The delicate sound of a spoon hitting the side of a crystal glass reverberated around the terrace of the Victoria Inn and the chatter hushed to a whisper.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome on to the dance floor, your bride and groom!’ Liam announced.
Thunderous clapping rang out. Lucas yelled in response; he didn’t like the big noise one bit. Meg rocked him from side to side before handing him over to Isabel, who had the knack of quieting him. Meg had noticed how, however much he might be bawling in the car, as soon as Isabel hurried down the driveway at Mountfield to meet them, as was her habit, he would pipe right down. She would scoop him up and smother his face in kisses, and he would become quite calm.
‘Come to your grandma. That’s it, my darling boy.’ She kissed him and patted his back against her chest and sure enough he stopped crying.
‘I don’t know how you do that, Isabel, but I wish you’d teach me!’
Milly laughed. ‘I could do with you around at three in the morning, when Meg can’t hear him crying over her own snoring.’
‘Funny, Milly. I may snore, but at least I don’t sleepwalk in the middle of the night and eat cheese!’
‘I did that once, you daft bint!’
‘Yes, but that’s once more than normal people, you nutter.’
Isabel laughed. ‘Look, stop it, you two – Pru and Chris are going to dance.’
‘Oh, God help us!’ Milly whispered to Meg and the two of them collapsed into fits of giggles behind their hands.
Christopher put his hand on the small of Pru’s back and held her right hand in his, at an angle.
‘I can’t believe you are making me do this, Chris.’ She burrowed her face against his chest.
‘Well, if I want a first dance with my wife then I shall jolly well have one. Remember, don’t over-think it, just let me lead you.’ He twirled her round, catching her before she slipped. She giggled loudly. They tripped across the floor, laughing, pressed close together, oblivious of all who stood watching.
Meg felt a tap on her shoulder.
‘I can’t bear to see a pretty girl all alone – would you like to dance?’
She beamed into the face of the handsome chap in a suit. As they made their way to the area where people smooched and swayed, she introduced him to Pru. ‘Have you met Piers Parkinson-Boater?’
Pru nodded. ‘Yes, I think I might have, once or twice.’ She smiled at him, remembering how sweet he had been to her once before, and watched as Meg slipped into his arms quite naturally, almost as if that was where she belonged.
Christopher nodded at Meg and Piers, who were laughing as they waltzed across the floor. ‘Looks like things are moving forward, Pru.’
She reached up and kissed him. ‘Actually, Chris, I think it’s better than that, I’d say they had reached neutral.’
23
The white-painted shutters of the rented apartment were thrown open to reveal the bright blue Salcombe morning. The gauzy curtain panels arched in the early breeze as the gulls screeched their morning greeting. Beyond their window and the ornately scrolled iron balcony they could see nothing but the white tips of the waves, breaking in the estuary, the masts and rigging of boats bobbing around like impatient pets, waiting attention and the patchwork shades of green on the cliff top hills beyond. Even at this early hour, the sun was giving off warmth and there was the distant ring of bells from the Holy Trinity church. He reached out and traced his finger over her shoulder.
‘It’s like looking at a painting isn’t it?’
‘It is. It’s beautiful and so peaceful. I think I rather like this life.’
‘Me too, but do you know the very best thing?’
Pru shook her head and sank further into the downy pillow.
‘It’s knowing that I get to wake up with you every morning for the rest of my days. And no matter what the day or night brings, that prospect fills me with unimaginable joy.’
She grinned up at him. ‘You’re an old softie.’
‘Less of the “old” please; my joints don’t need any reminding.’ He rubbed at his elbow, which had a nasty habit of locking in the morning.
‘This is really real, isn’t it?’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘Yes, this is really real.’
‘I shan’t ever forget a single detail of yesterday, not ever. It was the most magical thing I’ve experienced. I keep replaying snippets in my head.’
‘I’m so glad, I wanted it to be perfect for you.’
‘It was, and to see everyone together, dancing, laughing, coming together for us,’ Pru shook her head, ‘it feels like a dream. I didn’t know I could feel like this.’
‘Me neither.’ He laughed. ‘To find you now is like being given an incredible parting gift for my twilight years. I would of course have liked to have met you when I was twenty, virile and handsome.’
‘Okay, so you’re not twenty, but two out of three ain’t bad!’ She kissed his arm and ran her fingers over his chin, which was peppered with grey whiskers.
‘Ha! In all seriousness, you were worth waiting for. I think I’ve definitely saved my best years till last.’
‘Thank you for loving me.’ She beamed.
He gathered her against his chest. ‘It is my absolute pleasure.’
‘We should look at fishing rods while we are here, there’s a shop on Fore Street.’
‘Fishing rods?’ he asked.
‘Well that’s the plan, isn’t it? Aren’t we going to potter about in Salcombe, buy a little boat and go fishing in the afternoons and then cook your catch for our supper? Then in the winter, warm our feet in front of a log fire and drink red wine until we fall asleep?’
‘That sounds perfect, Mrs Heritage.’
Pru squealed and wriggled down the bed. She looked at the thin gold band that sat on the third finger of her left hand, a simple piece of jewellery that was so much more than the sum of its parts; a symbol of love and commitment, given to her by a man that wanted her by his side. ‘Mrs Christopher Heritage! It doesn’t have quite the same ring as Pru Plum!’
‘You’ll always be Pru Plum.’
‘Yes.’ Pru smiled. ‘I will, won’t I?’
Christopher raised her hand and kissed her palm.
Their bedroom door opened without warning and in bustled Milly, wearing her tiger onesie and apparently unconcerned that it was the early hours of their honeymoon morning.
‘Jesus Christ! I’ve been all over this bloody place and there’s not a bakery open anywhere. There are several people watering hanging baskets, fetching newspapers and walking little dogs, but not a loaf to be had. Luckily, I brought a packet of digestives with me, so who’s for a cuppa?’
‘Mills, we are having a lie-in. We are on our honeymoon, you silly moo!’
Milly backed from the room. ‘All right, all right! I was only offering, daft cow.’
Gingerbread Men Recipe
Ladies, here is a foolproof recipe for gingerbread men (and women). It should make about a dozen. You will need:
Ingredients
350g plain flour
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
2 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground cinnamon
Pinch of nutmeg (optional)
125g butter
175g light soft brown sugar
1 egg
4 tbsp golden syrup
For decoration (the best bit!)
Icing for writing – shop-bought tubes are easiest, or you can make your own by blending 4tbsps of icing sugar with just enough water to get a smooth paste, then spooning the mix into a small piping bag.
Cake decorations such as sweetie buttons, sparkles, jelly drops – you get the idea!
Preparation method
• Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/Gas mark 4 and prepare two baking trays with greaseproof paper.
• Sift the flour and the bicarbonate of soda into a food processor bowl, along with the ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg (if used). Add the butter and set the fo
od processor to a gentle whir until the mixture looks like fat breadcrumbs. Mix in the sugar (with fingers or a spoon).
• In another bowl, use a fork to beat the egg and the golden syrup together. Add this to the flour mixture and use the food processor to pulse everything into a clump of dough.
• Knead the dough into a smooth ball, then wrap it in clingfilm and put it in the fridge for 15 minutes.
• Lightly flour the work surface and roll out the dough to a thickness of about 0.5cm.
• Press your cake cutters firmly on to the dough to make gingerbread men, stars, Christmas trees or whatever shapes take your fancy. Use a spatula to transfer them on to the baking trays, making sure they have sufficient space around them to grow.
• Bake the shapes for 12 to 15 minutes, until they’re a beautiful pale golden-brown. Leave them on the trays for 10 minutes, then ease them off the greaseproof paper and on to wire racks to cool, being extra careful not to drop them!
• Once your shapes have cooled, use the writing icing and cake decorations to make them into your own personal artworks – go as crazy as you like!
Okay, that’s the hard work over. Now you get to make yourself a warm drink in your favourite mug, sit in your comfiest chair and sample your gingerbread. Go on, treat yourself. Why? Because everyone deserves a little love!
Happy baking.
Pru Plum x
We hope you enjoyed this book.
If you haven’t already read the other stories in Amanda Prowse’s gripping No Greater Love sequence, read on or click the links below for previews of
Poppy Day
What Have I Done?
and
Clover’s Child
Or
To find out about Amanda Prowse, click here.
To discover more books by Amanda Prowse, click here.
For an invitation from the publisher, click here.
Poppy Day — Preview
Read on for the first chapter of
How far would you go to bring home the one you love?
A gripping story of loss and courage from army wife Amanda Prowse.
1
The major yanked first at one cuff and then the other, ensuring three-eighths of an inch was visible beneath his tunic sleeves. With his thumb and forefinger he circled his lips, finishing with a small cough, designed to clear the throat. He nodded in the direction of the door, indicating to the accompanying sergeant that he could proceed. He was ready.
‘Coming!’ Poppy cast the sing-song word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note to fix the front door bell as the internal mechanism grated against the loose, metal cover. The intensely irritating sound had become part of the rhythm of the flat. She co-habited with an orchestra of architectural ailments, the stars of which were the creaking hinge of the bedroom door, the dripping bathroom tap and the whirring extractor fan that now extracted very little.
Poppy smiled and looped her hair behind her ears. It was probably Jenna, who would often nip over during her lunch break. Theirs was a comfortable camaraderie, arrived at after many years of friendship; no need to wash up cups, hide laundry or even get dressed, they interacted without inhibition or pretence. Poppy prepped the bread and counted the fish fingers under the grill, working out how to make two sandwiches instead of one, an easy calculation. She felt a swell of happiness.
The front door bell droned again, ‘All right! All right!’ Poppy licked stray blobs of tomato ketchup from the pads of her thumbs and laughed at the impatient digit that jabbed once more at the plastic circle on the outside wall.
Tossing the checked tea towel onto the work surface, she stepped into the hallway and looked through the safety glass at the top of the door, opaque through design and a lack of domesticity. Poppy slowed down until almost stationary, squinting at the scene in front of her, as though by altering her viewpoint, she could change the sight that greeted her. Her heart fluttered in an irregular beat. Placing a flattened palm against her breastbone, she tried to bring calm to her flustered pulse. The surge of happiness disappeared, forming a ball of ice that sank down into the base of her stomach, filling her bowels with a cold dread. Poppy wasn’t looking at the silhouette of her friend; not a ponytail in sight. Instead, there were two shapes, two men, two soldiers.
She couldn’t decide whether to turn and switch off the grill or continue to the front door and let them in. The indecision rendered her useless. She concentrated on staying present, feeling at any point she might succumb to the maelstrom within her mind. The whirling confusion threatened to make her faint. She shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. It worked.
She wondered how long they would be, how long it would all take. There were fish fingers to eat and she was due back at the salon in half an hour with a shampoo and set arriving in forty minutes. Poppy thought it strange how an ordinary day could be made so very extraordinary. She knew the small details of every action, usually forgotten after one sleep, would stay with her forever; each minute aspect indelibly etching itself on her memory. The way her toes flexed and stiffened inside her soft, red socks, the pop and sizzle of her lunch under the grill and the way the TV was suddenly far too loud.
She considered the hazy outlines of her as yet unseen visitors and her thoughts turned to the fact that her home wasn’t tidy. She wished she wasn’t cooking fish. It would only become curious in hindsight that she had been worried about minutiae when the reason for their visit was so much more important than a cooking aroma and a concern that some cushions might have been improperly plumped.
Columbo was on TV. She hadn’t been watching; it was instead a comforting background noise. She had done that a lot since Martin went away, switching on either the TV or radio as soon as she stepped through the door; anything other than endure the silence of a life lived alone. She hated that.
Poppy looked again to confirm that there were two of them; thus reinforcing what she thought she already knew. It is a well-known code; a letter for good news, telephone call for minor incident, a visit from one soldier for quite bad, two for the very worst.
She noted the shapes that stood the other side of her door. One was a regular soldier, identifiable by his hat; the other was a bloke of rank, an officer. She didn’t recognise either of their outlines, strangers. She knew what they were going to say before they spoke, before one single word had been uttered; their stance was awkward and unnatural.
Her mind flew to the cardboard box hidden under the bed. In it was underwear, lacy, tarty pieces that Martin had chosen. She would throw them away; there would be no need for them any more, no more anniversaries, birthdays or special Sunday mornings when the world was reduced to a square of mattress, a corner of duvet and the skin of the man she loved.
Poppy wasn’t sure how long she took to reach for the handle, but had the strangest feeling that with each step taken, the door moved slightly further away.
She slid the chain with a steady hand; it hadn’t been given a reason to shake, not yet. Opening the door wide, it banged against the inside wall. The tarnished handle found its regular groove in the plasterwork. Ordinarily, she would only have opened it a fraction, enough to peek out and see who was there, but this was no ordinary situation and with two soldiers on the doorstep, what harm could she come to? Poppy stared at them. They were pale, twitchy. She looked past them, over the concrete, third-floor walkway and up at the sky, knowing that these were the last few seconds that her life would be intact. She wanted to enjoy the feeling, confident that once they had spoken, everything would be broken. She gazed at the perfect blue, daubed with the merest wisp of cloud. It was beautiful, really beautiful.
The two men appraised her as she stared over their heads into the middle distance. It was the first few seconds in which they would form their opinion. One of them noted her wrinkled, freckled nose, her clear, open expression. The other considered the grey slabs amid which she stood and registered the fraying cuff of her long-sleeved T-shirt.
Their training told them to expect a number of varied responses; from fainting or rage to extreme distress, each had a prescribed treatment and procedure. This was their worst scenario, the disengaged, silent recipient with delayed reactions, much harder for them to predict.
Poppy thought about the night before her husband left for Afghanistan, wishing that she could go back to then and do it differently. She had watched his mechanical actions, saw him smooth the plastic-wrapped, mud-coloured, Boy Scout paraphernalia that was destined for its sandy desert home. A place she couldn’t picture, in a life that she was barred from. She didn’t notice how his fingertips lingered on the embroidered roses of their duvet cover, the last touch to a thing of feminine beauty that for him meant home, meant Poppy.
Martin was packing his rucksack which was propped open on their bed when he started to whistle. Poppy didn’t recognise the tune. She stared at his smiling, whistling face as he folded his clothes and wash kit into the voluminous, khaki cavern. He paused to push his non-existent fringe out of his eyes. Like the man that’s lost a finger, but still rubs the gap to relieve the cold, so Martin raked hair that was now shorn.
Poppy couldn’t decipher his smile, but it was enough to release the torrent that had been gathering behind her tongue. Any casual observer might have surmised that he was going on holiday with the boys, not off to a war zone.
‘Are you happy, Mart? In fact, ignore me, that’s a silly question, of course you are because this is what you wanted isn’t it? Leaving me, your mates and everything else behind for half a year while you play with guns.’
Poppy didn’t know what she expected him to say, but she’d hoped he would say something. She wanted him to pull her close, tell her that this was the last thing he wanted to do and that he didn’t want to leave her, or at the very least that he wished he could take her with him. Something, anything that would make things feel better. Instead, he said nothing, did nothing.
A Little Love Page 28
