by Fern Britton
Waiting those final few minutes for the programme to start seemed endless. At last the James Bond credits rolled and as a commercial break began, the beer tent had one last anxious push to get everyone served before the continuity announcer spoke: ‘And now on TV7 the epitome of the amateur English detective – it’s Mr Tibbs and the Hidden Treasure!’
The theme music started and as shots of Pendruggan and Trevay appeared on the screen, the crowd started to whistle and cheer. Just as quickly there fell a hush, as the story unfolded and shots of their friends or themselves came up on the enormous screen. Tony’s scene stole the show, naturally, and was met with a lot of ‘aaah’s and one shout of ‘Well done, Tony’ from the back. But it was the central roles of Mr Tibbs and Nancy Trumpet that kept the audience spellbound. Their relationship on screen was tangible and sincere. The banter, the flirting and the razor-sharpness of their brains guaranteed the show would be a success. As the final scene faded away, the audience applause must have been heard in Truro.
Dahlia, David and Mavis were swamped by local journalists, all wanting instant quotes and photos, while a TV crew was filming the carnival atmosphere.
Penny stood back, unrecognised, Helen by her side. ‘Well done, Pen. You did it.’
‘It’s gone well,’ said Penny, ‘but remember, this is a friendly crowd. What did those who were watching in the middle of cities or way up north think of it? We might not be relevant to them.’
‘How will you know?’
‘We’ll get an early indication tomorrow from the overnight figures. They’ll tell us how many people watched and, more importantly, what share of the audience we got. The BBC are very strong tonight with their new drama. But they didn’t have a big name for it, whereas we had the double Ds! David and Dahlia.’
‘Will you let me know as soon as you find out?’
‘Yes, I’ll walk over in the morning.’
‘From the Starfish?’
Penny looked a bit sheepish. ‘From Simon’s.’
‘Oh my God! You mean, you and—’
‘Keep your voice down!’
Helen whispered, ‘You mean, you and Simon are spending the night together … properly?’
‘Yep.’
‘Wowzer!’
*
The next morning, Helen left Piran sleeping. They had spent a glorious night talking, kissing, making love and talking again. She nipped over to Queenie’s to get the papers and search for reviews.
‘The bloke on the breakfast news said it was a classic of its kind,’ said Queenie. ‘And that Mavis Crewe books were gonna fly off the shelves. Good, innit?’
‘Brilliant! I’ll have all these papers and a pint of milk, please.’
Helen paid Queenie and sped back to Gull’s Cry. Piran was in the kitchen wearing her pink cotton dressing gown and making a pot of coffee.
‘Anything in the papers?’
They both sat down and searched. They found three reviews and read extracts to each other.
‘“Move over Miss Marple, Mr Tibbs is in town.” That’s the Express.’
‘The Observer says: “David Cunningham brings his big-screen charm and sexiness to a small-screen role that will surely bankroll the rest of his career.”’
‘And the bloke in the People says, “Dahlia Dahling is astonishingly good as the sexy, feisty, warm and funny Nancy Trumpet. The only question is, will old Tibbs let his Trumpet get the better of him?”’
Helen was thrilled. ‘Golly! Penny’s got a hit on her hands. I can’t wait to hear what the viewing figures are.’
An hour later and a jubilant Penny ran in to Helen’s kitchen. ‘Get the champagne out! We beat the BBC! We beat everything! We won the slot with the largest share of the audience and almost nine million viewers. I can hardly breathe. Quick, alcohol, alcohol!’
Helen was at the fridge, which was not yielding champagne. ‘Rosé any good?’ She brandished a half-empty bottle.
‘Anything! I can’t wait to tell Simon. He’s in church for another twenty minutes. There really is a God!’ She grabbed the glass of rosé and took a slug. ‘Thanks, darling. Got to go. Waiting for Simon and a call from Jack Bradbury, TV7’s Director of Programmes. Said he’d call before lunch. See you later.’ Draining her glass and plonking it on the table, she ran back over to the vicarage.
Helen and Piran, still wearing Helen’s dressing gown, stood looking after her and then burst out laughing.
‘She’s a live wire, that one,’ laughed Piran. ‘Is she always like that?’
‘Yep. You should see her when she’s really excited.’
It wasn’t too long before Piran did see Penny really excited. Again she threw herself into the kitchen, this time accompanied by a beaming Simon.
‘They want a series! They want all the Mr Tibbs books – and there are eighteen! Over the next six years! And all to be made here in Pendruggan!’ She stopped, looking worried. ‘If they’ll have us. Have we pissed many people off? Could the locals put up with the intrusion? What about the local council? Will they give me permission again? Oh my God.’ She dropped into Helen’s rocking chair and put her head in her hands. ‘Will Dahlia and David want to renew their contracts? Will I manage the travelling …’
‘Will you marry me?’ Simon spoke so clearly that they all turned to look at him.
‘What?’ asked a stunned Penny.
‘Will you marry me? You could live here and not have to travel. You could have your office here. Bring the whole business down?’
Penny continued to look at him. She frowned, she blinked, she put her hand to her mouth and then she replied:
‘Yes, Simon. Yes, please.’
*
When Helen and Piran finally got to bed after a long celebratory lunch at the Dolphin with too much champagne, Helen fell into a restless sleep.
A woman with old-fashioned clothes and a silver-haired bun came to her in a dream. She told Helen that she was Violet Wingham. She thanked her for finding Falcon, ‘My favourite cat.’ And asked her to bring her family together again. ‘It’s time we were all together after such a long time.’ Then Helen found herself on board a large ship, but she felt cold and when she looked down her feet were in the sea. A little boy was trying to swim to the surface. She put her hands in to pull him out, but she couldn’t reach him as he sank out of reach and finally out of sight.
*
Piran switched the light on, ‘What is it? Wake up, it’s a dream.’
Helen opened her eyes and adjusted to the present, then cuddled close to Piran, trembling.
‘What’s happened, my love? A nightmare?’ he asked.
‘It was something that Polly said to me at the carnival.’ Helen told Piran the story, watching to see if he’d laugh at her. He didn’t.
‘When Jenna died, little odd things round the house happened. I remember I couldn’t find my passport. I was angry at Jenna because she was always damn well tidying up. I shouted out her name in the house. Angry she’d left me and missing her so much it hurt. Anyway, the next day, there was my passport, on the toaster. I’m sure it hadn’t been there before, but …’
‘I don’t want to lose you.’
‘You’re not going to.’
‘How do you really feel about me?’
‘You must know by now, Helen.’
‘Please say the words.’
‘You first.’
‘I love you, Piran Ambrose.’
‘Good. I love you, Helen Merrifield. Now let’s get back to sleep.’
52
It was about a week later that Simon phoned Piran and asked him and Helen over for an important meeting that evening, at the vicarage, six o’clock.
Early summer was now in full swing in Pendruggan. The wisteria hung heavily from the dark eaves of the vicarage, its deep scent nudged through the open windows by a delicate, warm breeze. The house martins and the swallows were chattering above, then swooping low over the lawn and catching insects on the wing.
As Helen a
nd Piran stepped over the threshold and into the hall, signs that a woman was once again in charge of the house were subtle but clear to Helen’s eyes. Gone was the smell of musty books, replaced with the freshness of new paint. The walls were light and creamy, the flagstone floors polished, the large drawing room had two new squishy café au lait sofas and a large rug in a contemporary pattern woven in turquoise, lapis and coral. The ancient kitchen had been replaced with washed driftwood cupboards, a deep butler’s sink and neon-pink Aga, a large scrubbed pine kitchen table with mismatched, cushioned chairs round it. It was Penny. It even smelt like Penny. The only things she hadn’t touched were Simon’s office and Simon himself.
‘I love them just as they are,’ she had told Helen.
Now she was coming towards Helen in bare feet, denim shorts and her hair clipped on top of her head, and not a scrap of make-up.
‘Darlings!’ she said, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘Something amazing has happened. Come through.’
They walked into the revamped drawing room. The bishop was settled on the sofa with a glass of sherry, but stood up and gave Helen a welcome hug and Piran a warm handshake.
Simon poured a sherry for everybody and then said, ‘This morning the bishop phoned with some interesting information …’ He stopped and looked at his audience.
‘Come on, man. Spit it out,’ said Piran.
‘Sorry, yes. Miss Violet Wingham’s solicitors have been searching for any living claimants to her estate and have found none. Therefore, and this is the exciting bit …’
‘Oh, it is, it is!’ said Penny, jiggling her toes on the rug.
‘Miss Wingham instructed the lawyers that, on finding no living claimants, they should give her entire estate to … Holy Trinity church!’
Helen’s mouth fell open. ‘You mean, the church inherits her money?’
‘Yes. And, it turns out that Miss Wingham never spent any of the money that her aunt got for her as compensation from the White Star line when the Titanic was lost. She invested it – wisely, as it happens – and that, plus the sale price of Gull’s Cry, brings the total to almost a quarter of a million pounds.’
Piran stood up. ‘To use for the churchyard restoration?’
‘Yes,’ said Simon, shaking Piran’s hand. ‘And we might have a little left over, after the success of the carnival.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ beamed Penny.
‘God moves in mysterious ways,’ added the bishop.
Helen spoke: ‘I have had an idea and I’d like to run it past you all …’
Epilogue
On a sunny day in July the entire village gathered in the churchyard, the better to see the ceremony. The bishop, Piran and Simon stood next to the simple rough-hewn granite cross. The bishop raised his voice to quieten the crowd and when he had their attention said, ‘Welcome to the newly restored churchyard of Holy Trinity. May it be a place of joy and healing to all who visit here.’ Then he took the first of two beautiful wooden boxes from Simon and placed it into the freshly dug earth. When he had done the same with the second box, Piran scattered violet flowers over it and then gave the bishop a smaller urn, which he blessed quietly and placed next to the larger box.
Queenie nudged Tony. ‘Where’s Helen and Penny?’
Tony shrugged.
‘Let this be the last resting place of Miss Violet Wingham, a survivor of the Titanic sinking, and her parents Henry and Bluebell Wingham, who lost their lives. Next to them lies Violet’s faithful feline companion, Falcon. Named after her older brother, who perished before she could know him. His resting place is known only to God. Let us pray …’
When the service was complete, the bishop called to the crowd again. ‘Before you leave here, Simon Canter has asked me to invite you all inside the church for a joyful surprise.’
Intrigued, everyone filed in to find the church full of gardenias and Miss Audrey Tipton beaming with pride at her work. Every seat was taken by the time the old organ wheezed into life playing the Wedding March. There were some mystified glances until, turning round, they saw Penny dressed in a simple cream wedding dress, followed by her maid of honour, Helen.
As one, the congregation turned to the altar to see the groom – Simon, standing looking in wonder at his bride walking towards him – with Piran at his side as best man.
Never had Holy Trinity seen a more joyful wedding. No one would sit down, everyone was singing, clapping, laughing and finally spilling back out into the sunshine of the churchyard.
Simon and Penny kissed deeply at the doorway. Queenie’s voice rang out, ‘Ain’t you going to chuck your bouquet, Penny?’ Letting go of Simon, Penny turned her back and threw it. Helen tried not to catch it, but it landed on her anyway.
She looked quickly at Piran and mouthed, ‘What shall I do?’
Piran took the posy from her and, reaching for her hand led her over to the new memorial stone to Violet and her family. The inscription read:
In memory of all those lost who sailed on the Titanic
15 April 1912 including friends of this parish
Violet Wingham 1911–2008
Her father Henry Wingham 1880–1912
Her mother Bluebell Wingham 1884–1912
and her brother Falcon Wingham 1907–1912
Lost at sea but not forgotten.
And below, in smaller, letters:
Also ‘Falcon’ the cat, a faithful companion.
*
Piran and Helen gently laid the flowers on the fresh mound of soil.
Helen sent a silent thank-you to Violet and was then engulfed by handfuls of confetti clinging on the wind from Simon and Penny’s photographs.
She took Piran’s hand. ‘Come on. You and I have a lot of life ahead of us. Let’s live it!’ And they ran to join the crowd.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank all those patient people who nurtured me and the book to fruition. Kate Bradley, my gentle editor, for staying calm and sending me sweets in the post. Lynne Drew at HarperCollins for having faith in me. My agents, Luigi Bonomi and John Rush, who hold my hand and keep me steady when I wobble. Gorgeous surf genius Windy, who really does have the ocean in his eyes. My Mum, who is always the first reader. Karen who keeps the children fed and watered while I’m upstairs typing; Carole who vacuums as quietly as she can outside my office and Bob and Orca whose little pussycat feet have often deleted vital paragraphs.
Finally to Phil, Jack, Harry, Grace and Winnie, whom I couldn’t function without.
By the same author
Fern: My Story
New Beginnings
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012
Copyright © Fern Britton 2012
Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Source ISBN: 9780007362714
Ebook Edition © March 2012 ISBN: 9780007419418
Version 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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