A Cornish Gift

by Fern Britton

  Neil gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Everything’s fine – just need to run a couple of things by you.’

  Helen left them to it and headed over to the bar. It was busy, but she could see a couple who were just vacating their seats and she popped herself onto one of them as they departed.

  Despite the full bar, she was served immediately by a bright and breezy barman.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Not sure. What’s good today?’

  ‘Depends. What sort of mood you in?’

  ‘Feel like being nice to myself.’

  ‘Then I’ve got the perfect drink for being nice to yourself – the Ambrosia. Champagne, aged cognac and triple sec, plus a few of my secret ingredients. It’s named after the food of the gods – can’t get nicer to yourself than that.’

  ‘Sold!’

  Helen watched as he artfully filled a cocktail shaker with ice before adding the ingredients and shaking them thoroughly. He poured the contents into a highball glass filled with more ice and topped it up with chilled champagne.

  He placed the glass in front of her on a small black napkin. ‘A drink fit for a goddess,’ he said, giving her a cheeky smile.

  ‘I bet you say that to all the goddesses.’ She smiled cheekily back at him.

  The drink certainly tasted like Ambrosia and Helen could feel the last vestiges of her hangover slip away.

  She dug around in her bag and fished out her iPad. Logging into her email account she skimmed through the usual junk until she came to a brand-new photo of her granddaughter, Summer, that had been sent to her from her son, Sean. Summer was sitting in the lap of her mother Terri and was holding the soft grey elephant that Helen had bought her for Christmas. Helen had had a long visit from them in the New Year and now they were visiting Terri’s family up north. Summer looked completely adorable.

  In the email, Sean had written:

  Summer’s favourite toy now, she won’t let it out of her sight. We’re calling it Ellie.

  How sweet, thought Helen.

  Next, she sent Piran an email:

  What you doing? I’m sitting in Pen’s club. Hugh Laurie’s at other end of the bar!

  Helen googled Heals’ website. Assuming the roof ever got fixed, and if there was any money left in her depleted coffers, she resolved to treat herself to a new rug. Maybe they’d find time to pop down there this afternoon; it wasn’t far.

  An email from Piran pinged back at her:

  Who is Hugh Laurie?

  Honestly, thought Helen, you’d have thought he’d been living in a cave for all he knew about popular culture.

  Never mind. How is the Roman Fort?

  Moments later the reply:

  Muddy.

  ‘You’re a mine of information, Piran Ambrose,’ she muttered under her breath.

  It wasn’t long before Penny said goodbye to Neil, who was heading back to the dubbing studio, and joined her friend at the bar.

  ‘All’s well, which is just what I wanted to hear.’

  ‘Fab. I’ve checked with the restaurant and they think they can fit us in in ten minutes.’

  ‘Brilliant. Time for a Bloody Mary, I think.’

  ‘Another Ambrosia for you, Goddess?’ said the cheeky barman.

  ‘I think goddesses should stick to just one at lunchtime, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Actually, make mine a virgin Bloody Mary, will you? I don’t want to push my luck,’ said Penny.

  No sooner were their drinks served than a waiter from the restaurant came to tell them their table was ready.

  Helen was just stooping to collect her bag and coat from her feet when Penny grabbed her arm and hissed urgently, ‘Don’t move! He might not see us.’

  Immediately Helen looked up, her eyes scanning the room. It didn’t take her long to understand why Penny was keen not to be seen. But it was too late – they’d been spotted.

  Coming towards them, wearing an impeccably tailored Savile Row suit and sporting an expensive hair-weave and a smarmy smile, was Quentin Clarkson. Not only was he the Chairman of TV7 – which meant he held the future of Mr Tibbs in his sweaty palms – but he was also Penny’s ex and a grade-A slimeball.

  ‘Penny, my dear!’ he gushed, oozing insincere charm.

  ‘Quentin, how super!’ While Penny’s rictus grin did a good impression of politeness as they air-kissed, her eyes as they met Helen’s told an entirely different story.

  4

  ‘How perfectly marvellous to run into you! I was only saying to Miriam the other day that we really don’t see enough of you.’

  ‘Well, Quentin, I’m permanently based in Cornwall now, so I don’t get up to town much.’

  ‘Ah yes, I heard that you’ve buried yourself in some godforsaken backwater.’

  ‘Hardly – it’s Pendruggan, Quentin.’

  His face was momentarily blank.

  ‘The village where we film the series? Mr Tibbs?’

  The penny dropped and Quentin gave her an unpleasant smile. ‘Oh yes, that’s right. It’s all coming back to me now. Didn’t I hear that you’d gone and married a vicar? Can’t be true? Penny Leighton, the ultimate good-time girl? Oh, it’s too priceless!’

  Penny replied through gritted teeth: ‘It suits me down to the ground. I love being among people who are so sincere. Maybe you should try it sometime?’

  ‘Eh?’ Quentin was silenced for a nanosecond before he recovered and turned his attention to Helen. ‘Well, now, who’s this?’

  He took her hand, unbidden, and proceeded to plant a slimy kiss on it.

  ‘Helen Merrifield. We’ve met before. Years ago …’ She wanted to add, ‘when you had real hair’, but resisted the temptation.

  ‘Did we? I feel sure I’d remember someone as charming as you.’

  ‘Well, you’re pretty unforgettable yourself,’ said Helen, removing her hand; he’d already held onto it far longer than she was comfortable with.

  ‘So tell me,’ he turned his attention back to Penny, ‘what brings you back from the sticks?’

  ‘I’m only here for a couple of days.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Er …’ Penny hesitated. While she was perfectly entitled to a break and her company was independent, she knew that Quentin was likely to be aware of the filming schedule. He wasn’t her paymaster, but she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t putting her back into it.

  ‘Business. Making sure Mr Tibbs is better than ever for TV7.’

  ‘Well, that’s just perfect! Miriam and I are throwing a drinks party tonight – you simply have to come.’

  ‘Well, I, er … not sure …’ Penny caught Helen’s eyes, which were looking at her in alarm.

  ‘Nonsense, I insist! Everyone is coming. Sir Nigel will be there, and Baroness Hardy.’ Penny’s heart was sinking. Sir Nigel Cameron and Baroness Hardy were co-owners of TV7; their good opinion of her and Penny Leighton Productions really mattered. Schmoozing and glad-handing was an integral part of her job. They had just wrapped the latest series of Mr Tibbs and securing a new one was a long way from being a done deal. It wasn’t all about ratings and revenues; the goodwill of the board could spell the difference between a new contract and cancellation. The future of Mr Tibbs and the jobs of the actors and crew were in her hands. The buck stops with me, she thought, resignedly.

  Helen, however had other ideas. ‘She couldn’t possibly, Penny’s taking me out to dinner.’

  Quentin Clarkson wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Then you must come along too – I’m sure I can offer something much more tempting than some boring old dinner.’ He eyed her suggestively.

  ‘Of course we’ll come, Quentin, though we won’t be able to stay too long,’ conceded Penny, avoiding Helen’s furious stare.

  ‘Marvellous! Seven thirty – you know the address.’ And with that he kissed them both with damp lips – Helen squirming as his hand reached behind her and stroked the small of her back – and headed off tow
ards the exit.

  ‘What on earth??’ exclaimed Helen when he was out of earshot. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just thrown away our evening like that?’

  ‘Don’t give me a hard time. I have no choice. Everyone is relying on me to bag another series. They’d be heartbroken if I failed – and I’d be in the shit.’

  Seeing Penny’s glum expression, Helen took pity on her. ‘Told you we should have gone to Pizza Express.’

  Penny linked arms with her friend. ‘Note to self: Do not ignore advice from Helen Merrifield.’

  ‘I still can’t believe he used to be your boyfriend.’

  ‘Boy-fiend, more like!’

  And they enjoyed a snigger as they headed off for lunch.

  *

  Simon was dog-tired. His day had got off to a bad start when he realised that he should have been giving a talk on the meaning of Easter at Trevay Junior School. Unfortunately, the realisation only hit him when he was in the car, heading in the opposite direction to visit a sick parishioner in one of the hamlets beyond Pendruggan. Having shown up late and flustered for both appointments, his day had managed to get even worse when Susie Small, the local yoga teacher, called him to say that the village hall had been broken into. What with calling the police and waiting for the locksmith to arrive, Simon had once again found himself being pulled in different directions.

  It was dusk by the time he made it home to the vicarage. The clouds in the sky were heavy and ominous. More bad weather had been forecast and the thought of yet another spell of torrential rain and gale-force wind only added to his gloomy mood. He hung his coat on the banister and headed to the kitchen. He was starving, but his heart sank as he opened the fridge and eyed its meagre contents. Normally, Penny would have driven to the shops in Trevay to pick something up or, as it was a Friday night, they might have headed out for a curry. Simon felt a pang. Penny would have known exactly what to say to ease his troubles and take his mind off things. He stared forlornly at the bit of old brie and half a tomato sitting on the fridge shelf. There was also a bowl of leftovers from earlier in the week, but Simon’s tired brain couldn’t remember what it was and the bowl of reddy-brown mush wasn’t giving up its secrets.

  Shutting the fridge door, he headed over to the worktop and switched on the kettle. Next to it was a note in Penny’s recognisable flamboyant script:

  Left you something in the freezer for every night I’m away – can’t have you starving as well as drowning! Will be a better vicar’s wife when I get back – promise. Pxx

  Simon smiled, realising he hadn’t even noticed it the previous night before he’d staggered up to bed, too tired for anything more than a bowl of soup. Switching the kettle on, he bent down and opened the freezer. In one of the drawers was a selection of neatly packaged and labelled dishes in freezer bags: cottage pie, lasagne, spag bol and a few pots of rhubarb crumble – his favourite.

  Taking the cottage pie from the freezer he popped it in the microwave and headed out to the hallway. On the answering machine, the little red light was blinking away, and the LED display indicated that there were six new messages. He pressed the play button.

  The unmistakable bossy tones of Audrey Tipton boomed out, filling the hallway:

  Mrs Canter, it’s Audrey here. I still haven’t heard back from you regarding the Old People’s Christmas Luncheon. We really must make a start on it, you know. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you get this message. Beep.

  The next one was from Margery Winthrop, one of the gaggle of pensioners who volunteered their time to help keep the church spick and span:

  Hello, Penny, Margery here. Sorry to bother you but just a gentle reminder that we need to sit down and go through the spring flower rota. Doris is having her veins done and June Pearce is swanning off on a Saga cruise, so you’ll need to drum up some more helpers from somewhere. Or will you put yourself down for a few shifts? Anyway, I’ll try you again tomorrow. Beep.

  The next one was from Emma Scott, Brown Owl of the local Brownies, who spoke in a broad Cornish accent:

  Penny, my love, meant to say when I saw you last week that spring ’as sprung – so that must mean it’s time to get our bums in gear for the Summer Fête. I’ve already had a word with Harry the scout leader, but ’e’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot! You’ll ’ave to organise the lot of us, as usual! Bye, my lovely, speak later in the week.

  Apart from a call reminding him of his dental appointment, all the other messages were in a similar vein: coffee mornings, afternoon tea for the old folks, an outing for the disabled … Simon couldn’t figure out how Penny was able to fit it all in alongside her full-time job. He felt another pang, this time of guilt. He’d been quite cross with her about her weekend away. Why shouldn’t she have a break? If he’d had to deal with this lot, he’d want to run a mile too.

  He took his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was a decidedly untrendy and ancient Nokia that had been dropped, thrown and even survived a dip in a cup of tea. He’d have his trusty Nokia over a new-fangled smart phone any day.

  Simon saw that he had two texts from Penny and a missed call. He’d been so busy he’d not had a chance to look at his phone all day.

  He pulled Penny up from his contacts list and hit the green call button, putting the phone to his ear.

  This is Penny Leighton, I can’t take your call right now …

  Simon didn’t leave a message. He’d call her later. Tell her he loved her.

  After he’d finished his meal, he settled himself down in front of the early evening news. Ten minutes, he told himself, then I’ll tackle Sunday’s sermon. Within moments, he was fast asleep.

  *

  Piran had been looking forward to a few hours’ night fishing with his mate Brian. Their usual routine was to take the boat out, crack open a few cans and put the world to rights. But the weather that had been threatening all day had finally broken, and as he drove through Trevay hailstones were bouncing off his battered pickup truck with such force it was like being machine-gunned with walnuts.

  He let out a sigh. The weather warnings were dire for shipping and, hardy as he was, there was no way he was taking the boat out in this.

  The dig at the Roman fort had been a long slog. The finds that they were turning up were incredible, but the constant battle against the elements was wearing them all down. Now that night-fishing was off the agenda, Piran wanted nothing more than to kick back with a couple of pints of Doom Bar and watch some football.

  Having made sure that his little fishing boat was anchored properly in Trevay harbour – it was sure to take a battering tonight – Piran set off for the convenience store, where he planned to get some supplies in. The wind was so strong it was all he could do to open the door of his pickup. Pulling the hood of his waterproofs tighter to his face, he battled through the rain and into the store where he bought eggs, bacon, a wholemeal loaf and a couple of bottles of his favourite Cornish ale. The storm had reached biblical proportions by the time he exited the store, whistling through the narrow streets and pelting him with horizontal rain as he ran for the truck. Juggling his shopping, he struggled to find his car keys in the deep pockets of his waterproof jacket. Fumbling with wet, icy fingertips, he pulled them out, but as he did so, his single door-key was pulled along too. Piran could only watch as it spun in the air, landing with a plop in a giant puddle of rainwater that had pooled beneath his car. Letting his shopping fall, he dropped to his knees and began to scrabble around in the cold, dirty water to find it. His heart sank as his fingers made contact with the wide gaps of the storm drain. His key was gone – swept down into the sewer, never to be retrieved.

  He cursed a heartfelt bollocks, retrieved his supplies and climbed back into the pickup. The only other person who had a key to his cottage was Helen, and she was too far away to be useful, but he remembered that Helen always kept a key to her own cottage underneath the flower pot in her front garden. So, grim-faced, he headed in the direction of Gull’s Cry.


  *

  Helen and Penny were pulling up outside an imposing house on one of Kensington’s most exclusive streets. They’d spent the afternoon shopping in the West End, but the sheer enjoyment of making random indulgent purchases had been dented by the knowledge that they were compelled to attend Quentin Clarkson’s ghastly drinks party.

  ‘I can’t think why you went out with him in the first place. Hasn’t he always been a complete and utter plonker?’

  Helen looked stunning in a Cos asymmetric dress in midnight blue which highlighted her blue eyes. Penny had gone into power dressing mode and was resplendent in an Alexander McQueen red crêpe dress that set off her blonde hair perfectly.

  ‘Well, yes, a plonker through and through – from birth, I imagine. But underneath all that, he’s got quite a fierce business brain. Before he took over, TV7 was the laughing stock of the TV world. It was all tacky game shows and bargain-bucket reality TV. Now they’ve got some of the hottest shows on television. He was ambitious, so was I. What can I say?’

  ‘Well, rather you than me. The guy gives me the creeps.’ Helen shuddered, remembering his hand on her back earlier that day.

  ‘Tell me about it!’ Penny lowered her voice as they approached the front door. ‘You’ll never guess what he used to do when we were having sex?’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know.’

  ‘Well …’

  But Penny never finished what she was going to say, because at that moment the door flew open and standing before them was a vision in beige silk Diane Von Furstenberg.

  ‘Penny, darling!’ the vision drawled.

  ‘Miriam. How lovely to see you, I can’t believe we’ve left it for so long.’

  Helen noticed that Penny’s voice was about an octave higher than normal, which to those in the know was a clear indication that she loathed the woman.

  ‘Do come in – and your little friend, too.’ She held out an imperious hand to Helen. ‘Miriam Clarkson. I’m Quentin’s wife, but you’ll probably recognise me from The Lion’s Lair.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you looked familiar.’ Helen offered her hand in return but Miriam Clarkson barely touched it. The Lion’s Lair was a hugely popular TV show where young entrepreneurs got to spend some time working alongside their business gurus. Miriam Clarkson was one of the ‘Lions’ and ran a multimillion-pound interior design business whose clients included Roman Abramovich and Richard Branson. She was also notoriously volatile. Helen found this odd, considering Miriam’s oft-proclaimed devotion to Eastern mysticism, which she claimed helped her to ‘channel the energies’ of the luxury properties she was hired to imbue with her trademark style.