A Time for Living: Polwenna Bay 2

by Ruth Saberton

  He flashed her his old wolfish grin. “Oh, you’d better believe it, Red. I’m going to make lots of demands of you!” And then he whispered into her ear and Mo blushed to the ends of her hair.

  “We’re in a church!” she reminded him sternly, but Ashley just grinned even more.

  “Then maybe it’s time we went back to Mariners?” he suggested. The glitter in his dark eyes as he said this made Mo’s stomach clench deliciously. “Shall we give the Pollards something really good to gossip about?”

  “Far be it from me to let the Pollards down,” Mo said. “But, just for the record, I’m only doing this for them and to keep the village entertained.”

  “You’re so civic minded,” Ashley said admiringly. “I think it’s what I love most about you.”

  Mo snorted at this but she was laughing too. As they left the church, hand in hand, and in a desperate hurry to get back to Mariners, her heart felt lighter than it had for a long time. Crazy as it seemed, Mo could even have sworn that the angels in the stained-glass windows were beaming at her.

  The darkness that lurked beneath her happiness would have to wait. Mo wasn’t ready for it just yet.

  Chapter 20

  “My goodness, what an awful day!”

  Alice Tremaine stood on the vicarage doorstep, shaking her umbrella. At least, Jules hoped it was Alice and not a rather soggy Darth Vader; the older woman was virtually unrecognisable beneath a voluminous hooded raincoat. The weather that had blown in over the past twenty-four hours was certainly from the dark side. After days of glorious sunshine, blue skies and sparkling seas the English summer had reverted depressingly to type. In the village, holidaymakers scuttled from tearoom to gift shop, miserable seagulls huddled on the chimney pots and the boats strained angrily against their moorings. The sea was the colour of lead and almost indistinguishable from the pewter skies above, while a strong south-westerly drove rain into horizontal sheets that hammered on window panes and pelted the rooftops.

  When Jules had woken up this morning to hear the wind howling around the vicarage and the rain drumming against her bedroom window, her heart had plummeted. Opening the curtains had only made her feel worse; the deluge was so heavy that the beautiful view was lost in the downpour. Instead of resembling a living postcard Polwenna Bay was bleak and drenched, and Jules knew that in the gloom St Wenn’s would look even more run down than usual. Sunshine filtering through the stained-glass windows and the gentle glow of the altar candles showed St Wenn’s off to full advantage and, like an ageing film star who needed candlelight to soothe her fading looks, the church wouldn’t fare well when the bright lights were switched on.

  “Why, Lord, why?” Jules had said aloud and in despair. “One more day of sunshine was all we needed. Just one more day. Don’t you want us to save your house?”

  But the only answers had been the roar of the gale and the banging of one of the loose window frames. Outside, another slate had slithered from the church roof. Jules had got dressed hastily in order to put another bucket out. The last thing she needed was any more damage. The Pollards could easily retire on what they’d already quoted to fix the roof. Any more work and they’d be needing a Cayman bank account.

  “What a shame this has blown in today of all days,” Alice was saying, stepping into the porch and dripping all over the black and white tiles.

  “You’re not kidding,” Jules sighed. “When animals start appearing two by two then we’ll know we’re really in trouble.”

  While she helped Alice off with her coat, Jules reflected for the thousandth time that morning that this really wasn’t the best kind of day for showing a bishop around St Wenn’s – especially one who was probably looking for an excuse to close the place anyway. Even if he didn’t catch pneumonia walking up here or get blown over the cliff edge, he’d hardly be able to hear Jules speaking above the dripping of multitudinous leaks into buckets.

  “You should have waited for the rain to ease,” Jules said as she hung Alice’s sodden coat up to dry.

  “I did call but you didn’t answer your mobile. Anyway, I’ve lived here long enough to know that this weather’s set in for a few days,” Alice replied.

  Jules’s hand slipped to her pocket. Drat. She must have left her phone in the vestry. There was no way she was venturing out to rescue it while the rain was this heavy, though.

  “Danny’s on his way over with one of my lemon drizzle cakes,” Alice told Jules as they made their way into the vicarage kitchen. “Don’t look so worried, my love. I’ve never known it fail to sweeten somebody up.”

  Jules tried to smile but couldn’t. She slumped at the kitchen table and placed her head in her hands. “No disrespect, Alice, but even your baking won’t distract the bishop from the fact that St Wenn’s is falling down around our ears and we’ve got a miniscule congregation. I’ve a horrible feeling that he’s going to take one look at it today and make his mind up instantly.”

  Alice sat down opposite Jules and reached out to take her hands. The older woman’s fingers, light and delicate, squeezed her own reassuringly.

  “Now, what kind of an attitude is that?” Alice tutted, shaking her head in disapproval. “It’s a bit of rain, Jules, that’s all. Apart from your appalling lack of faith in my lemon cake, the bishop’s lived in Cornwall long enough to see past a shower or two. Besides, you’ve put together a fantastic case for the church. We were all very impressed with it at the last PCC meeting. Even Sheila was singing your praises and Big Rog said that you were ‘all right’, which is a huge compliment coming from him!”

  Jules swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ve made it then, if Big Rog and Sheila approve of me. Alice, I love it here and I love the people. I love St Wenn’s too – that’s why I can’t bear the thought of losing the church and letting them down.”

  “If the bishop chooses to close St Wenn’s, which I can’t believe for a minute he will, then it won’t be for any lack of trying on your part or that of the PCC,” Alice told her staunchly. “Nobody could have worked harder than you, love. Look how much money we’ve raised in just a few weeks. The dinner was a huge success and the calendar too. Why, it’s being reprinted for the third time. I can hardly believe that! Can you?”

  Unfortunately, Jules could believe it. The Polwenna Bay charity calendar had taken on a life all of its own and was proving so popular that the village shop and the post office kept selling out. To Jules’s horror the local press had featured the story and West Country Television had left several messages on her answerphone asking about the possibility of filming a feature for the local news. So far she’d ignored the calls and kept very quiet, but Jules feared it was only a matter of time before a more enterprising reporter got in touch with somebody else. Then all hell would break loose. Sheila and co would be delighted to go on telly and before they knew it Helen Mirren would be starring in a film about them.

  She groaned and Alice, misunderstanding the nature of her despair, squeezed Jules’s hands even more tightly.

  “Listen, love, I’m sure it really isn’t going to be as bad as you think. Now, I wasn’t going so say anything yet, not until I was one hundred percent certain, but I’ve been—”

  “Is the kettle on?” Danny burst through the back door and strode into the kitchen, shaking himself like a wet Labrador and showering them both with water. His eyelashes were starred with drops and he was drenched, his sweatshirt and jeans clinging to the lean lines of his body. Jules looked away hastily. She was just friends with Danny – would only ever be just friends with Danny – but sometimes she was brought up short by a sharp reminder of just how gorgeous he was. She never even noticed his injuries anymore. She only saw him.

  Alice jumped up, whatever she’d been about to say abandoned.

  “Oh, Danny! Look at the state of you! You’re soaking. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  Danny laughed. “I think I’ll survive, Gran. It’s only rain. I got a bit sidetracked by the Pollards trying to patch up a couple of
the tiles that have slipped off the church roof this morning. Little Rog thinks he can stop the vestry leak, but it’ll cost us, he says.”

  Jules rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? If I didn’t know better I’d think the Pollards were pulling the slates off themselves.”

  “I guess it wasn’t that long ago that their ancestors were out wrecking,” sighed Alice. “Dan, get those wet things off before you get pneumonia.”

  Danny leaned against the oven and, reaching for a tea towel, mopped his face with it.

  “I survived the Taliban, Granny; I think I can cope with a bit of Cornish rain!” He beamed at Jules. “Although, admittedly, a slice of cake and a mug of tea will keep the germs at bay.”

  “I’ll make it. You stay there,” Alice ordered Jules, who was rising to put the kettle on. “You look done in already.”

  Jules wasn’t surprised. She felt done in. The past few weeks had been so busy and last night she’d hardly slept. Each time she’d closed her eyes the church’s figures, both financial and human, had lambada-ed across her vision. Even when she had slept, her dreams had been restless, full of disturbing images of naked parishioners and angry bishops. Was today’s rain some kind of judgement for allowing the crazy calendar idea to go ahead? Jules wondered. She’d only meant for the best but didn’t they say that the road to hell was paved with good intentions? If they lost St Wenn’s would it be her fault for failing to be a stronger leader?

  Or for having feelings for a married member of her flock?

  Oh Lord, why did it all have to be so hard?

  “Cheer up,” Danny was saying. “It might never happen.”

  “You mean the bishop might not make it because Cornwall’s underwater?” Jules suggested hopefully.

  “Unlikely,” said Danny from beneath the tea towel. “No point hiding from it anyway. Better to just face up to reality and deal with what might happen next.” Reappearing, he gave Jules a beady blue-eyed look. “I think I learned that from you, actually.”

  Typical of her own good advice to come back and bite her on the bum, thought Jules, and even more typical of Danny to throw an argument at her that she had no way of countering. Now that his career in the army was over he really ought to consider law.

  “There’s nothing more we can do now anyway,” Alice pointed out. Setting down three mugs of tea and opening up a Tupperware container, she added, “The bishop will be here this afternoon and at least we’ll know more then. We’ve raised money and I think it’s really pulled the village together. He can’t help but be impressed.”

  Jules hoped so, but not as much as she hoped that the Polwenna calendar had somehow managed to sneak under her earthly boss’s radar. When she’d spoken to him yesterday, Bishop Bill hadn’t given any indication that he’d known anything about it. He’d just confirmed that he’d be with them for two o’clock this afternoon and that he was looking forward to seeing them. The visit was a couple of days later than Jules had anticipated, but she’d been glad of the extra time. She’d been hoping to stun him with the view as they took tea in the garden, but today’s driving rain and violent gusts of wind had put paid to that idea.

  “The weather might actually do us a good turn,” Danny pointed out, joining Jules at the table and pushing a slice of cake in her direction. “Think about it this way: if the weather was glorious and he saw the breathtaking views from the church, wouldn’t he be more inclined to think what a bomb the C of E could make selling it? If it looks dismal and gloomy and he experiences first-hand what an arse-ache it is to walk to the place in the wet then he might not be so quick to see the second-home potential.”

  “It could be an answer to our prayers,” nodded Alice.

  Jules hadn’t thought of it this way but maybe they were right. God did work in mysterious ways, after all, and in Polwenna Bay He was certainly very mysterious indeed. She’d yet to figure out why He’d sent her the Pollards or Sheila, but Danny’s point about the weather certainly made sense. For the first time that morning she started to feel a little more optimistic.

  “Good cake, Gran,” Danny said approvingly, reaching for a second slice.

  Alice slapped his hand back. “There won’t be any left for the bishop.”

  “Amazed it made it this far. Mo usually hoovers up your cakes before the rest of us get a look-in,” grumbled Danny.

  Alice looked troubled. “She’s not been up to Seaspray for a while, Danny, unless you’ve seen her when I’ve been writ— err, busy?”

  Danny shook his head. “Nope. Hardly seen her. She’s been with Cashley every spare minute, from what I can gather. It’s bloody weird. One minute she hates him, the next they’re Polwenna Bay’s answer to Romeo and Juliet. The whole village is talking about it.”

  “Of course they are.” Alice shook her head in confusion. “It’s totally out of character for Mo, that’s why. She’s abandoned everything to spend all her time with Ashley and it isn’t healthy.”

  Jules, who’d seen Ashley and Mo in St Wenn’s on several occasions recently, had her own thoughts about this.

  “Perhaps they’re in love and just want to make the most of it?”

  “Mo? In love?” Danny practically snorted his tea at this. “Come on. This is Mo we’re talking about! Unless it has hooves and a mane she doesn’t want to know.”

  But Jules wasn’t so sure. “They look very happy to me.” And intense. And frightened were words that sprang to mind. She didn’t share these observations, though, because divulging them would have seemed unethical; by visiting St Wenn’s, Ashley and Mo had stepped over the boundary of friendship and into the strange hinterland that was her pastoral role. Instinct told Jules that there was more to their relationship than met the eye.

  “Jake says that Ashley’s hired Dr Kussell’s granddaughter to run the yard and paid for Mo’s top horses to go to Alex Ennery,” Alice told Danny. She waggled a finger at him. “Now tell me that sounds like your sister? Mo lives for being an eventer. Why on earth would she give up on her dreams? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe he’s a Moonie and she’s fallen into his evil clutches?” Danny said, so flippantly that his grandmother walloped him with the damp tea towel he’d just been using. “Ouch! That’s grandson abuse. Did you see that, Vicar? Call ChildLine and social services!”

  “This isn’t a joking matter. I’m worried, Daniel. Your sister’s totally lost her senses. She’s even been to London. London! Have you ever heard anything like it? Mo hates the city!”

  The way Alice said this made London sound on a par with Sodom and Gomorrah. Jules bit her lip, determined not to laugh.

  “London? That is serious,” deadpanned Danny. “OK, Granny Alice, you win. He’s definitely brainwashed her. Shall I call the police?”

  “Oh, you laugh if you like,” Alice huffed. She sat down next to Jules and placed her head in her hands, suddenly looking every one of her seventy-nine years. “I know my granddaughter and I’m worried. There’s something very odd about all this. It’s far too fast.”

  “Perhaps she’s just enjoying being with him?” Jules ventured gently, knowing from experience that when the Tremaines got their teeth into a topic there was no arguing with them.

  “Enjoying being with Ashley?” Danny said. “Have you flipped, Rev? Mo hates him.”

  Men. They really were hopeless.

  “Of course she doesn’t,” said Jules patiently. “She’s never hated him. That’s the whole point. Haven’t you read any romantic fiction? The hero and the heroine always start off hating each other.” Thinking of her well-read collection, she added, “It’s a plot staple.”

  “I didn’t read a lot of Mills and Boon when I was in the army. Something to do with not wanting to get my head kicked in,” Danny explained. “And, FYI, Andy McNab isn’t big on romance either.”

  Jules laughed. She was a huge fan of Cassandra Duval, a bestselling writer of historical romance blockbusters featuring beribboned heroines with heaving bosoms. Those sorts of books were muc
h more Jules’s cup of tea than tales of SAS daring. Her bedside table was almost collapsing under the weight of the latest tome. Jules was saving it for a treat once the trauma of the bishop’s visit was over.

  “She’s ignoring us.” Alice was out of her seat again and pacing the kitchen, as restless as the churning waves beyond the vicarage window. “Why won’t she talk to us or tell Summer what’s going on? Why is she constantly with Ashley Carstairs? Why is she neglecting her career? “

  “There’s more to life than work. Maybe she knows this now she’s in love?” Jules suggested. When you were in love with someone didn’t you want to spend every moment with them? Wasn’t every second apart a second wasted?

  At least, that was what she’d been told…

  “In love?” Stunned, Alice halted mid-pace. “Our Mo? And with Ashley?”

  “He did give her the woods,” Danny said thoughtfully. “And he was behaving really oddly at the charity dinner. He bought all those calendars too, remember? Maybe Jules is right?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I often am,” Jules said, nudging him.

  Danny laughed. “And so modest too. Isn’t pride a sin?”

  “So is walloping a war hero,” Jules warned, picking up the tea towel and executing an Alice-style flick. “Don’t worry; I’ll ask for forgiveness later.”

  “They’re both picking on me, Lord!” Danny grumbled. Turning to Alice he added, “I wouldn’t worry too much, Granny. From what I’ve seen of him, Cashley gets through women like I can get through your cakes. Trust me, Mo will be back to her old self in no time.”

  But Jules wasn’t so sure. From what she’d seen of the couple, they seemed very close. She strongly suspected that Ashley had carried a torch for fiery Mo for quite a while. This didn’t look like a quick fling to her but, rather, something forged in a very hot furnace – something strong and long-lasting. Wisely, she kept quiet.

  Alice shook her head. “Well, I hope you’re right, Danny, although I don’t want Mo to get hurt in the process. Everyone in the village has noticed though. Patsy Penhalligan said they were even holding hands when they walked down the street.”