. That’s the girl who broke Jake’s heart. It was her fault he went away for so long! If he finds out she’s here and it makes him leave again it will break Granny Alice’s heart. There’s no way that’s going to happen. I’m going to find her and tell her where to go!”
And with this passing shot she spun on her Croc-ed heel and strode down the quay before disappearing into the crowd. Jules looked at Morgan, who just shrugged.
“Never upset a Tremaine,” he advised sagely. “We have long memories. Fact.”
Maybe, Jules thought, life in a Cornish fishing village wasn’t going to be quite so dull after all.
Chapter 4
Polwenna Bay really was the land that time forgot, Summer thought. As she’d driven through the village the festival had been in full swing and it had felt like only weeks ago that she and Morwenna had been dancing through the streets in the carnival parade. Most of the shops might be the same ones she’d known as a child – there was Patsy’s Pasties, owned by her aunty, and nestling beside it was the Merlin Gift Shop with its windows bristling with postcards and which sold everything from fridge magnets to buckets and spades – but in spite of this Summer knew in her heart that everything else had changed.
Magic Moon was a new arrival, as was a very chic-looking boutique filled with designer clothing. Summer wondered what her Aunt Patsy, a dyed-in-the-wool Cornishwoman who only crossed the Tamar when dire emergency prompted, made of all these changes. Patsy Penhalligan was as much a part of Polwenna Bay as the harbour walls and the calling gulls. She knew everything about everyone and made it her business to keep up to date with everything that went on in the village and a fair bit outside it too. It had been Patsy who’d staunchly kept in touch with Summer, religiously sending her five-pound notes for birthdays and Christmases even when Summer, feeling guilty that she and Justin earned in one week more than Patsy had probably seen in several hardworking years, had protested that she really didn’t need the money. The cards had kept coming regardless, and even now and then a box of Polwenna pasties – which Summer, usually on a strict no-carbs regime, had been forced to give away. No, her aunt had never given up on her, even though Summer’s career must have embarrassed her horribly at the WI and been a source of grief when the whole village seemed to be against her.
It was to Patsy that Summer had turned when the adrenalin spikes from fleeing from the Kensington house had started to ebb and reality had begun to seep in. As soon as she was on the outskirts of London, Summer had pulled the Audi into a supermarket car park, only realising once she’d killed the engine just how much she was shaking. Her cheekbone had been throbbing too, and with trembling hands Summer had pulled down the vanity mirror, gasping in horror when she saw that her skin was already colouring. A few millimetres higher and her eye would have taken the full brunt of the blow.
Thank God for giant Chanel shades, Summer had thought as she’d dug them out of the glove box and pushed them on, and double thank God for Victoria Beckham making it trendy to wear them even when the sun was in. With the glasses on and her heart rate slowing, she’d grabbed some loose change and ventured to a call box. One short phone call to Patsy – no awkward explanations were required by her aunt – and Summer had had somewhere to lie low for a few weeks. The press were bound to scent blood, especially if Justin kicked off in style, but by the time they came looking for her she’d be more than ready for them. Summer had been filled with relief at this thought. She knew that by the time Justin and his people were through with her she’d make the Ebola virus look popular. After all, what sort of heartless bitch leaves Britain’s most loved football star only months after his brave and selfless battle with skin cancer?
Cancer, Summer had reflected bitterly as she’d continued on her way, didn’t turn nasty abusive men into saints. Far from it. In her experience they just became nasty abusive men who’d had cancer. Justin was clear now. The moles that had been suspect had been removed, but not before he’d been busy
milking the story for all it was worth. He was the nation’s golden boy and barely a day went by without him featuring in the papers.
If they only knew the truth.
Having parked the car, Summer was now walking along the small pedestrian street that ran through the village, over a little footbridge and onto the harbour. The tang of salty air was so familiar that a lump rose in her throat and she had to swallow it quickly. If she started crying now she’d probably flood the village, but it felt so good to be home. From the gulls circling and screeching above, to the sparkling sea, to the golden horseshoe-shaped beach, the bay was stunningly beautiful. Standing on the bridge and with the afternoon sunshine warming her face, Summer suddenly realised just how much she’d missed the place. Had fame and fortune really been worth making all these sacrifices for? You did what you had to do, she told herself sternly. Besides, what good would come now of starting to think she’d made a huge mistake? But if she hadn’t left, and had instead turned her back on all the childhood dreams, then maybe she would never have…
Taking a deep breath and pushing away the memories that were rising, unbidden, to the surface of her mind, Summer turned away from the harbour and walked on until the narrow street began to rise above the glittering water and the shops were replaced by tiny crumpled cottages the colours of sugared almonds. Dry stone walls frilled with nodding valerian and starred with ox-eye daisies hemmed the street; on one side was the safety of the tarmac path and on the other wild grassland tumbled away to the snaggle-toothed rocks below. The climb up was steep, but it was only once she reached the end of the street – the section where the road gave up any pretence of looking civilised and petered out into the beginnings of the cliff path – that Summer allowed herself to pause.
[Polwenna Bay 01.0] Runaway Summer Page 4