Runaway Summer: Polwenna Bay 1

by Ruth Saberton

  He sighed. This was hardly a train of thought for a sunny May day when the sky was duck-egg blue and the sun was beaming down for once, rather than playing hide-and-seek behind its usual wrapping of pewter clouds. It wasn’t as though he had anything to complain about either – not like his brother Danny. Yes, if anyone was entitled to moan then it was Dan. It was bad enough to be injured on a tour of duty and discharged from the job you loved, but it was worse again to have your wife walk out on you just when you needed her most. Danny was devastated and for some reason seemed to think that it was all his fault, as though getting hit by shrapnel in a roadside attack was something he’d planned just to ruin his wife’s plans for a bigger house and another few years of basking in her husband’s glory. Jake’s jaw clenched. On reflection, he’d come to realise that he’d never liked Tara much anyway. She was certainly pretty and (although these were inappropriate things for a brother-in-law to think) she had great tits and a perfect peach of an ass in the designer jeans she wore like a second skin. Yet there was a calculating coldness in her eyes that had always reminded him of the sharks the Penhalligan boys sometimes caught. Jake was sorry to be proved right, though, and every time he caught sight of his brother nursing a whisky at the bar, he wanted to grab the absent Tara by her bony shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. I might be tired of the boatyard and the finances, Jake thought, and my father’s certainly responsible for my first few grey hairs, but at least I’m not as miserable as Dan.

  Like the rest of his family, Jake was at a loss as to how to help his brother. There were only so many times you were prepared to be yelled at when all you wanted to do was make things better. Granny Alice was worried sick, and Jake could see why. Dan’s moods were bleaker than Cornish granite and recently it seemed that Bell’s whisky flowed through his veins rather than blood. No doubt he was already at the bar running up yet another tab Jake would have to settle or, even worse, out wandering the cliffs until the light faded from the sky and they were all on the brink of calling out a search party. The last time, Danny had been gone for five hours and, although nobody had said a word, they’d all shared the same unspeakable thoughts. Jake didn’t think he’d forget in a hurry the tidal wave of relief when Nick and Issie had finally found their brother in the old shelter at the foot of the higher cliff path.

  Although the sunshine was bright, Jake shivered. Christ. He needed to put all these worries aside and get into the party spirit. The festival had always been a great time to have some no-strings fun, and judging by the way the two girls were now giggling and casting glances over their shoulders, today could be the perfect time to end the dry spell.

  Arriving at the marina and making his way along the floating pontoon to check on Big Rod, Cashley’s gleaming fast fisher, Jake was already looking forward to the evening ahead. A night off from worrying about the family was exactly what he needed; a night off from worrying about the family and spent with a gorgeous naked girl would be even better. All he had to do was get these last checks finished, call his gran and then haul his ass over to The Ship. Watching the new vicar trying to coax toy ducks down the river’s mouth and slithering like a plump Bambi on the green slime, Jake supposed that his lot could be worse. An hour’s work on the boat, a few beers and then – well, who knew what the evening would hold? It could be a lot of fun.

  Providing, of course, none of his siblings got into trouble and needed rescuing.

  Chapter 3

  Although the Lord moved in mysterious ways, He had nothing on plastic ducks, thought Jules Mathieson despairingly. In theory catching two hundred toys in a net sounded pretty straightforward, but as they bobbed around her wellies they were proving harder to grab than eels coated in butter. It was all right for Moses; God had allowed him to part the Red Sea. And of course, Jesus was a pro when it came to walking on water. But as a humble and fairly new-to-the-job vicar, Jules couldn’t possibly expect to accomplish such feats. To be honest she was just grateful that one of the fishermen had managed to find her a net to try to catch the ducks, or else they’d all be half way to France by now and she’d be even less popular than she already seemed to be…

  “Come on, Vicar! You’re letting them get by! Quickly, then! Catch the first one!”

  This disapproving bellow might have come from high above her head, but rather than being the voice of Jules’s number one boss it was the rather less dulcet one of Sheila Keverne, organ player and verger. Then again, in Polwenna Bay Sheila Keverne was every bit as omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent as the Almighty. The self-appointed guardian of all things St Wenn, Sheila hadn’t hidden her bitter disappointment with the new incumbent. Barely a day went by without her mentioning the previous vicar in a mournful and rather resentful fashion, as though the Reverend John had died just to spite Sheila. Insult was further added to injury, Shelia’s pursed mouth implied, by the Church of England allowing a woman in her early thirties to take his place; both feminism and The Vicar of Dibley had clearly passed Sheila by. Jules often thought that from the way Sheila carried on it was amazing anyone could hear her sermons over the rumbling sound of the Reverend spinning in his grave.

  “They’re getting away! Catch them in the net!”

  Glancing up, and sending a swift plea heavenwards for patience, Jules saw a group of her elderly parishioners huddled together on the bridge and peering down with dismay. Pound coins had been spent on their ducks and they wanted value for money. It didn’t matter that the river splashing over Jules’s wellies was icy cold, that the chunk of trawl net was unwieldy or that none of the assembled adults had offered to give her a hand: the plastic ducks had to be caught and Jules was failing horribly in even this simple duty.

  “If one of those ducks is number forty-three then I’ll want my money back!” called Janet Pengelley, another scary member of the blue-rinse brigade. Steely-eyed, with a Bible verse for every occasion and parsimonious to Scrooge-like levels, she made the Pharisees look fun-loving. Now, as Jules floundered about in the river, Janet’s words prompted much agreement and nodding.

  Jules bit back a sigh. God had a purpose in mind, of this she was certain, but sometimes she wished He’d be a little more vocal about what this might be. Improving her patience maybe? Jules was ready to admit that this really wasn’t her strong point. She’d been known to dig up seeds to check whether they were germinating, and her cakes invariably flopped because she kept opening the oven door to sneak a peek. So perhaps this was a lesson? It was a blooming hard one though. She’d only been at St Wenn’s for six weeks, but already the Lord must be getting tired of hearing her pray for the strength not to throttle certain members of the congregation.

  “Come on, children; help me catch the ducks,” Jules said to the small group of excited Sunday-schoolers who’d gathered down in the harbour to watch the ducks arrive. Two small boys had been trying to hold the net, but it was too heavy for their little hands and three yellow dots were already bobbing towards the harbour gates. Within minutes they’d be out into the English Channel. Jules’s heart sank because she knew that Janet and Sheila would fully expect her to jump into the sea and swim after them.

  There was one major problem with this: Jules couldn’t swim. In fact she was terrified of the water, which was ironic in the extreme seeing as she was now living so close to the sea she could practically dip her toes in from the rectory. Maybe this was also part of God’s plan? That, and weaning her off exploring shopping malls, Greggs the Bakers and bingo – all activities in which she’d excelled, and skills that the parishioners of her last inner-city church had appreciated wholeheartedly.

  Was it wrong to wish that God had sent her to Kensington? Jules wondered as she lumbered over the slimy rocks. Goodness, but she was unfit. It was time to knock all the pasties and cream teas on the head and start walking up on the cliffs a little more often. The thought of surviving the chilly and dishearteningly empty church, the gloomy rectory and the disapproval of her verger without treats was very depressing though. P
erhaps this was a test and, like Job, she was just going to have to glorify Him regardless.

  But without ice cream and chocolate? No disrespect to Job, but this was going to be exceedingly hard.

  “Hurry up, Vicar!” screeched one of the old biddies from the bridge, jabbing a finger in the direction of the harbour wall. There was a general outcry – the ducks were making a break for freedom and if Jules didn’t move quickly enough they’d be in France before you could say canard.

  Jolted into action, she tried to double her pace. However, her ancient wellies – pink discount-store cheapies and nothing like the leather country boots everyone in Polwenna Bay favoured – had zero grip and she may as well have been walking on glass.

  As she slithered across the slippery harbour, Jules noticed that a tall and broad-shouldered man with a halo of golden ringlets was watching her with a bemused expression as he unlocked the marina gates. Jules really did regret all those unhealthy treats now: she wished she’d gone on a diet weeks before and had actually liberated Davina’s workout from its DVD case, rather than just reading about all the wonders it could do whilst working her way through a giant bag of Kettle Chips. And why hadn’t she put on any make-up this morning or dragged a brush through her hair? Sometimes Jules wanted to give herself a very hard shake. Just because she spent most of her time with the blue-rinse brigade didn’t mean that there weren’t any younger people to make friends with, although if she was ever lucky enough to get her hands on a gorgeous specimen like this, being friends would be the last thing she had in mind…

  At this point Jules guessed she should give herself a sharp telling-off for such lustful thoughts, but she couldn’t help turning her head for a second look. Good gracious, he lifted that heavy-looking bag as though it was made of feathers, his biceps swelling deliciously under the white cotton of his tee-shirt. He’d have no problems at all lifting a thirteen-stone girl into his arms. God would surely understand, Jules reasoned as she tried to rip her attention back to negotiating the treacherous surface rather than admiring how his blue jeans clung to his muscular legs and moulded a very cute backside. She was just admiring the Lord’s glorious creation, that was all! And this man was gorgeous! For a moment Jules wondered if the Angel Gabriel had been sent to scoop her up and rescue her from the pebbles and seaweed. After all, why shouldn’t an archangel look like Heath Ledger at his sexy and dishevelled best? Just one more quick peek…

  The last thing she saw before her heavy body slammed onto the boulders was the marina gate opening. She had clawed the air desperately before slipping on the rocks, bashing her knees painfully in the process and covering her jeans with green slime. Jules knew that vicars really shouldn’t swear, but the word came out regardless.

  “Ouch! Bollocks!”

  There was a gasp from the bridge and a ripple of laughter from the gathered children. Jules wished she’d managed to keep her mouth shut. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this job after all. Since she’d arrived at Polwenna Bay all she’d seemed to do was get it wrong. Please Lord, Jules prayed, forgive me for saying “bollocks” out loud and, if it’s not too much trouble, let the riverbed swallow me up right now.

  But unfortunately the riverbed remained stubbornly hard and wet beneath her now damp jeans. The Almighty, it seemed, wanted her to stay in the village and suffer whatever indignities came along next. Jules felt close to tears. She didn’t like to question Him but she was really starting to wish she’d taken physics A level rather than RE.

  “Bloody hell, are you all right?”

  A small hand, its bitten-nailed fingers crammed with silver rings, reached out to her. Squinting up against the sun, Jules made out a slender girl in her early twenties. She had a snub freckly nose and long blonde dreadlocks held back by a daisy-chain headband, of the kind Jules secretly wanted but knew was better suited to elfin-limbed fairy people than her. Alas, it would have looked ridiculous on a five-foot-seven cropped-haired vicar. There was a pink stud glittering in this blonde girl’s nose. All in all, she didn’t look like a Sunday-school mother come to wallop an unfit Rev over the head with her Bible. Instead, her wide mouth was curled into a grin and the little boy next to her was laughing too.

  “You said ‘bollocks’!” he exclaimed with delight. A hunk of hair fell across his face and he pushed it away impatiently. “You said a bad word.”

  “Yes, sorry about that. It was really wrong of me.” Feeling dreadful, Jules took the girl’s hand and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. For such a slim creature the other girl was surprisingly strong and her grasp was like iron.

  “Don’t worry; my dad says bad words too,” the little boy told her kindly. “He says ‘bugger’ and ‘arse’ and—”

  “Yes, yes, all right, Morgan. We don’t need everyone to know your dad’s entire repertoire of swearing,” said the girl with blonde dreadlocks quickly.

  “But he does and they’re only words. They’re arbitrary. Language is a system of codes, which don’t mean anything at all until people give them meaning. Fact.”

  Jules raised her hand to her head. How hard was that fall? She could have sworn that an eight-year-old had just given her an explanation of semiotics that an Oxford don would have been proud of.

  “Yes, yes, yes. Now shut up about that and go and grab those ducks.” The girl gave the boy a shove in the direction of the harbour gate. “Go on, quick, before Sheila explodes. And before you ask,” she added quickly, intercepting a question before he could even voice it, “that was a metaphor. She won’t really explode.” Catching Jules’s eye, she winked. “Unfortunately.”

  Morgan seemed relieved to hear this and tore across the harbour. Moments later he was up to his knees at the river’s mouth and fishing out ducks.

  “Morgan’s got Asperger’s,” the girl explained once he was out of earshot, “and sometimes he struggles with literal and metaphorical concepts.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry about swearing,” said Jules awkwardly.

  The girl laughed. “God, don’t be. My family’s language makes Gordon Ramsay look half-hearted. Besides, running the duck race would make anyone swear; it’s a bloody nightmare. I’m Issie Tremaine, by the way, and Morgan’s my brother Danny’s son. I’ve no idea where Danny’s got to – pissed up somewhere, probably – so I’m on ankle-biter duty.”

  “Jules Mathieson,” said Jules, and waited for the penny to drop. When it didn’t, she added, “I’m the new vicar.”

  Issie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oops! And there’s me blaspheming away. Now it’s my turn to say ‘bollocks’! Sorry, Rev, I had no idea.” Her blue eyes crinkled and Jules felt relieved. Issie was amused and she was still giggling, which was a good sign. All too often once people discovered what Jules did for a living they either ran for the hills or changed the way they treated her. It ruined conversations when friends thought they had to censor their every word and treat her as though she was a prim Victorian catapulted into the wrong century. Most avoided her altogether. Although she understood why and prayed very hard not to feel wounded, Jules was hurt when she was left out of nights in the pub or group holidays. Ever since she’d been ordained, her social life had been emptier than Kerry Katona’s bank account – and as for her love life, well if the Catholic Church wanted more nuns then she’d be a perfect candidate. Men tended to freak out about her vocation or, even worse, were desperate to prove themselves by getting off with a vicar.

  A veteran of many duck races, Issie proved to be a brilliant help, taking pictures of the three winning ducks on her iPhone and organising all the children to collect the strays. Lots of people waved to her or called hello, and Issie seemed to know them all. Then again, she was a Tremaine. Even though Jules had only lived in the village for a few weeks, she had already learned that the Tremaines were one of the oldest and most established families. The small graveyard was full of tombstones that bore their name, and one of the stained-glass windows was a memorial to three Tremaine boys who’d died in the Great War. Of course Issie w
as a duck-race pro. It was probably in her DNA.

  “To be fair though, you don’t look much like a vicar,” Issie remarked eventually, helping Jules to scoop the rest of the ducks out of the net and then passing them to Morgan, who was concentrating hard on lining them up in numerical order. “You actually look quite normal.” Her hand flew to her mouth again. “Oh God! Sorry – what is it with me today? Everything I say sounds like an insult.”

  Morgan fixed his big blue eyes on Jules. “You are quite a strange vicar, though. Why’s your hair such a funny colour?”

  “Oops. That makes two of us being unintentionally rude,” said his aunt, ruffling his hair fondly and rolling her eyes.

  “I didn’t know I was being rude,” replied Morgan. “I didn’t mean to be.”

  “It’s fine,” Jules reassured him. Anyway, it wasn’t the first time she’d heard this. When most people imagined a vicar she guessed they were picturing an elderly man with grey hair and a beard, wearing floaty robes and presiding over tea parties. A young woman who wore jeans, dyed her hair aubergine (although in fairness to Morgan it was a funny colour; Tinky Winky purple would have been a far better description) and who loved rock music didn’t always tick the right boxes. But why should a vicar be boring or staid? The stereotype drove Jules mad. Jesus hadn’t been either of those things. He’d been far too busy kicking tables over in temples and taking on the establishment to go to tea parties.

  Together Issie and Jules placed the carefully counted ducks in bin bags and carried them away from the harbour and up to the lock-up store at the back of the village green. A stage had been set up and already a crowd was starting to gather in order to bag the best spots for the performance later on. The streets crackled with a carnival atmosphere and the smell of roast pork drifted on the breeze. Jules’s tummy rumbled.

  “Hungry?” grinned Issie, and Jules flushed. Why was she such a glutton? If only she could be one of those skinny people who said things like, “Oh! I forgot to eat lunch!” and who were full after half a lettuce leaf. Jules couldn’t imagine ever forgetting lunch; it was her favourite activity after elevenses. And as far as lettuce went, well it was all very tasty when sandwiched under a burger. She glanced at Issie’s slim frame and sighed. Envy was a sin, and so was pride, but Jules would have loved nothing more than to experience even for one minute what it was like to be a pretty skinny girl whom all the men stared at. The hunk from the quay had only looked her way because she’d been making a fool of herself. It was the story of her life.