by Fern Britton
‘Yes.’ Pru had hit her stride. ‘But it’s nigh on twenty-five years since you and Mummy renovated the old place. Don’t you think it’s about time it had a bit of an overhaul? Maybe some decorating too – it’s looking rather dated.’
Dorothy arrived with coffee and mugs on a tray, which she banged down on the table. ‘Dated? It’s perfect.’
‘Of course, of course,’ soothed Connie. ‘But a lick of paint would brighten it up.’
‘Who for?’ said Henry. ‘The only people who come to the house are you lot. Are you saying we’re not up to your standards?’
Connie blushed. ‘No, Daddy. It’s wonderful and we love coming down. Really, it’s only the hot water that needs looking at.’
Henry sat back in his chair. ‘So get it looked at.’
*
As the girls left The Bungalow, the light drizzle developed into a cloudburst. They ran across the squelching grass and through the French windows of Atlantic House’s kitchen.
Greg and Francis were reading their respective papers.
‘Careful,’ said Greg crossly as Connie shook her dripping cardigan. ‘You’ll get my paper soggy.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Pru, handing her wet sweatshirt to Francis, who carefully draped it on the Aga. ‘You two need to find a plumber. Daddy’s quite happy for us to get the plumbing system overhauled.’
‘Who’s paying?’ asked Greg suspiciously.
‘Well he hasn’t said as much but Daddy, of course! We’re just supervising,’ said Pru, sitting down. ‘Right, Connie. You and I shall spend the day in Truro looking at paint. Maybe some new cushions.’
‘We could do with new loo brushes,’ Francis chipped in.
‘Good idea.’ Pru smiled. ‘Connie, make a list.’
*
Truro was wet and grey. Holidaymakers shuffled about staring into shop windows before sitting in overcrowded cafés with their anoraks gently steaming.
The sisters found a parking spot in Lemon Street and made a dash for Marks and Spencer. They enjoyed their browse round the store and then went on to a very smart interior design shop where they chose several cushions and collected some paint and wallpaper samples. Then they drifted through a couple of boutiques, each buying small holiday essentials that neither husband need know about.
Over a late lunch at Mannings restaurant, their conversation turned to their parents and Atlantic House.
‘The whole place could do with redecorating. It hasn’t been touched since Mum did it up all those years ago.’ Connie took a sip of her Pimm’s.
‘That’s the trouble with older people: they get so stuck in their ways,’ Pru replied through a mouthful of focaccia.
‘Mummy’s still quite with it. She’s not seventy yet. Mind you, Daddy is starting to show his age. Have you noticed how he’s slowed down? And he can’t hear anything.’
Pru sipped her red wine. ‘Yep.’ She tapped at the side of her head. ‘Still all there though. But I’m worried about him driving.’
‘Me too.’
The waitress came with their food and they dived in. Sharing each other’s dishes and enjoying their own company. As the plates were cleared away, and the atmosphere grew warmer, Pru felt it was a good time to bring up the subject of their parents’ will.
‘Now, Connie,’ Pru dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, ‘when Mum and Dad are no longer with us, I want you to know that you can come to Atlantic House, and stay in The Bungalow, whenever you want. It’ll still be your home.’
Connie looked up sharply. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You and Greg and Abi will always be welcome. I don’t want any awkwardness between us.’ Pru beamed at her.
Connie felt cold inside.
‘Has Daddy or Mummy told you they are leaving Atlantic House to you?’
‘No, not in so many words. But I am the elder child – and you have Greg, who’s virtually running the family business. I shan’t be interfering in that.’
Connie shook her head a couple of times. ‘Hang on. You think you’re getting the house and The Bungalow, outright, while Greg runs the company yet doesn’t own it?’
‘Well, the shareholders own it, of course. But I’m sure Daddy will hand his shares over to Greg at some stage, so you’ll be set up.’
‘Set up?’
‘Yes. Comfortably off, with a Cornish bungalow that you can holiday in at any time.’
‘No, no. Not this time, Pru. You always want what’s mine, but you are not taking Atlantic House from me.’
Pru sat back in her chair and looked at her sister contemptuously. ‘I have two words to say to you, Connie. Grow. Up.’
Connie raised her voice, causing other diners to turn and stare. ‘Oh, not this again! Grow up? Let me remind you, you were the childish one, always taking the best of everything. Always wanting whatever I had. The blue bedroom, for instance.’
‘Yes. And you, Miss Bloody Self-righteous, you’re not so squeaky clean yourself, are you? We all know what you’re capable of when “poor baby sis” can’t get what she wants,’ spat Pru.
‘Oh! Now who needs to grow up! We were barely more than kids – I did you a favour!’
‘A favour? How dare you!’
‘I’ll tell you one thing, you are not having Atlantic House, I shall make damn sure of that. And if you think I’m going to let Daddy spend good money putting in new curtains and getting the old house up to scratch for you to enjoy, you have another think coming.’
*
The journey home was frosty, to say the least. Both women were on the edge of a precipice where their relationship was concerned. Neither of them wanted to acknowledge that the appearance of Merlin might have had something to do with it.
As soon as they got back to the house, Connie went in search of Greg. She found him playing with his bloody emails again. He hurriedly put the laptop lid down and smiled innocently.
‘Darling! Cup of tea? How was Truro?’
Connie ran into his arms and started to sob.
‘I love this house.’ She rubbed her dripping nose on Greg’s shoulder and turned her face towards his. ‘Pru can’t take it away from me.’
Nonplussed, Greg kissed her nose and reassured her. ‘Course she’s not going to take this house from you. In fact, do you want the good news, or the good news?’
She stopped crying and held his hand tight. ‘The good news, please.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve found a plumber. And he’s here right now, looking at the boiler.’
Connie became demented, shouting, ‘Stop him, stop him!’ She ran into the hall and on to the stairs. ‘We are not doing any repairs until we’ve sorted out who is going to get this house.’
Greg ran after her and pulled her back. ‘It’s too late.’
A Cornish voice sounded from the top of the stairs: ‘I’ve done a temporary job on the thermostat. I’ll be back tomorrow to put the new parts in and then I’ll make a start on the rest of the house.’
A familiar, sunburnt face leaned over the banisters. ‘Hello, Connie. I’m working as a plumber now. Greg and I have been having a good old chat about the old days.’
Connie watched aghast as Merlin descended the stairs.
Greg was beaming. ‘Top man, Merlin.’
‘My pleasure, G.’ Merlin took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. ‘Is that the time? Beer o’clock already. Fancy a pint?’
Greg’s face lit up with the offer and he picked up his keys from the hall table. ‘Great idea. Where are we going?’
‘Bar up the road – the Dog House.’
Connie stood aghast for a moment then, gathering her senses, she stepped forward. ‘If you go, you’ll be in the bloody dog house, Greg. I’m warning you.’
Merlin laughed. ‘Still the little firecracker, eh! Come on, Greg. See you later, Connie.’
*
It was past eleven and supper had long since been eaten and washed up when Greg finally arrived home. Connie, waiting for him in
the kitchen, could smell the beer on his breath as soon as he walked into the room.
‘Nice chap,’ said Greg. ‘Very fond of you, Connie.’
Connie froze. ‘What did he say?’
‘That you and Pru and he had had a terrific summer when you were all young, and that I was a lucky bloke to have you.’ He put his arm round Connie. ‘Mind you, he clearly had a soft spot for Pru too. From what he was saying she was a bit of a goer in her time.’
Connie pushed her chair back noisily and crossed her arms and legs. ‘Really? Well that’s something he’d know all about.’
‘Hey hey, Con. You weren’t jealous of old Pru and Merlin, were you? Did he fancy her more than you?’ Greg walked towards her and knelt in front of her. He steadied himself on her knees. ‘My poor little Connie.’ He put his finger to his lips and blew a beery ‘Sshh’ through his teeth. ‘Better not tell old Francis, eh?’ He tapped the side of his nose and heaved himself back on to his feet. ‘I think it’s time to go up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Come on, my poor old girl. At least I fancy you.’
Connie gave Greg a mean look and without saying a word marched upstairs to the blue room. On reaching the sanctuary of her bedroom, she slammed the door and fell on the bed sobbing.
13
Connie woke the following morning to the sound of Greg’s alcohol-induced snoring and the pounding of footsteps on the landing.
Doing up her dressing gown, she opened her bedroom door to find Francis tearing down the stairs two at a time.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
Francis had already arrived in the hall, where he was barged out of the way by a furious Pru, who was marching towards the telephone. Picking up the receiver she tapped in a number from a business card in her hand.
She waited while it was answered. ‘Bloody answer phone,’ she hissed, then screeched into the receiver: ‘Merlin, this is Pru Meake at Atlantic House. The kitchen is under six inches of water. If you don’t get here within the next half-hour I am going to sue the arse off you. DO YOU HEAR!’ And she slammed the phone down.
*
Merlin, blissfully unaware of the chaos he’d left behind the night before, was driving along the lane towards Atlantic House and congratulating himself on getting a job at last. Greg was a good lad. They’d had a laugh together. Might take him out for another pint or two, or maybe fishing. It had been fun winding him up about Connie and Pru. One thing was for sure, that family had money and he could screw a sizeable chunk of it out of them.
He’d only recently returned to Cornwall after a spell in Wormwood Scrubs. Three years for a bit of dealing. He’d been properly stitched up. Nevertheless, while being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure he’d served an apprenticeship in plumbing. As soon as he was released, he’d gone to North Devon to work with an old mate. Everything had been going well, until he’d got a bit too friendly with the old mate’s missus. So, a couple of weeks ago, he’d made tracks back to his old stomping ground, Treviscum Bay. What a stroke of luck that he’d bumped into the Carew girls. Was it really twenty-one summers ago that he’d managed to seduce her? She had been a lovely little maid. Lovely body, but lacking her sister’s fiery passion. He’d soon warmed her up though, when he got her to the fuggee hole. Nice spot that. Warm, dry, romantic and hidden from prying eyes and ears. He wondered whether he could still find it.
*
As he turned his battered van into the drive of Atlantic House he noticed a woman with rosy cheeks, twinkly eyes and golden curly hair worn in a careless up do hanging her washing out in the garden of Dairy Cottage. The thing that really captured his attention was that she was topless. He gave her a long look and pulled the handbrake on stiffly. At the sound she looked up and with no embarrassment smiled. He killed the engine and nonchalantly stepped out on to the gravel. ‘Mornin’.’ He nodded his head and then ignored her as he opened the creaky back doors of his van. He made sure his bottom looked taut and muscular as he reached inside, and when he came out again, slowly peeled off his tight T-shirt to reveal tanned pecs and abs.
‘It’s going to be a hot one today,’ he said, loud enough for her to hear. ‘Things could get rather steamy.’
He allowed himself a glance in Belinda’s direction. She was holding a towel over her breasts flirtatiously. ‘One can only hope,’ she replied, then raised her eyebrows and grinned before turning her back on him and walking towards Dairy Cottage, wobbling her dimpled, bikini’d bottom to great effect.
Suddenly the front door of Atlantic House was thrown open and the sound of raised voices filled the air. As Merlin turned to the source of the noise, Belinda crept back out into the garden and concealed herself behind the dividing hedge so she could watch and listen.
Greg was marching towards Merlin. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve turned the stopcock off, but it’s like the bloody Poseidon Adventure in there.’
Merlin looked bemused. ‘What’s happened, G, mate?’
‘Don’t you “G mate” me. The whole house could have flooded, thanks to your incompetence.’
‘You should have called.’
Pru had rushed out now and was squaring up to Merlin. ‘I did, you moron. Don’t you answer your phone?’
‘Terrible coverage round here. Sometimes I don’t get my messages for a week or more.’ He smiled ruefully and started to roll a cigarette. ‘Why don’t we all calm down and I’ll take a look at the damage.’
Pru looked daggers at him and gave a kind of guttural growling sound before turning tail and storming into the house.
Like the figures in a weather house, as she went in, Connie came out. She launched into a tirade aimed at Greg.
‘Greg, we are not spending a penny on this house. Not a penny, or we’ll be paying for Miss High and Mighty and Little Lord Fauntleroy’s future home and seeing no return on our investment.’
‘All I did was what you bloody asked me to do. “Find a plumber,” you said. So I did.’
‘I didn’t mean Merlin Pengelly,’ Connie hurled at him.
Pru had come out of the house again, brandishing a mop and bucket. She rounded on Connie.
‘How dare you call me Miss High and Mighty. And my son is nothing like Little Lord Fauntleroy.’
‘Actually, I was describing your poor henpecked husband,’ screeched Connie.
‘Girls, girls, that is below the belt,’ said Greg. ‘Connie, darling, apologise.’
‘I will not apologise, and thank you so much for backing me up as a husband should,’ Connie replied sarcastically. ‘Furthermore, don’t you “darling” me, you thoughtless ape.’
As Connie was clearly losing control of herself, Pru attempted to claim the moral high ground.
‘Greg, dear, please try to keep your wife under control. She’s always had these temper tantrums. It’s so pathetic.’
Connie rounded on her. ‘You’re the pathetic one. Pretending you have a bad back, getting Francis to do all the dirty work for you, sucking up to Mum and Dad to steal my inheritance.’
As the girls continued venting grievances they’d been storing for decades, Francis appeared on the doorstep with two full buckets of soapy water.
Standing stock-still, listening to the unusually colourful language being employed by his wife and sister-in-law, he looked to Greg for help. Greg shrugged his shoulders.
‘Come on, old man. Leave them to it. This has been brewing all week.’
‘We can’t just leave them.’ Francis put the buckets down and went towards Pru. His timing meant that he walked straight into her hand as she raised it to slap Connie. ‘Ow.’ He fell to the grass on his knees, stunned.
Belinda could take no more. Francis needed her. In seconds she was in their garden and had drenched both women with one of the buckets of water. Before they had a chance to recover, she pushed Connie towards Greg and Pru towards Francis. Standing with her hands on her hips, she gave the sorry-looking, sopping-wet group a disappointed stare. ‘Do you want your kids to hear you airing your
dirty laundry in public? Now shake hands, the pair of you.’
The sisters looked at each other with undisguised aggression. Had they been cats, their tails would have been lashing the air.
‘I said, shake hands,’ growled Belinda.
The men let their women go and the sisters managed the briefest of hand contact.
‘Good,’ said Belinda. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it? Now, I don’t want to hear another word from either of you.’
She turned towards the men. ‘And what are you gormless chumps gawking at? Never seen a woman break up an argument before?’
Merlin took a long draw on his cigarette. Francis stared at his feet, his cheeks colouring. Greg gave a suggestive laugh and said, ‘Oh, many times, Belinda. But never topless.’
*
An hour later and a composed Belinda had showered and was pouring herself a deserved glass of perfectly chilled white wine in the kitchen of Dairy Cottage.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Hi, kids. Come in.’
‘Hi, Mum,’ said Emily. ‘Can Abi and Jem come in too?’
‘Absolutely. More the merrier.’ Belinda kissed them all and directed them to the parlour. ‘What’ll you have to drink, Jem? Abi? Glass of wine?’
‘Yes, please,’ said a hopeful Emily.
‘Not you,’ replied her mother.
Grabbing a couple of extra wine glasses, the chilled bottle, a family bag of Twiglets, and a tin of Coke for Emily, she settled down with the kids.
‘What you been up to today?’
Emily, her mouth full of Twiglets, told her mother all the places that Jem and Abi had taken her to during their walk to the village. ‘I got a tattoo, look.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her T-shirt and at the top of her arm was a small mermaid coloured in pink and green with a dusting of glitter over it.
Belinda played the game. ‘Is it a real one?’
‘Don’t be daft – you have to be eighteen.’
‘How long does that one last then?’
‘A week.’
‘It’s very cool.’
‘Yeah. And afterwards we got ice creams and went and sat on the beach, then we had a swim and went rock-pooling.’