[Polwenna Bay 01.0] Runaway Summer

by Ruth Saberton

  The tip of the cigarette glowed crimson as Danny inhaled. “Come on, Jules. A guy’s got to have one vice.”

  “So why not just stick to being a miserable git who wakes people up too early?” Jules suggested.

  “Very funny. Look, I’ve given up the booze, the women and the self-pity. At least let me have a smoke,” Danny said. “I daren’t light up at home. Morgan will give me the lowdown on the hideous way I’ll die and Gran will look so disappointed in me that I’ll need even more counselling than they say I already do. Everyone has one secret vice and this is going to be mine.” He blew a couple of perfect smoke rings and then pinned her with a challenging stare. “So, go on then. What’s yours?”

  “What’s my what?”

  “Your secret vice? Or don’t vicars have them? Are you all perfect?”

  She laughed at this. “Far from it. Gosh, I don’t know. Eating cake?”

  “That’s pathetic and hardly a secret. Come on, spill. Do you long to throttle Sheila Keverne? Have a penchant for expensive wine? Secretly fancy the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

  No, but I think I might secretly fancy you, thought Jules despairingly.

  Jules wasn’t sure when this crush had started. It had crept up on her with a stealth that had taken her by surprise. It certainly wasn’t something that she’d looked for or expected. It wasn’t even something that she wanted. It had been Jake who’d first caught her eye, which seemed crazy now that she knew him, and Danny was the closest thing that Jules had to a friend here in Cornwall.

  Being a vicar was a lonely job sometimes. There was God to talk to, of course, and He was a brilliant listener – but He wasn’t quite so easy to have lunch with or to buy a coffee for. Jules knew that she couldn’t grow too close to anyone in the congregation for fear of being accused of favouring one person over another. Her job held women friends at bay too; they didn’t feel that they could talk about their boyfriends or their sex lives in front of a vicar, which meant that they met without Jules and sooner or later she was excluded from their gatherings. It hurt but Jules understood, and she had prayed very hard to try to let go of her resentment and bitterness over it.

  Then along came Danny. Difficult, damaged, angry Danny, who was the antithesis of everything Jules had ever wanted in a companion. He dragged her out in the worst weather, was responsible for her blistered feet that now looked like something out of Alien, and challenged her on everything from her faith to what she wanted to eat. He was so spiky that he made a cactus seem cuddly, had a chip on his shoulder the size of Cornwall and was probably the most infuriating person she’d ever met in her life.

  But Danny was a contradiction too. He was a wonderful father – beyond patient with Morgan, who could be bloody hard work at times. He bore his physical pain stoically, had a determination that almost bordered on the obsessive, and possessed not only a sharp mind that loved to debate politics but also a surprisingly wicked sense of humour. As they’d walked together over recent mornings, his anecdotes about his childhood and impressions of various residents of Polwenna Bay had made Jules laugh so hard that she hadn’t known what had hurt more – her sore feet or the stitches in her sides. Danny didn’t care that she was a vicar (he said he’d seen enough on the battlefield that he couldn’t give a hoot what God thought of anyone), and with him Jules knew that she could be totally and utterly herself.

  “God, I’m dying to know what it is now!” Danny exclaimed. He stepped forwards and mimed warming the palm of his hand against her flushed cheeks. “You should see the expression on your face! You’ve gone scarlet!”

  “Ha very ha,” said Jules. “FYI, I was thinking about carrot cake.”

  “Really? And what exactly were you doing with that carrot cake? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask?”

  Now she was having inappropriate thoughts about doing things to Danny Tremaine with cream cheese frosting, which would have made her blush even more if that had been possible. To hide her embarrassment Jules made a big thing about looking at her watch and needing to be back at the rectory by lunchtime. By the time she was composed enough to be able to look at him again, Danny was finishing his cigarette and stubbing it out on the gatepost.

  “Last one to the hotel buys the breakfast,” he grinned. “Which is probably going to be you.”

  “My legs are shorter,” Jules complained, but Danny wasn’t sticking around to hear her excuses and was already striding ahead. Hitching her rucksack higher onto her shoulders, Jules followed him over a stile and into another wooded area.

  She was being ridiculous, Jules scolded herself as they continued on their way, laughing and chatting easily. Maybe the Lord had set this as a test? A way of teaching her about the pangs of unrequited love – or perhaps to see if, like Job, she could suffer anything and still praise Him? Or maybe it was nothing to do with God at all but just her being an idiot. It made no sense that her heart lifted when she saw Danny’s smile, or that just sitting in silence with him was more meaningful to her than hours of chatter with anyone else. When she opened the door in the mornings to see him waiting on the doorstep she felt as though she’d scooped the lottery. Just spending time with him gave her the kind of contentment that she’d never imagined was possible.

  It was hopeless, of course. First of all Danny was a married man, albeit a separated one, and as a vicar – and as a person – Jules had the utmost respect for that sacrament. Secondly, even if they were separated now, she knew that Danny was still head over heels in love with his wife. He talked about her endlessly, even if it was in a negative way, and all of Jules’s pastoral training told her that Danny’s level of anger towards Tara was actually a reflection of how much his true feelings for her were tearing him apart. Just to add to her own private agony, Jules had cracked late one night and typed Tara Tremaine into Facebook, then proceeded to torture herself over pictures of a willowy brunette with the kind of figure that made Rosie Huntington-Whiteley look like a heifer. Tara looked even more attractive than Jules had recalled from that eventful night in the pub. She definitely wasn’t as round as she was short, with disastrous purple hair and a cake habit. No wonder Dan was heartbroken at losing her.

  So. A crush it was and a crush it would remain. Like a schoolgirl infatuation with a boy band, Jules knew that it would pass and that one day she’d look back on it and laugh at herself. She hoped so, anyway – but until that day she’d keep her feelings to herself. She’d just have to settle for being lucky enough to spend time with him.

  This was the final stretch of their walk, the woods linking Polwenna Bay with the smaller village of Waterbridge. Ancient trees were tangled above her head and to the left where the land dropped away Jules glimpsed the River Wenn sparkling between the branches. The woods were magical, full of dappled light and deep pools of green solitude. Unseen eyes watched them as small creatures paused in the undergrowth before scampering away, while on the far side of the estuary a lone horse and rider cantered along a track. Jules wondered whether she might spot a heron today, or maybe even a kingfisher; at the very least, there were usually oystercatchers paddling in the shallows.

  She sent up a quick prayer of gratitude for the beauty of the world around her. Moving to Cornwall had been a shock after the pace and drama of the city, but with every day that passed Jules was falling a little more in love with her new home and, of course, the people in it.

  The bacon roll at The Coach and Horses in Waterbridge was every bit as good as Danny had promised. By the time their breakfast arrived (thick slices of local bacon crammed into floury baps almost the size of Jules’s head), the summer had decided to turn up as well and the world was bathed in warm sunshine. Taking their food outside, Danny and Jules sat down at a picnic table to eat.

  “Food of the gods,” Danny said happily, squirting ketchup into his roll and taking a huge bite. Red sauce dripped from the corner of his mouth and Jules was suddenly filled with a dreadful compulsion to reach across and lick it off. She looked away hastily and dragged her thoughts back
to other matters.

  “God is singular,” she said piously, and Danny laughed.

  “It’s too nice a morning to argue over theological issues with you. ‘God’ it is!” He raised his face to the sun; both eyes were now closed. “This is what it’s all about. Good exercise, good food and good company. Beats being hung-over and miserable.”

  Jules bathed in the glow of his words and then, emboldened by them, she reached into her bag and drew out the thick cream envelope that had been hand delivered to the rectory two days earlier. Inside was an invitation to the St Miltons’ summer ball, a masked affair with a Versailles theme – whatever that meant. To her astonishment it was addressed to Jules and a plus-one. Jules had heard of the ball, of course; it was the talk of the village. But she’d never expected to be one of the privileged few who were actually invited. It seemed that being the vicar of Polwenna Bay came with more than just a dwindling congregation and a draughty rectory. It also came with social status – a bit like something out of a Jane Austen novel.

  Hmm. Jules really hoped this didn’t make her the twenty-first-century equivalent of Mr Collins.

  She tightened her grip on the envelope, which she’d been carrying around with her since she’d received it. Surely if Danny thought she was good company and was having fun hanging out with her then he wouldn’t mind accompanying her to the ball? It might even do him good to socialise somewhere other than the pub.

  “Bloody hell, those are rarer than hen’s teeth,” whistled Danny when Jules passed the invitation across the table. “Only Jake, Zak and Mo have been invited from our lot. Nick’s furious. Says he and Issie are going to gate-crash.”

  Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he took the thick cream card between his fingers and started to read.

  Reverend Jules Mathieson (plus one)

  You are cordially invited to attend a

  Versailles themed Masquerade Ball

  at the Polwenna Bay Hotel

  to benefit the

  Devon and Cornwall Air Ambulance.

  Saturday, the first of June,

  Six-thirty in the evening.

  The Starlight Ballroom,

  Polwenna Bay Hotel,

  Cornwall.

  Formal attire.

  “What on earth does it mean by ‘Versailles themed’?” Jules wondered.

  “You’ve got to dress like Marie Antoinette, I guess. Big hair, boobs out, beauty spots and all that, but hopefully without the guillotine! Sounds like a laugh.”

  It did? Fancy dress was Jules’s idea of hell. It was all very well if you were skinny and gorgeous but not much fun otherwise. Her last attempt at fancy dress had been as a telly tubby. She’d rocked Tinky Winky, but somehow Jules didn’t think that a purple onesie would cut it at the Polwenna Bay Hotel.

  “Where on earth can I get an outfit like that?”

  “If you’re not Ella St Milton with a huge budget? Or Mo, who’ll probably just go in jods?”

  Jules nodded. She dreaded to imagine what she’d look like in jodhpurs. There would need to be an awful lot more hill walking first.

  Danny passed the invitation back. “Shame it has your name on it. You could have made a killing touting this. Still, since there’s no way out we need to make a plan. There’s a really cool fancy-dress shop in Plymouth that I’ve used before for New Year’s stuff. We could check it out if you like? You’ll have to drive though – unless you want to go round in circles, that is!”

  He was actually laughing at himself. This was a major step forward. Encouraged, Jules said quickly, and before she could chicken out, “I don’t want to go to the ball on my own, Dan. Do you fancy coming too?”

  “As your plus-one?”

  “No, as my hat. Of course as my plus-one. Besides, if I have to look like an idiot then I don’t see why I should do it alone. Are you up for it?”

  Jules held her breath. Suddenly, dressing up as Moll Flanders didn’t seem nearly as bad if she had Danny there too to make her laugh.

  For a moment he hesitated. “I‘ve been to it before. With Tara.”

  Jules could only imagine what he was thinking. He’d have been glorious in his dress uniform and Tara would have been stunning in her ballgown. What a beautiful couple they would have made, dancing beneath the stars and smiling into one another’s eyes. Poor Danny. The contrast of going now, injured, wifeless and with a fat vicar, must be painful in the extreme.

  “I didn’t mean to bring back any difficult memories,” she said quickly. “Forget it, Dan. It was a daft idea.”

  But Danny was shaking his head. “Tara was a right pain in the arse. Moaned all night that her shoes hurt. No, it might be fun to actually go and enjoy myself for once. I can keep Zak in line too, seeing as he’s headlining. Yeah, why not?”

  She stared at him. “You want to go with me? Seriously?”

  “Seriously. It’ll be a right laugh. Nothing like a spot of dressing up,” Danny said cheerfully. There was a twinkle in his eye and he gave her a smile of such genuine sweetness that Jules’s heart floated up and away like a balloon. Then Danny pointed at her half-eaten bacon bap. “If you don’t want that, can I have it?”

  Jules pushed the plate across the table. It was the weirdest thing but her appetite had suddenly vanished. Normally she could have eaten all of it and had room for seconds. Now, though, her stomach was filled with thousands of fluttering butterflies. There was no way she could eat.

  Cinder-Jules was going to the ball!

  Chapter 22

  It was late afternoon on the first Saturday in June and anyone who was anyone, or at least considered to be so by the St Milton family, was busy getting themselves ready for the Polwenna Bay Hotel summer ball. All across the village costumes were being hastily pulled together. Kursa was flat out styling hair and Patsy’s Pasties had suffered a big hit in takings as people had tried to diet away their spare pounds at the eleventh hour. Up at the hotel the staff scuttled around like busy ants, stringing fairy lights through all the bushes, looping shabby-chic bunting from the trees and setting out the gleaming cutlery in the dining room. The helipad was raked and prepared, the smooth green lawn was good enough for a game of bowls and inside the hotel every wooden surface was beeswaxed and buffed to shining perfection. In the kitchen saucepans bubbled and hissed while chefs yelled and pots were clattered in the race to be ready in time. Polwenna’s teenagers, always keen to earn some extra money, had been recruited as waiters, and were now busy ransacking bedrooms to unearth smart black skirts or trousers before begging their mothers to iron their shirts.

  It was the same every year and, if she was honest, it was an event that usually passed Mo by. There wasn’t much time for ballgowns and bling when you spent most of your days mucking out and riding. Ella had bragged about the ball all the way through school, and lots of Mo’s friends had been pea green with envy at the thought of being bought a new prom-style dress by their parents and getting to meet celebrities. Mo and Summer had found it all very amusing and hadn’t been jealous in the least: after all, Summer had an innate belief that one day she would be one of those famous people, whereas Mo was happier in jodhpurs and only cared about the kind of celebrities that had four legs.

  Well, Summer’s vision of the future had certainly come true, but it hadn’t seemed to bring her much joy. Mo had only glimpsed her briefly since the day she now referred to as bath day and had been shocked by how thin and pale her former best friend had looked. Summer had been leaving the Penhalligans’ cottage with Susie and hadn’t noticed Mo sitting on the quay – but Mo had seen her, all right. She’d been taken aback at the dark circles under Summer’s eyes and the jutting collarbones. Her heart had lurched as a dreadful thought had occurred to her: was Summer seriously ill? Was that why she’d come home and not brought Justin with her?

  Mo had tried to ask Alice but her grandmother had remained tight-lipped, so she’d soon given up. It was easier to prise limpets from the rocks than it was to get information out of her grandmother if she’d dec
ided to stay quiet.

  As Mo sat at the big mirror in what had once been her mother’s dressing room at Seaspray, attempting to drag a brush through her wild red curls, she reflected that Jake had been in a very odd mood lately too. For the last week or so he’d been foul, snapping at them all – and staying out late drinking in The Ship, according to Nick, who spent most of his time there. Issie said it was like Jake and Danny had swapped personalities, because Dan was far more cheerful nowadays, whereas every time she spoke to Jake he practically bit her head off. Even Morgan, who wasn’t usually very good at picking up on people’s moods, was giving his uncle a wide berth.

  Mo narrowed her blue eyes thoughtfully as she looked at herself in the mirror. She was willing to bet her entire overdraft that Summer was at the bottom of Jake’s terrible mood. That girl, no matter what her problems, was nothing but bad news for him – and the sooner she pushed off back to London, the happier Mo would feel. The image of those shredded flakes of pink envelope drifting away on the breeze kept returning, though; last night she had even dreamed of them. Mo sighed, impatient with herself for dwelling on such things for so much as a nanosecond. Alice would have said her dreams were the sign of a guilty conscience but Mo shoved such daft thoughts firmly aside. She hadn’t done anything wrong by not passing Summer’s letter on to Jake. Quite the opposite in fact: she’d been trying to spare him any more pain. There was nothing for her to feel guilty about.

  The woodland, on the other hand, was a whole different issue. Mo felt dreadful that she’d not acted more quickly where Fernside was concerned. Not that she would have had the money to buy the woods herself, but at least she could have drummed up some press interest or picketed the auction.

  It had been a while since her row with Cashley but every moment was as fresh as though it had only happened minutes earlier. When she relived his mocking comments and the way his dark eyes had raked over her body as if she was just another object that he could buy for his collection, Mo felt close to combusting with rage. The worst thing of all was that there didn’t seem to be much she could do, because Ashley was right: the woods were now his, fair and square.