Hidden Treasures

by Fern Britton

  ‘About midday? We can have some lunch on the way.’

  ‘Whereabouts do you live, Dahlia?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Virginia Water. I have a bijou cottage on the Thames. Very pretty. You must drop in when you come up to town to see Penny.’

  ‘That might not be for a while,’ said Simon.

  Penny picked up quickly, ‘Well, you see I am going to be working twenty-four-seven editing the tape into a full ninety-minute programme for viewing by the TV7 lot. Then there’ll be extra post-production work and I just won’t have the time to see Simon … or anyone.’

  Everybody looked at Simon, who smiled back as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but whose heart was clearly breaking. ‘She’s a busy woman. She’ll forget all about us.’

  ‘No I won’t.’ Penny took Simon’s hand. ‘And I will be back for the night of the premiere. By the way, Dahlia, it was very generous of you and David to hire a big screen so everyone can watch it on the village green.’

  Dahlia bowed her head graciously. ‘The least we could do. And I promise I shall drag David’s skinny arse down here for the whole weekend. We’ll definitely make the Pendruggan carnival too.’

  ‘Oh, that’s splendid,’ said Simon. ‘I was wondering if I could call on you to judge the entrants in the home produce tent and the horticultural tent?’

  ‘I’d be upset if I wasn’t asked! Happy to do that, Simon.’ Dahlia got to her feet and pulled Gray up on to his. ‘Come on, tiger. I’d better drive you back.’

  Penny and Simon got their things together too and at the front door they all said their fond goodbyes. Gray, slightly swaying, told Piran, ‘You just bloody well look after her, that’s all. She’s one of life’s treasures and I threw her away.’

  Piran slapped Gray on the back. ‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t fall in with any bad ’uns.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. I love you, Helen.’ Gray gave her a sloppy kiss.

  ‘That’s it.’ Dahlia took his arm. ‘Home, boy, before you tell the whole village you love them.’

  ‘But I do. I love this place. And I love you too, Dahlia, you sexy top bird.’ Again Gray swayed on his feet; the act of standing up in fresh air had definitely gone to his head.

  ‘Bye, everybody. Bye.’ Dahlia helped him down the path.

  Helen kissed Simon and Penny. ‘Look after Simon for me, won’t you, Helen?’

  ‘You bet. We’ll be here waiting for you when you return.’

  Helen stood watching Simon and Penny as they walked down the path and to Penny’s car. Until Chloe whispered to her, ‘Close the door, Mum. They don’t want you watching them say their goodbyes.’

  ‘Oh, yes, right. Of course.’

  She closed the door and looked at Piran, longing to take him upstairs and sleep in his arms, but knowing he wouldn’t with Chloe there.

  ‘I’d best be off too. Thank you, Chloe, for great grub,’ he said.

  Chloe replied, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Stay here with Mum. I’m going over to Mack’s, so see you in the morning.’

  45

  Within four days the village had once again become Pendruggan. St Brewey had gone, leaving only yellowing patches of grass where the crew village had been, and a few deep wheel ruts on the green.

  Life returned to its former rhythm.

  The weather was turning warm now and Simon took Helen for surf lessons as often as he could.

  After one particularly good lesson they sat on the beach in their wetsuits, using Mack’s old board as a seat.

  ‘Are you ready for a pasty?’ Helen rootled about in her bag for the two pasties Queenie had given her earlier. Simon nodded, but when she passed it to him he left it by his side.

  After a couple of minutes of silent chomping from Helen, she asked, ‘What’s wrong, Simon?’

  He laughed quietly. ‘You know me too well.’

  ‘When did you last hear from Penny?’

  ‘The end of last week. She’s full on working with her editor and I think she doesn’t notice the days slipping past.’

  ‘As you do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If there’s one thing I know about Penny, it’s that she is loyal. If she says she’s working, she’s working.’

  Simon’s face was suddenly full of pain. ‘Supposing she meets someone else? Supposing she realises that I’m just not right for her?’

  ‘Now you’re torturing yourself. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

  ‘What about “out of sight, out of mind”?’

  ‘Simon! Stop! Do you want me to have a word with her?’

  He turned, panic in his eyes. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ve been giving her her space and purposely not hassling her.’

  ‘Ah, so she might think you have changed your mind?’

  ‘I haven’t!’

  ‘No, I know that, but … Look, you are a little behind in the relationship studies. At your ages, you don’t have time for mind games. Ring her up and bloody well tell her how you feel. If you get the answerphone, don’t hang up. Leave a short, sincere message. She’ll love it. Trust me.’

  ‘OK, Helen, I trust your advice.’ He picked up his pasty and began to eat.

  46

  Now that shooting was over, Helen and Piran had found time to pick up their research into the old tin box and the mystery of Violet Wingham’s family. Over coffee and a couple of Queenie’s latest apple pies, the two of them were trawling online to see what else they could learn about the events of the night of the fifteenth of April 1912.

  Helen’s five-year-old laptop was sitting on the kitchen table, Piran tapping away, his half-moon reading glasses on the end of his nose.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, moving a little to allow Helen to look over his shoulder and see a list of websites devoted to the sinking of Royal Mail steamer.

  He clicked on a reputable-looking site and went into the page titled ‘Victims’. Finally he tapped in Wingham.

  ‘Look – Doctor Henry Arthur Wingham, born 1880 Somerset, travelling second class with Bluebell Grace Wingham, born 1884 Cornwall, and their two children, Violet Teresa born 1911 and Falcon Henry born 1907. Ticket cost thirty-nine pounds.’

  ‘What’s that equivalent to today?’ asked Helen.

  ‘I don’t know – a lot. Maybe three thousand pounds?’

  He clicked on Henry’s name which had the word BIOG attached to it.

  ‘Doctor Wingham, his wife and son all perished. Doctor and Mrs Wingham’s bodies being recovered by rescue ship Mackay-Bennett and taken to Halifax, Nova Scotia. Their ashes were returned to England. Resting place unknown. Their daughter Violet was given into the care of an unknown woman in lifeboat eleven by Mrs Wingham. Eyewitness accounts suggest Mrs Wingham did not get into the lifeboat but went back to find her son, Falcon. The lifeboat was lowered before she returned. Falcon’s body was never recovered. Baby Violet, however, was collected by the Carpathia and arrived in New York City on the eighteenth of April 1912. She was cared for in Bellevue Hospital, Kips Bay, Manhattan. The same hospital where her father was to have taken up his new position as general surgeon. She was later returned to care in England.’

  ‘My God.’ Helen sat down and with her elbows on the table put her head in her hands. ‘How many people were there on board?’

  He read again: ‘It is estimated there were 2,218 people on board, 337 first class, 285 second class, 712 third class and 885 crew. Only 705 survived with 1,514 dying, but numbers are hard to confirm.’

  Helen went to the fridge and brought out a bottle of wine. Pouring it into two glasses, she looked at the Peek Frean’s tin, on which ‘Falcon’ was written on a faded and yellowing sticky label. ‘How did Falcon get into the tin?’

  ‘Supposing it is Falcon.’

  ‘How do we find out?’

  ‘I’ll talk to the coroner. He knows the forensic people. I’m sure they’ll tell us.’

  *

  The fol
lowing evening, Helen went round to see Simon.

  ‘Hello, Helen. Come in, come in.’ Simon opened the vicarage door wide, gesturing for Helen to go into the drawing room, where the six o’clock news was on the radio. He turned the sound down.

  ‘Take a seat. So, what did Piran find out about the tin box?’

  When Helen had told him as much as she could, he sat forward, blinking his big chocolate eyes through his new specs.

  ‘Good Lord! What a story! What happens next?’

  ‘We’re going to see if the ashes labelled Falcon can be identified as human first. But I am hoping you may be able to help us in tracing the people who looked after Violet when she came home as a baby.’

  ‘I’ll ask the bishop. Remember I told you he’s the one Miss Wingham’s solicitors have been dealing with?’

  ‘Simon, call the bishop immediately!’

  Simon thumped his knees with his palms. ‘Quite right! Let’s get this sorted.’

  A few minutes later, he put the receiver down, looking disappointed. ‘I’d forgotten – he’s gone to see a mission in Ethiopia. He’s not back for a month.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Quite.’ He looked at her. ‘How about I have a look in the church register? That may turn something up.’

  Unlocking the large and ancient safe, Simon bent down and riffled through half a dozen old ledgers. ‘Let’s start here. Parish records 1880 to 1920.’

  It took a while to get used to the fine copperplate handwriting, but once their eyes had attuned to it they began to decipher the entries more clearly.

  ‘Here. Fifteenth July 1912, baptism of Violet Teresa Wingham. Daughter of the late Henry and Bluebell Wingham. There are two signatures as well: Mr Charles and Mrs Amy Frank, of Pendruggan Farm.’

  Helen jumped on the spot with excitement. ‘So she was brought to Pendruggan and cared for by the family in the farm across from Gull’s Cry!’ She hugged Simon round the neck. ‘This is so exciting!’ She let go of him. ‘Can I use your computer?’

  ‘Be my guest. It’s in the study.’

  It took only a couple of minutes for Helen to get into the census for 1911. ‘It’s the nearest to 1912. Fingers crossed.’

  Typing in Charles and Amy Frank’s names and the farm address, she only had to wait a few moments before an ancient copy of their census entry appeared on screen.

  ‘Charles Frank, farm manager, Amy Frank née Wingham, servant. Childless. It fits! So, Charles and Amy were working for the farmer and his wife. Amy must have been Henry’s sister. Blimey, Henry did well to become a doctor, didn’t he? So when Henry died, Amy and Charles looked after Violet. I must tell Piran.’

  *

  ‘Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. We have to check and double check,’ said Piran, when she spoke to him later back at her house.

  ‘Yes, but they were the ones who had Violet baptised in 1912. As soon as she’d been brought back from America.’

  ‘It does all look as if it fits, but we just need a bit more.’

  ‘But where from?’

  Piran tapped the side of his nose. ‘Local knowledge.’ He picked up his keys and walked to the front door. ‘Back later.’

  An hour later he returned, this time with Queenie. Helen was in the kitchen boiling eggs for a salad Niçoise for Chloe’s supper. She looked round.

  ‘Hello, Queenie. This is a nice surprise.’

  Piran held a chair out for Queenie. ‘She is the invaluable local knowledge I was looking for.’

  Queenie sat down and lit a roll-up that she’d dug from inside her coat pocket.

  Piran said to Helen, ‘Now don’t go getting a big head, but it looks like you’re right.’ Helen couldn’t hide her smug smile. ‘Charles and Amy Frank did look after Violet until she was nineteen, when she bought this house.’

  ‘Ha ha! Didn’t I tell you!’ Helen did a little jig, running on the spot laughing.

  ‘What’s going on?’ came Chloe’s voice from the sitting room where she was watching TV.

  ‘Come in and listen.’

  The two women sat in rapt attention as Piran continued:

  ‘Queenie had the key to it all the time, but she just didn’t realise it. Go on, Queenie. Tell them.’

  Delighted to be in the spotlight, Queenie began:

  ‘When I was evacuated from London in 1940, I was only ten. My Cornish family were all right. Hardworking, decent types. He was a farmhand, working with Charles, and she was a dairy maid. Making all the butter and cream. It’s ’ow I learnt to cook me pasties from ’er, you know.’

  They all nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Anyways, they was all friends together, my Cornish Ma and Da – that’s what I called ’em, see – and Charles and Amy Franks. On occasion they might go out for the night, down Trevay or summink. That’s when Violet would babysit me, right ’ere in Gull’s Cry.’

  Helen and Chloe looked at their surroundings, picturing the house as it must have been.

  ‘Course, it weren’t like you’ve got it now, ’elen. It were a dirt floor and an old range in ’ere, and ’er lovely cat – ever so fond of him, she was, what was ’is name …’

  ‘Falcon?’ asked Helen, making Chloe jump.

  ‘Yes! That’s ’im. ’Owd you know?’

  ‘Tell you in a minute. Carry on.’

  ‘Falcon. That’s it. Named after ’er brother what died. I said to ’er, what kind of a name’s that? She said, “That is a fine name. It was what Captain Scott of the Antarctic was called.”’

  Queenie looked at her audience, ‘Come to think of it, ’e died an’ all, didn’t ’e?’

  ‘Yes. Did she tell you how her brother Falcon died?’

  ‘No. She was a closed book when it came to ’er family. I ’eard, from listening at doors as youngsters do, that she survived the Titanic sinking, but she would never say a word. About twenty years ago, a newspaper fella came lookin for her ’cos they’d found the wreck of the Titanic an’ ’e wanted stories from survivors, but she wouldn’t open ’er door to him. Oh no.’

  Helen pushed a saucer towards Queenie to catch the ash about to spill from the roll-up.

  ‘Violet was very fond of her cat though. ’E loved sitting in ’ere by the range. She loved all ’er cats, but ’e was first so ’e was special. Anyway, I did ’ear Ma and Da talking once, about Violet’s dad.’

  ‘Yes?’ Helen and Chloe visibly leant in to hear more. Piran was resting against the Aga.

  ‘’E done very well for himself and was a doctor. Qualified in London. ’E was taking the family to New York so ’e could work in one of those smart new hospitals they had over there. But …’ She shrugged her shoulders and coughed. ‘They never made it. Still, the Franks were canny like and, being the only relative, Amy got compensation or insurance or summink from the White Star line. It was a lot. As I remember, about a thousand pounds! I think they gave it to Violet so she could buy this cottage, and have a few bob in the bank. Put the kettle on, Chloe, there’s a good girl.’

  Queenie had finished her story and was leaning back in satisfaction at the look of stunned amazement on the faces of Helen and Chloe.

  ‘What a story,’ said Helen. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before, Queenie?’

  ‘You know me, I’m not one to gossip. And anyway,’ she sniffed, ‘you never asked.’

  She stubbed her skinny cigarette out on the saucer. ‘Now tell me ’ow you know about the cat called Falcon?’

  ‘Have a look at this.’ Penny pushed the Peek Frean’s tin towards Queenie, who read the label, picked the tin up and shook it. ‘Oh my good gawd. You don’t think this is the cat, do you?’

  ‘We were wondering whether it might be Falcon the brother.’

  Queenie put the tin down quickly. ‘Bleedin ’ell, I ’ope not!’

  *

  The four of them shared the salad Niçoise, Queenie not enjoying it much but perking up when Helen poured a glass of sherry for her. By 10 p.m. they were all tired and Piran offered to walk
Queenie home.

  He stooped to kiss Helen and Chloe. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow some time.’

  Helen kissed him back and was surprised at how relaxed she felt about him not staying the night. She was almost looking forward to having the bed to herself.

  But Chloe soon put the kibosh on that. ‘Just you and me tonight then, Mum.’

  47

  Piran had put a call in to his coroner friend, but he was away with his children for the spring school holiday, so they came to a halt with the ashes mystery for a couple of weeks.

  But there was still a lot for Helen to think about. The village carnival was only eight weeks away and Tony and she were busy bringing on the early sweet peas and staking the delphiniums. These were the two flowers that Tony thought Helen would have the best chance of winning a prize for. Helen’s mint bed was at its best now too, so she dug out an old handwritten recipe for mint jelly and went to work on boiling and bottling it.

  ‘That’ll sell well, Mrs M. We should put it on the farm shop stall, to go with the new lamb.’

  ‘Good idea, Mr B. Would you like a pot?’

  ‘No, thank you. I went before I came.’

  She smiled at him. ‘How about a Ribena then?’

  ‘Yes, ta.’

  *

  Chloe was rarely in these days. And when she was it was to use the shower or the washing machine.

  ‘Mum,’ she said on one of her days at home, ‘Mack and I are booking our tickets to Sri Lanka this afternoon.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘After the carnival.’

  ‘So I’ve got another few weeks of looking at your beach towels and bikinis on the washing line, have I?’

  Chloe gave her mum a friendly shove. ‘Will you miss me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Do you like Mack?’

  ‘Does he make you happy?’

  ‘Yes.’