The Newcomer

by Fern Britton

  Angela was feeling sick. ‘What is the secret you are keeping?’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I know you have a secret.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was told.’

  ‘This is crazy. Who told you?’

  ‘I had a letter.’

  Robert sat up. ‘Another one? Who from?’

  Angela was feeling sicker and sicker. ‘The same. Anonymous.’

  ‘Where is this letter?’

  ‘Another one? What do you mean?’ Mamie did not understand.

  Angela answered Robert. ‘In my bedside drawer.’

  Robert leapt to his feet and, crossing the room, wrenched the lounge door open. ‘I’m going to get it.’

  Angela got unsteadily to her feet and said, ‘I think I’m going to be sick. Please don’t tell Robert. You know his phobia about people being sick.’ She ran to the downstairs loo.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, Robert found the letter and read it with growing revulsion. Downstairs, he showed it to Mamie. ‘Where is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Still in the loo.’

  Robert paled. ‘I can’t deal with sick, you know that.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry. My fault. I mixed one or two extra things into the punch. I forget that she doesn’t have the stamina for alcohol the way I do.’

  ‘Who do you think wrote this?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  He sat down and said quietly, ‘I would never cheat on her. Never. When we first met, I don’t know if she ever told you, but I was very insecure. I had no faith in myself. Lack of self-esteem, the doctor called it. I was doing well but felt like an imposter, about to be found out. She was the only person I told and she stood by me. Got me help. She believed in me when I thought I was pointless. I even …’ He hid his head in his hands. ‘One night, I decided that I couldn’t go on. I just wanted all my wretchedness to stop so I laid out a line of painkillers and began taking them, one at a time, in between sips of brandy. After about five pills my phone rang. It was her. I told her what I was doing and she made me promise to stop. She was there in minutes. Why would I betray her? I need her probably more than she needs me.’

  The door opened and a shaky Angela came back in. Mamie held up the letter.

  ‘We’ve read it. It’s a lie.’

  Robert stood up and took Angela into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish you had shown me this as soon as it came.’

  Angela was chilled and trembling. ‘I thought it was a joke. A bad joke. I thought the “secret” must have been the dress. But that would mean Helen must have sent it. And it would mean that Helen was jealous of me and wanted you.’

  She began to sob.

  Mamie took control. ‘Robert, take her upstairs and wash her face and teeth.’

  Robert was reluctant. ‘You’re not going to be sick again, are you, Ange?’

  She shook her head.

  Mamie tutted. ‘Robert dear, it’s time for you to grow a pair. Get her upstairs and I’ll bring water.’ She looked at her niece’s grey face and added, ‘And a dry biscuit. This could be a long night.’

  26

  The warm sunshine of the garden party vanished the following day. A cold easterly pushed heavy cloud across the entire South West and heavy rain was forecast for later in the day.

  Mamie, shaken by Angela’s outburst the evening before, wrapped up and set off for Queenie’s. She needed to get away from the tension at the vicarage.

  ‘Do you want one of me pasties? Fresh from the oven this morning.’ Queenie pointed at a tray with a dozen golden pasties on it. Mamie’s stomach was not ready for them.

  ‘No, thank you, darling.’ Mamie swept her blond hair from her face. ‘I barely slept last night. I need coffee.’

  Queenie chuckled. ‘What a caper that was, yesterday. Any news on Malcolm?’

  ‘Angela is popping over after the service this morning to check on Evelyn. It was all very upsetting. Angela was rather disturbed by it. It’s a wonder she’s managed to get to church but she’d never let everybody down. She got herself very upset.’

  ‘Well, she would. She’s a kind woman.’

  ‘Not just about Evelyn …’

  ‘Oh?’ Queenie’s eyes lit up as she sensed fresh gossip. ‘What’s rattled her pearls then?’

  Mamie bit her lip; she had promised Robert and Angela that she wouldn’t discuss Angela’s unfounded jealousy, with Queenie or anyone else.

  ‘She, er, had a little too much sun and perhaps I made the punch a bit too … punchy.’

  Queenie cackled. ‘She got pissed, did she? Hungover? Well, we’ve all done it, ain’t we?’

  ‘Yes. She was rather sick and I sat with her until she slept.’

  ‘Poor gel, but it’s Evelyn I feel for. We never knew none of that was going on. What’s going to happen to the farm? I mean, it’s been in Malcolm’s family for donkey’s years. I suppose those two lummocks of sons will have to pull their fingers out. Evelyn won’t be able to manage on her own.’

  ‘She’ll need a ton of support. And not just on the farm.’

  ‘She loves them boys. One of ’em’s all right. The other’s a right little terror. Always was.’ Queenie began to get out of her chair, bending from the hips, and groaning in discomfort. ‘I’ll get the coffee on.’

  Mamie had seen this ruse too many times to be sympathetic. ‘Just ask me and I’ll do it. You don’t have to do this old lady act for my benefit, you know.’

  Queenie looked sharply at Mamie, then sat down again, cackling. ‘It was worth a try.’

  Mamie went to the stairs that led up to Queenie’s living quarters.

  ‘There’s a tin of biscuits by the sink. Bring them down too,’ shouted Queenie over her shoulder.

  ‘What did your last servant die of?’ Mamie called back before disappearing.

  Alone in her shop, Queenie closed her eyes. Mamie would be gone long enough for her to have a little snooze.

  The front door of Pendruggan farmhouse, short and wide, was built of oak so ancient that lichen was clinging to its silvered panelling. There remained scars of locks long gone and heavy boot scuffs. Angela lifted the heavy, copper knocker, stained with verdigris.

  Angela heard some quiet scuffling as footsteps approached from the other side of the door. Evelyn opened it, just enough for her cautious eyes to glance at Angela and check that no one else was around.

  ‘Hello,’ Angela said. ‘I’ve come to see how you are. I thought you might need a friendly ear.’

  Evelyn said nothing but the door was widened just enough for Angela to slip through.

  She shut the door behind them and walked the long, dark, uneven passage to the kitchen.

  ‘Will you want tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Find a seat.’ Evelyn’s voice was flat.

  Angela looked around at the kitchen strewn with wellington boots, newspapers, and a dog basket by the old Rayburn. The dog, a collie mix, lifted her head and barked.

  ‘Shut up, Prim,’ Evelyn ordered.

  Prim gave Angela a warning growl then settled back to her doggy dreams.

  Angela pulled the nearest chair out from the cluttered table and disturbed a bony cat sleeping on a thin feather cushion.

  ‘Don’t worry about her. Blossom, get off that cushion.’ The cat stayed where she was.

  ‘I won’t disturb her. I’ll sit here instead.’ Angela pulled out another chair – this one animal free – and sat down.

  Evelyn brought an old brown teapot, covered by a knitted cosy, and two mugs to the table.

  ‘Prim is missing Malcolm. She’s normally out all day with him.’

  ‘And how about you?’ asked Angela. ‘Are you missing him?’

  ‘No.’ Evelyn was very firm.

  Angela nodded. ‘And where are your sons?’

  ‘Tommy’s out somewhere. I’m expecting him back soon. He did the milking this morning. He’s a good boy. And Jimmy, he’s at the
police station.’

  ‘Seeing his dad?’

  ‘No. Been arrested. Last night police stopped his car. Drunk driving.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  Evelyn shrugged. ‘He’s too much like his dad. Always been trouble. But he’s old enough now to clear up his own mess.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Angela said.

  ‘Oh, don’t be. Me and Tom, we’ll be all right. He said to me this morning that we’re best off without Malcolm. Mum, he said, we can be happy with him gone. Him and Jimmy won’t be drinking and gambling away all the farm profits, what there is, anyway. And it’s quiet. I feel safer than I have since before I was married.’

  ‘Have the police been in touch?’ Angela asked.

  Evelyn nodded. ‘Yeah, they released Malcolm this morning on condition that he doesn’t come within two hundred yards of me or the house.’

  ‘Good.’

  They drank their tea, the old kitchen clock ticking in the silence between them.

  The first drops of light rain spattered on the windows. Evelyn pushed her foot under Prim’s legs and tickled the dog with her socked toes.

  ‘I been unlucky, that’s all,’ she said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Marrying that arsehole. Some women seem to marry the right one first go. Look at you and your husband. You can tell he loves you. He’d never run off with a fat, brassy bint, would he?’

  Angela felt ashamed, remembering all the accusations she had thrown at Robert last night. Did she honestly believe he would have an affair?

  ‘No.’

  A shard of lightning lit the gloomy room as the rain increased.

  ‘Here it comes,’ said Evelyn.

  A crack of thunder jolted them both.

  ‘I’d better get home.’ Angela did up her jacket. ‘But, Evelyn, anything you need, please know I am here for you.’

  As the old farmhouse door closed behind her Angela looked at the sky. It was darkening. Black rainclouds billowed like bruises. She made a dash for home, desperate suddenly to see Robert and ask for forgiveness. He and Mamie had been right. She had been doing too much. She needed to take things more slowly. Get some perspective. Be a good and proper wife.

  In the village shop, Mamie and Queenie were deep in the realms of storytelling.

  ‘But in those days, Marrakesh was wildly romantic. No package tours. No rules. We all did yoga, naked, in the early morning. I can still feel the warmth of the mosaic floor beneath my bottom and hear the fountains splashing in their timeless pools.’ Mamie stretched her arms over her head, reliving the moment.

  Queenie was gaping. ‘But what happened with Warren Beatty?’

  ‘I turned him down, of course,’ Mamie said virtuously. ‘Sweet, sweet boy that he was. But not my type.’

  Outside the rain was beginning to gather pace and weight. The shop grew dimmer. Only the peach light of Queenie’s table lamp on the counter offered a glow as Mamie, her mind still in Morocco, continued.

  ‘Did I tell you about my dinner with Churchill? That was in Casablanca. We were both en route to Blighty and found ourselves on the same train to the ship. I have always found talent and intelligence the ultimate aphrodisiacs.’

  Queenie’s mouth dropped. ‘Winston? Winston Churchill?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mamie laughed. ‘Not the prime minister. His grandson. Winston Junior. So charming and damnably handsome.’

  ‘Did you … er … you know … with him?’

  ‘He was already in love with the woman who became his first wife, but he was an excellent flirter. He gave me a necklace and matching anklet of silver bells. He said he wanted me to wear them always. To remind me of him and the innocent fun we had. Of course, we were both so young. In our twenties.’

  ‘Have you still got his jewellery?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘I shall dig them out for you.’

  The rain began to hammer against the shop windows, bouncing off the pavement beyond and battering Queenie’s geraniums in their tubs.

  The flash of lightning lit the village green, giving it an almost emerald quality.

  ‘But enough of my stories.’ Mamie knew when to stop. ‘What about you? I hope you had some misspent adventures?’

  ‘Oh, I had my moments when I was courting my hubby.’ A roll of thunder bounced around the village.

  ‘That’s God telling you off for being a naughty girl,’ Mamie laughed.

  ‘I certainly was not as naughty as you!’ Queenie told her. ‘I was evacuated, you see. Had to leave my mum in the East End and come here, to Cornwall. Bloody long train ride, that was. The last time I saw my mum, she was waving to me from the platform at Paddington. My mum caught a bomb in the Blitz. Nothing much left of the house, but they told me they found her all in one piece under the kitchen table. Sheltering, you see. Bless her. But I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. Train would be too expensive and I was considered too young to go. That it would upset me too much.’ Her fingers found a cotton hanky under her sleeve and she wiped her eyes. ‘It still upsets me. I don’t even know where her grave is.’

  A second lightning bolt lit the heavy sky.

  Mamie remained silent, knowing that Queenie would rebuff any hug; she was too proud for that. So instead she asked, ‘What about your father?’

  Queenie coughed her rattly cough and reached for her tobacco bag. ‘His ship was sunk by the Bismarck. Killed in action. To be honest I’m glad my mum never knew about it.’

  ‘And no brothers or sisters?’

  ‘I’m the only one left.’ Queenie cleared her throat and rolled one of her fags. ‘You never said, but did you never marry?’

  Mamie laughed her throaty laugh. ‘Never. Not for me.’

  ‘Never wanted no children?’

  ‘God, no. My sister did all that for me. Married, had Angela and then when Angela’s father died, I stepped up to be Alpha Aunt. That’s quite enough for me.’

  Outside the black sky continued to let drop its torrential rain. Another clap of thunder rattled the shop’s windows. Both women jumped nervously as the shop door blew open, jangling the bell above it.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Angela, standing drenched on the threshold. ‘The wind took the door from my hand.’

  ‘Well, close it quick. The rain’s coming in,’ Mamie told her. ‘You look half drowned.’

  Angela forced the door shut. ‘I’ve come for a good bottle of wine. What have you got?’

  Queenie arranged herself a little more comfortably into her chair. ‘First of all, what’s the news about Evelyn and that brute of a husband?’

  ‘Oh, Queenie, you know how I feel about gossip. I’m sure Evelyn will tell you herself. Now, I’d like a good bottle of red, if you have it?’

  Mamie smiled. ‘Ah. I get it. You and Robert have made up?’

  Queenie was on it like a cat on a catnip mouse. ‘Had a falling-out, have you?’

  Angela’s eyes darted to Mamie, but Mamie shook her head in denial. Angela’s eyes narrowed slightly but decided to believe that her aunt had not been indiscreet after all.

  ‘Robert and I have never been better, thank you.’

  Queenie rustled up a dusty bottle of Merlot. ‘I hope it does you good, duck,’ she told Angela as Angela was leaving the shop. ‘It’ll sort your hangover out a treat.’

  Angela threw her aunt an accusatory look.

  ‘I told her nothing.’ Mamie held her hands up. ‘Honestly.’

  27

  Angela put away her jealousy and decided to at least try to forget the anonymous letters. Both Robert and Mamie agreed that they must have been written by someone very unhappy but not dangerous.

  Angela made even more effort to be the perfect vicar. Helpful and welcoming. Although she still felt slightly threatened by Helen, there was no evidence to suggest that Helen was interested in anyone but Piran.

  Mamie told her, ‘You are not going to be here for ever. You can afford to trust them. Have them over for dinner. The
y are good people.’

  Angela knew her aunt was right.

  Gradually, June gave way to July and thoughts began to turn to the next Pendruggan event: the Big Village Pond Dig.

  Mike had worked tirelessly to gather the relevant paperwork and permissions from the council, and digging was confirmed for the first weekend of the summer holidays.

  He arrived at the vicarage two days before it was due to begin, pink with excitement.

  ‘I say,’ he beamed at Mamie and Robert, ‘a crew from Coast Atlantic TV want to do a background piece on the search for the pond.’

  Robert was impressed. ‘That’s excellent. If you’d like me to be around that day, offer some guidance, I’d be glad to. What day are they coming?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Oh damn. I won’t be here. I’m over in Lostwithiel reviewing the antique shops and auction rooms. They’re having a sale of vintage garden equipment.’

  Mamie patted Robert’s shoulder. ‘I am sure we can do without you. Coffee, Mike?’

  ‘Don’t let them make you out to be yokels,’ Robert said knowingly. ‘Stick to the facts.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be OK.’ Mike accepted Mamie’s coffee. ‘You look very lovely today, Mamie.’

  Mamie was wearing a figure-hugging summer dress exposing just enough cleavage and leg.

  ‘Oh, darling. This old thing? I bought it yonks ago in St Tropez.’

  ‘St Tropez, eh?’ Mike settled himself on a kitchen chair. ‘I was there in the sixties.’

  ‘Me too! Did you ever see Bardot?’

  ‘Sadly not, but I remember one morning …’

  Robert excused himself. ‘I’d love to stay and chat but I really must get on.’

  Closing the door behind him, he bumped into Angela in the hall. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t go into the kitchen. Mike is busy chatting Mamie up. Or it may be the other way around.’

  ‘Not again. He’s been here almost every day this week. I wish he’d just ask her out to dinner or something.’

  The kitchen door opened and a giddy Mike and Mamie stepped out. ‘Mike is taking me for some lunch.’ She turned to him. ‘Are you sure I look all right in this old thing?’

  ‘My dear, it is I who should ask if I look smart enough to escort you,’ Mike replied.