Hidden Treasures

by Fern Britton

  ‘Dear Simon …’ she kissed him on both cheeks ‘… introduce us to your lovely companion.’

  Simon did so. Helen smiled, noticing how very overdressed she was. The women in the room were only a little older than her but were competing to see who could look most like the queen … on a budget.

  ‘You are so lucky to be able to wear such high heels. Running around a parish requires comfy flats, sadly,’ said Diana, wife of the archdeacon.

  ‘My bunions wouldn’t put up with shoes like that,’ offered Valerie, wife of the dean.

  ‘I think she looks smashing. Well done, Simon!’ said the bishop, clapping Simon on the back. ‘Don’t you, chaps?’

  Murmurs of ‘rather’, And ‘What do you see in old Simon then, Mrs Merrifield?’ followed until the housekeeper appeared and announced that dinner was served in the dining room.

  Helen realised it was clear the bishop and his guests thought that she and Simon were something more than friends, but tried to quiet the alarm bell ringing in the far reaches of her mind.

  At dinner, she was seated between the dean and the bishop; Simon between Ruth and Valerie.

  There was polite gossip about diocese happenings and an impending visit from the Bishop of Bristol, then, over pudding, the bishop asked Simon how the survey of the churchyard was going.

  ‘Very well. Piran Ambrose, our local archaeologist and historian, has catalogued all the graves we can find. There are a few that need exhuming and re-siting, but many of them can be renovated. I have to organise that with the authorities. Piran has written to the families involved to let them know of our plans, but tracking them down is, of course, tricky. We have asked for all the families to get back to us by the first of March, and we’re hoping that some of them may contribute to the cost. At the moment, it’s estimated that we need a quarter of a million pounds.’

  ‘That’s an awful lot of coffee mornings!’ said Ruth. ‘Why are the renovations so important?’

  ‘The churchyard is getting dangerous. I feel uncomfortable about allowing elderly people or children to wander in case they fall into a hole. As for the dead, they deserve their eternal resting place to be in good condition. When it’s done, the stones will be upright, the grass will be easier to cut and children will be able to play safely. In our secular world, so fearful of death, I want to encourage our young generation to see death as peaceful, not taboo.’

  ‘So where will you get the money from?’ asked the dean.

  ‘Funds are being raised from all the events we organise. The Trevay fireworks and the Christmas talent show helped a lot. Our next big fundraiser is the Pendruggan spring carnival. But,’ Simon sighed, ‘it’ll take us about thirty years to raise all the money, by which time I’ll be in the graveyard myself.’

  ‘Let me have a chat with our bursar and see if we can’t help a little.’ The bishop tapped the side of his nose. ‘I may know a man who knows a man!’

  The table laughed and the conversation moved on to Helen.

  ‘And how did you meet dear Simon, Mrs Merrifield?’ asked Ruth, the bishop’s wife.

  ‘I moved into the village about six months ago and he terrified me in the back garden!’

  ‘I was on a pastoral visit. To welcome the newcomer to our fold.’

  ‘And scared the shit – sorry, the living daylights out of me at the same time.’

  ‘And how long have you been widowed?’ Ruth asked, politely ignoring Helen’s use of the S-word.

  Helen gave a small laugh.

  ‘Oh, he’s very much alive. We are separated and the divorce is going through at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’ Ruth looked at Simon. ‘And where do you stand on the remarriage of divorcées in church, Simon?’

  Simon looked down at his napkin, then at Helen, then at Ruth. ‘I think God teaches us many things, even through the painful process of divorce. Ultimately he wants us to recognise and share love, so I’m all for divorcées remarrying and,’ he looked again at Helen, ‘I’d be happy to remarry them at Holy Trinity.’

  There was a small pause while Ruth pursed her lips, but the bishop rescued Simon.

  ‘Bravo. Well said. We have lost sight of the message of God, which is the simplest but hardest of all: love thy neighbour.’

  But Ruth wouldn’t let go. ‘Indeed! So, Helen, what are your intentions towards our Simon?’

  ‘Well, I …’ Helen felt all the eyes in the room bear down on her.

  ‘That is enough, my dear,’ interrupted the bishop, looking directly at his wife. ‘Tell me, Simon, how’s it going with the TV people in Pendruggan?’

  Helen looked gratefully at the bishop as Simon answered: ‘Helen has helped me no end. If it hadn’t been for her and her friend Penny, we wouldn’t have had any of this excitement.’

  ‘I hope some of those wealthy actors will contribute to the churchyard fund,’ said Ruth.

  ‘If it’s God’s will, then certainly,’ responded the bishop.

  *

  Soon the evening came to a natural end. On the journey home, Simon took Helen’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, Helen.’

  ‘I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. Mrs Bish gave me a few tricky moments, but the Bish himself was terribly sweet.’

  He held her hand just a little bit longer before letting it go and driving home in silence.

  At her front step, Simon took her key and opened the door for her. As she turned to say good night, he put his hands gently on her shoulders and kissed her lips. It was a short, soft, dry kiss, but one that Helen could easily interpret.

  ‘Simon. Please. Don’t.’

  ‘Helen, I have so much to say to you. You were amazing tonight. I have never met anyone as wonderful as you. I want us to share more evenings like this. Dearest Helen, I have grown so fond of you, and that fondness has grown into something much more. Hear me out, I …’

  Helen, whose heart was now beating with shock rather than passion, quickly put her fingers over his lips.

  ‘Simon. Don’t say it. Please don’t. You are my dearest friend. Please say nothing more. You are too important to me to spoil it with … Complications. Go home and let’s be as if this moment didn’t happen. Please.’

  Simon took his hands from her shoulders so fast that she felt he was going to hit her. Then she saw the pain in his eyes. He blinked rapidly and pretended to search his pockets for something while saying, ‘Helen, oh my, ha! What a fool I’ve made of myself. I’m so sorry. It’ll never happen again. Good night. Forget I said anything,’ and he walked back to his car.

  32

  ‘Good old Simon!’ smiled Penny across her desk the next morning when Helen confided in her. ‘He’s grown some balls at last. And you, you heartless wench, have sliced them off again in one fell swoop.’ Penny, dressed in warm clothing from head to toe, hugged her coffee mug in her mittened hands.

  ‘Please don’t take the mickey. Out of him or me. He means so much to me, but … when he kissed me, I just knew it wasn’t right. And if I were ever to have another relationship, it would have to be perfect. No more compromise. It has to be true love, lots of great sex and complete faithfulness.’

  ‘Does that sort of relationship even exist?’ Penny sipped her coffee.

  ‘David Cunningham and his wife Sonia seem OK.’

  ‘Yes, but only because he’s sown every wild oat he has and his cocaine habit has rendered him impotent. Sonia had been his make-up artist and part-time lover for years. She nursed him through all his affairs with the world’s most glamorous leading ladies They never saw her as a threat. More fool them! She was in it for the long game and won. Sonia’s got her head screwed on. She’s got him on a very loose chain and he doesn’t feel the need to yank it.’

  ‘I was the same with Gray, but it didn’t work.’

  ‘He was hardly impotent and you were just stupid.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me!’ Helen wrapped her thin scarf a little tighter over her chin. ‘I haven’t heard from him since the Christmas
blip.’

  ‘What Christmas blip?’

  Helen scrunched her face up in shame. ‘I didn’t tell you, but I had a little accident with Gray …’

  *

  When Helen had finished telling Penny the sorry tale, Penny got up and put her arms round her friend. ‘You silly woman.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what Piran said too.’

  ‘You told him but not me! Charming. How come he got to hear it?’

  Penny sat silently listening to how Piran had attempted to comfort Helen on the beach. Finally she said,

  I think this is a conversation we need to have over a bottle of wine. I think he could be bonkers about you … or just plain bonkers. And what the hell is he doing with Dullard Dawn? Bloody men, eh? Let’s make time in the next few days for a long supper and a good chinwag. But now, my friend, we have work to do.’

  *

  The weather forecast for the next three days was dry and bright, but still cold. Sven had decided that they should crack on with as many exterior shots as possible while they had the sunny light. All the crew were wearing thick outerwear and, Helen felt sure, thermal underwear too. She made a note to self: Must get down to M&S for some warm socks and vests.

  Pendruggan Farmhouse was now transformed into the exterior of Trimsome Manor. Artificial wisteria hung in heavy clusters from the eves and window frames, stained-glass sides made from Perspex adorned the grand porch and the garden frothed with fake cow parsley and bluebells. An old ladder was resting on an upstairs sash windowsill. A props man was leaning out of the window and making sure the ladder was firmly secured. Huge lights were set up in the garden, bathing it in the sunny glow of a May day, rather than the keen nip of a February one. As Helen watched, men with thick gloves were hiding the black power cables and electric junction boxes under yards of astro turf.

  She felt a shadow on her back and a familiar voice said, ‘Hello, Heather. Got your eye on the muscle, have you?’

  Helen didn’t need to turn round to know who it was.

  ‘Oh, hello, Dawn. My name is Helen and I am admiring the excellent work of true professionals – actually.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Dawn was looking immaculate, if not ridiculous, in a snow-white ski jacket with a fur trim round the hood, yeti boots and large sunglasses on her head. ‘Have you spotted Piran with your beady little eyes?’

  ‘My beady little eyes haven’t been looking for him.’

  ‘Good. He’s here somewhere, getting ready to play a fisherman bringing his catch into the village shop or something. Perfect casting. He’s going to look even more handsome than usual. I might ask him to bring the costume home – we could play pirates and wenches together. Ha ha ha.’

  Dawn’s studied, tinkling laugh made Helen want to grab her by the throat and bash her perfect teeth out on the granite surround of the village pump. Instead, she said, ‘What a vulgar idea.’ And went off, ostensibly in search of someone, but really just to get away from bloody Dawn.

  It was sod’s law that the first person she bumped into as she rounded the corner to the crew village was Piran, stepping out of the wardrobe truck fully kitted out in his fisherman’s garb.

  He had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

  Helen said, ‘Well! Hello, sailor!’

  ‘Hello, Helen.’ He looked around him to see if anyone could hear, then said, ‘How are you? Feeling better than when we last talked?’

  ‘What? Oh, that.’ She tried a tinkling laugh of her own. ‘I was making a mountain out a molehill. All sorted … water under the bridge and all that.’

  ‘It didn’t look that way to me. I’ve been thinking about you.’

  She looked up into his ocean eyes. ‘Have you?’

  Their eyes locked for a moment, but then Helen was brought back to earth when she heard the grating voice of Dawn break in.

  ‘Piran! There you are. And Helen! I was just saying how I’m going to persuade you to bring your sexy costume home to play.’ Dawn pushed her hand through Piran’s arm and attached herself like a barnacle.

  Piran looked uncomfortably down at his old fisherman’s smock, moleskin breeks and oilskin boots. ‘I feel a right chump in this get-up, but I promised Queenie I’d do my bit.’

  Gilly, armed with a megaphone, stepped out of the make-up truck behind them. ‘Where are all the other extras?’

  ‘There are a few still getting changed in the wardrobe lorry.’

  ‘Right, I’ll gather them up.’ Putting the megaphone to her lips, she boomed, ‘Listen up, everybody. Would all SA’s still in the truck please go and stand on the village green in one large group. From there we can place you in the set and show you what you need to do. Understood?’ A vague murmur came from the lorry. ‘I said UNDERSTOOD?’ ‘Yes,’ came a slightly louder reply. ‘Good. Off you go then. You’re all going to be movie stars. Chop chop.’

  Piran untangled Dawn’s arm from his.

  ‘Good luck, darling. Dawnie’s watching!’ She attempted to plant a kiss on his retreating face.

  After two paces, he turned and said, ‘Helen, I’ll catch you later.’

  Dawn’s face was inscrutable then, her voice dripping with malice, she said, ‘Oh yes, he told me you’d had a bit of a breakdown at Christmas. He’s so good with lame ducks. I adore that man. He’s Heathcliff, Rhett Butler and Marco Pierre White all rolled into one, isn’t he?’

  But Helen didn’t stop to listen. She had already made her escape.

  *

  The rest of the day was enormous fun for Helen as she watched Dahlia on manoeuvres. Piran had done his bit for the day and had changed back into his levi’s and guernsey sweater, plus warm boots and jacket, but he was still hanging about chatting to the riggers. Little Jack was sniffing around their heels. Dahlia, by extraordinary coincidence, made sure her personalised canvas director’s chair was within tickling distance of Jack.

  ‘Hey, little doggie. Who do you belong to, sweetie?’ Jack wandered towards her and sniffed her hand. She tickled his ears and he let rip a poisonous fart before returning to an oblivious Piran.

  ‘We’re going for a take,’ called Gilly. ‘Dahlia, David, we’re just on final checks in the garden scene, then we’ll go. OK?’

  Putting down his Times crossword and surreptitiously wiping his runny nose with his thermal gloves, David got down from his chair and called affectionately to Dahlia, ‘Come on, you silly cow. I want to be back in time for The Apprentice.’

  ‘David, darling, how I love it when you talk dirty.’

  As she hopped off her chair, Dahlia managed to elegantly trip over the cashmere rug that she’d wrapped round her knees, going over on one ankle and slipping to the ground.

  Jack’s bark of surprise alerted Piran.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, be careful!’

  Piran strode over to her and helped her back up into her chair.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’

  Dahlia gave him a powerful, liquid look. ‘Silly me. It’s fine, I’m sure. Let me just try it.’ She got down from the stool once more and tried her weight on the ankle, immediately falling on to Piran’s shoulder. ‘Oh dear, I don’t think I can put any weight on it. Maybe you could just walk me into the farmhouse and through to the back garden?’

  Helen watched as David Cunningham nudged one of the crew, and she overheard him say, ‘Aye aye, Mata Hari’s working her charm!’ Both the men and Helen watched as Dahlia did a lot of wilting on Piran’s shoulder as he half carried her to the farmhouse.

  Dawn was sitting a little way off on a three-legged canvas camping stool and her eyes took in every movement the pair made. As soon as they went into the farmhouse and out of sight, Dawn was off her perch and hurrying in pursuit. Just as she got to the front door, Gilly came out and stopped her.

  ‘Sorry. I can’t allow unauthorised people into the house. It is a film set and access is restricted.’

  ‘But my fiancée is a performer.’ When Gilly looked questioningly at her, Dawn continued, ‘He’s just helped M
iss Dahling in. After she hurt her ankle?’

  ‘No doubt he’ll be out in a moment. Now, if you wouldn’t mind waiting somewhere else, thank you.’ Gilly began steering Dawn out of harm’s way as two scene hands came in loaded with heavy equipment, ‘Mind your backs, please,’ Gilly said. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to get out of the way, we need to leave this entrance clear.’

  Looking peeved, Dawn walked back to her stool, picked it up and marched off to Piran’s battered truck.

  Helen, observing all this from about twenty yards away, was highly amused. Poor old Dawn, poor old Dahlia and definitely poor old Piran.

  *

  Helen saw very little of the rest of the day’s filming as she had a load of emails and calls to catch up on for Penny, but at six o’clock she heard the end-of-day broadcast from Gilly’s megaphone:

  ‘Listen up, everybody. That was another great day. Sven wants me to thank all the SA’s who have worked so tirelessly and have been absolute troopers. Thank you so much.’ There were loud cheers and applause. ‘Even though you have eaten the chuck wagon empty!’ More cheers and catcalls.

  ‘Now some important notices. Our wonderful star, Mr David Cunningham, or Mr Tibbs as we know him better, has a birthday next Tuesday, and he wants me to let you know that you are all invited to a party he is throwing at the Starfish. Sadly, we cannot extend the invitation to partners unless they are involved in the shoot. Bring your swimming costumes as we have exclusive use of the roof terrace hot tub.’ More whistling and applause.

  ‘On the door of my van, you will find a piece of paper headed DAVID’S PARTY. Please put your name on it by the end of tomorrow, so we have an idea of numbers. Now go get some sleep, and we’ll see you tomorrow.’

  33

  The following morning, sitting in her empty production office with a fan heater blowing on her chilled ankles, Helen was thinking about phoning Simon. She had avoided the inevitable, awkward conversation for the last twenty-four hours, hoping that maybe he would break the ice first. After all, she told herself, he was the one who had spoilt things with that clumsy declaration. On the other hand, she felt desperate that she had hurt his feelings or led him on in some way. She took a deep breath and rehearsed the conversation in her mind.