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‘Hello, darling. I was going to phone and book some dates to see you. How’s it going?’
‘Well, I’ve got quite a lot to tell you. There are some extraordinary people down here. All straight out of central casting! They would be perfect extras for your new programme.’
‘Great! We might need them. Anyone handsome caught your eye?’
‘No! You’re as bad as Chloe. I’m not on the market, as you well know.’ She paused to allow Penny’s scornful laughter to run its course. ‘However, I do have a nice little mystery for you.’
Penny listened to Helen’s story of the tin box, only occasionally interrupting with the odd question.
‘Wow. How fascinating. How are you going to find out more?’ she asked.
‘Well, I thought I’d try Simon first. He’s the—’
Penny interrupted. ‘Simon? A mystery man on the scene already! Come on, don’t keep me in suspense!’
‘He’s the vicar—’
‘A lusty vicar! I love it, tell me more.’
‘Shut up and listen, will you? He’s the vicar who’s very—’
‘Married?’
‘NO! Single. He’s very sweet and—’
‘You want an excuse to see him so you’re going to ask him to take a look at your box! Oooh, matron.’
‘NO! LISTEN!’
‘OK, sorry. Carry on … vicar.’ More sniggers.
Helen sighed, ‘This is too exhausting. I’ll tell you the whole story when you come down. Which is when, exactly?’
They agreed to a date in early October, which was just a couple of weeks away.
‘You can stay here with me, but we’ll have to share my big bed. Do you mind?’
‘I am too old for sleepovers. Can you recommend a good hotel?’
‘The Starfish in Trevay is supposed to be THE place, locally.’
‘Great. I’ll get my PA to book it, and you and I will have a wine-fuelled dinner there. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
After hanging up, Helen made another call.
*
At 6.30 p.m. every evening, Simon was in the habit of praying for his parish and the wider world. It was a part of his routine that was as important to him as cleaning his teeth. He would light a small candle under his simple wooden crucifix in the study and kneel in front of it. Recently he’d begun using the old chintz cushion on his desk chair to spare his knees. When he was comfortable, he would close his eyes and picture the face of Christ in front of him. He’d thank God for his calling, his home and his friends, and then would offer prayers for those he knew to be having difficulties of some kind. If there was some grim story in the news, he would pray for those involved. Finally he would ask for blessings for the royal family, the government, global leaders, and pray that peace may come to the world.
Very rarely would he trouble God with his own concerns, but since meeting Helen he couldn’t help but ask for a sign that would let him know if she was the one.
As he was finishing this last PS, the phone on his desk rang. He stood up, crossed himself and blew out the candle, making a final bow to Christ on his cross.
‘Yes, yes, hold your horses, I’m coming.’ His voice sounded weary, even to himself. He cleared his throat as he picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Reverend Canter.’
‘Simon, it’s me, Helen …’
Simon gave up a silent prayer of thanks. God had sent him the sign.
‘I’m cooking a spag bol and wondered if you’d like to share it with me?’ she continued. ‘There’s something I want to show you …’
His voice wobbled slightly and his eyebrows danced above his chocolate-brown eyes. ‘Yes, Helen, I’d love to. Ten minutes OK?’
‘Perfect. Bye.’
*
Piran watched her for a moment through her lighted kitchen window. He had been working late inside the church, trawling through the archives and trying to make sense of the higgledy-piggledy order of the graves out in the churchyard. It was late and he was tired. He watched for a moment as Helen spread the blue checked cloth on the table and grabbed a handful of cutlery from the side. She was a good-looking woman, he had to admit. Now she was opening a bottle of wine and putting out two glasses. Who on earth was that for? He turned the ignition on, ashamed of his prurient interest, but his headlights picked out the figure of Simon Canter, fairly skipping along towards her gate. The man was crazy if he thought a woman like that would be interested in him. Poor old Simon – he was a fool.
*
‘Hello, hello. Come on in. Nippy tonight, isn’t it?’ Helen opened the door wide for him and he stepped into her pretty kitchen. He viewed the neatly laid table. It looked rather romantic and his hopes rose higher. From behind his back he produced a bottle of Rioja, which earned him a kiss on the cheek from Helen.
‘Go and sit in the living room. I’ve got the fire going nicely. It doesn’t smoke any more now Don’s used some of his magic on it.’
Simon went and sat down gladly, before his legs buckled beneath her kiss. Helen talked to him from the kitchen about Don and the work he’d done and what a wonder he was, then joined him with a glass of cold white wine.
‘I’ll keep the Rioja for later, if that’s all right. I had this open already. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
He took a mouthful and was grateful for the steadying effect it would have on him.
‘It’s really lovely in here,’ he said. ‘You have a home-maker’s instinct.’
There was a hissing noise from the kitchen.
‘Oops, spaghetti’s boiling over. Chuck another log on the fire, would you? And then come and eat.’ The last few words were thrown over Helen’s shoulder as she went back to the kitchen.
Simon did as she asked, then followed her through and sat at the table.
‘Tony and I found some treasure in the garden today.’ Steam was billowing around her as she drained the spaghetti into the sink. ‘Take a look at that tin box on my desk.’ He got up and went to the small desk, more of a table really, in the corner between the sink and the Aga.
‘Go on, open it up.’
He did so. ‘Oh my. What’s all this?’ He took each object out carefully and examined them. He was particularly interested in the photo.
‘Do you know who any of them are?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder on the way to dishing up the pasta.
‘No. I have never seen any of them before. It might have something to do with Vi Wingham. She lived here before you came.’ Simon reached for the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. ‘She was a wonderful woman. Very self-contained and independent. Baked delicious sponge cakes in the old range where your Aga is now. She would donate them to raffles or bring them out when she entertained, although that wasn’t very often. A couple of times a year she’d invite me to tea. I enjoyed her company very much.’
‘Let’s eat and talk – pass me your plate.’ Helen spooned steaming pasta on to his plate. ‘Queenie told me that Miss Wingham had lost a fiancée in the war.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. She revealed very little about herself. After she died, the only thing I found out from the solicitors was that she’d bought this cottage in 1930 when she was only nineteen. She lived here with a succession of cats for seventy-seven years and never modernised it, apart from putting electricity in. You must have seen that she didn’t have a bathroom when you bought it, only the privy in the garden.’
‘However did she manage? I turned her spare room into my bathroom – I couldn’t do without it.’
‘She would be pleased for you, I’m sure. But although she was always immaculate, she had more than a touch of the Trojan about her.’ He ate a forkful of spaghetti bolognese. ‘This is excellent.’
Helen felt very relaxed with her new friend. Conversation with Simon was easy and she liked the way he was around her. No hint of sexual undertones. No hidden agenda. She topped his glass up again.
‘Tell me more about Miss Wingham.’
‘One morning after church, about three years ago, she invited me round for a quick sherry. She’d never done that before, so I thought, rightly, that it was to discuss something important. She told me that she’d just had her ninety-sixth birthday and, though still able to look after herself, felt it was the right thing to move into a care home. I didn’t try to dissuade her because she had always conducted her affairs exactly as she pleased and seemed in full possession of all her faculties. She told me that she had already found the right home, on the road to Newquay, where she would have a room with a sea view, and that she would be going the next day. She asked me to tell the parishioners the following Sunday in my Church Notices. She would be happy to receive visitors, but only if they really wanted to see her. She died a year later, peacefully in her sleep, and two years after that, the house was sold to you.’
‘Was her cat still alive? Queenie said they were all named after birds and that the last one was called Raven. Did she have one called Falcon?’
‘Not in my time here as vicar, which is almost twenty-two years. There was a Sparrow and a Robin before Raven.’
‘Where was MissWingham buried?’
‘Ah. Well … I haven’t discussed this with anyone before, but … I don’t suppose it matters now. I’m sorry to say that she’s in the bottom drawer of my desk.’
Helen stopped, her fork in mid-air. ‘I think that needs a bit of explanation.’
‘When she died, she left express wishes regarding her funeral arrangements. No mourners, no flowers. She wanted me to give her a proper funeral service in the church and then escort her to the crematorium. It was only myself and the funeral directors at the service where I blessed her and said goodbye. About a week later, they phoned to tell me the ashes were ready for collection, and ever since I have been wondering what to do with them. There was no instruction from the solicitors.’
‘Golly, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’m sure I shall receive a sign.’ He stood up. ‘In the meantime, I shall ask Piran to come over and have a look at this box of treasure. He may be able to shed some light on it.’
Helen did her best to disguise her reluctance to this idea, ‘Maybe.’
At the front door Simon said, ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening, Helen. You are very kind to me.’
‘Not at all. I’m so happy to have made a real friend.’ She reached up and gave him another of her kisses on the cheek and they said goodnight.
Simon waved at the gate before his short walk across the green to the vicarage.
Helen washed up, turned the lights out and went to bed with a good book. Simon walked home as if on air.
11
The next couple of weeks were busy for Helen. She and Tony went to town on the garden. Along the path from the gate to the front door they planted lady’s mantle. In the cracks of the drystone wall she pushed violas and primroses. The great Cornish palm looked splendid in its sheltered corner, while the two blue pots containing the agapanthus were placed either side of the old gate. She couldn’t wait to see them in bloom.
Tony, meanwhile, took over the vegetable plot. It was dug and composted to within an inch of its life ready for the spring plantings, but he also put in a row of asparagus, and some rhubarb. The rest of the garden Helen filled with roses, daphnes and hydrangeas, with jasmine and clematis left to ramble over the wall which divided her from the churchyard … and any spying from Piran Ambrose.
Her final pièce de résistance was a wisteria, which she hoped would clamber over the privy. She and Tony had cleared the privy of its broken gardening tools and rusty watering cans, but they found no other treasure in there. Tony had taken to using it as his main bathroom now, not having running water in the shepherd’s hut. The flushing loo and cold water tap served him just fine. It was better than always knocking on Polly’s door when he needed to fill his kettle or have a pee. Helen rather liked his presence in the garden.
She had put the tin box under her bed and out of her mind after the supper with Simon. She didn’t relish his suggestion of taking it to Piran, but perhaps there would be no alternative.
Anyway, Penny was coming down that weekend, and she might have some bright ideas.
*
It was drizzly with a biting wind when Penny arrived in Trevay at 4 p.m. The journey down had been OK and her comfortable Jaguar XJS had taken all the strain out of the drive, but when she tried to open the door in the Starfish car park, the wind whipped it shut again. She struggled out with her long blonde hair in her eyes and mouth, pulled her warmly padded Donna Karan coat around her, and walked into reception.
The young girl behind the desk greeted her warmly and introduced herself as Kayla. ‘I expect you’d like a tray of tea and some crumpets after your long journey?’ The thought hadn’t entered Penny’s head but, now she came to think of it, it seemed like a fabulous idea.
‘Thank you so much.’ She looked around. ‘What a beautiful building.’ Outside it may have looked severe, built in local granite by the Victorians, but inside it was as contemporary as any London hotel. Although painted all white, the clever and discreet lighting made it warm and cosy. The slate floor, with vast, jewel-coloured Indian rugs, felt warm underfoot. But it was the touches of designer chic that really brought it all together. Huge four-foot bell jars filled with lime-green apples and twinkling candles, and on the wall above the wide, polished oak staircase was a stunning oil painting of a starfish lying on a sparkling ocean floor.
‘Yes, Ms Leighton, we like it. Do you have any luggage in the car that needs bringing in? If you give me the keys, I’ll get Darren to collect it and bring it to your room.’
Kayla gave Penny a key attached to a starfish key ring encrusted with Swarovski crystals. ‘You’re in room 207 on the second floor. The lift is on the left. Anything you need, just give us a call.’
Penny took the lift – fashioned like an old bathing hut; kitsch but cute – to the second floor and found her room. The old adage that less is more applied here. Everything was of the best quality, but not overdone. And the view of the harbour with its fishing boats, from what she could make out through the heavy rain that was now hammering down, would be lovely when the sun came out.
She picked up the phone and called Helen.
‘Darling, I’m here! In Trevay! The hotel is fabulous. Shall I book a table for two tonight at seven-thirty? Is that OK for you?’
‘Yes, please. I’ve starved myself all week.’
They chatted a bit more and then Penny ran herself a deep, hot bubbly bath, warming her feet on the heated tiles as she did so. She lay happily in the suds eating her buttered crumpets, drinking her tea and listening to the rain on the windows.
*
At dinner that night, Penny filled Helen in on all the London news. Most of it was about work and a little about friends, but nothing about a social life.
‘What about your romantic life? Anyone special yet?’ asked Helen.
‘No. No one. I’m too old, too set in my ways, too independent, too much of a ball-breaker – or that’s what the last complete prat told me. Who understands men? They say they want a woman who has a mind of her own and financial independence. But when it comes down to it, all they really want is someone they can dominate. And I’m not good at being dominated. I wish I was … but …’ She waved a hand. ‘MEN! They can go and boil their fat, stupid, chauvinistic heads.’
Helen threw her head back and roared with laughter. ‘I’ll drink to that! Fancy a margarita before the food arrives?’
One margarita naturally turned into several. Tequila loosened them both up and suddenly everything was funny. When Helen described Simon, Penny did an appalling impression of an ancient, randy old vicar. Helen wheezed with laughter, holding one hand to her ribs and the other to her mouth. Penny, in full swing now, leant back in her chair, tucked her fingers under her imaginary braces and in her vicar voice said, ‘I’d be very obliged if I might take a dip in your font, madam.’ And with that, she overbalanced her chair and fell straight over backwards.’
‘Hello, Mrs Merrifield. You certainly know how to enjoy yourself.’
Piran Ambrose, with a small, large-bosomed, kittenish woman in her thirties on his arm, stopped at the table. Helen jumped up in shock and knocked her glass over. Penny, with the help of a waiter, picked herself up and offered her hand in greeting.
‘Good evening. I’m Penny, a friend of Helen’s.’
Piran glanced at her and then back to Helen. ‘I remember the first time I had a drink too. Enjoy your evening.’
The kitten woman pulled him away with a parting, malicious smile aimed at Helen.
