The Newcomer. Fern BrittonЧитать онлайн книгу.
desperately mining me for information.’
‘Oh God, she’ll bring out the ancient mothballed fur coat for the great occasion,’ laughed Helen.
‘The fur and perhaps the green velvet hat with the feathers and the net veil that she thinks make her look like the Duchess of Cornwall,’ chuckled Penny fondly.
‘How does she keep going with the post office and all those cigarettes she smokes? I do worry about her. How old do you think she is now?’ Helen asked.
‘She came here from the East End as an evacuee as a young girl,’ said Simon. ‘So she must be …’ he shut his eyes and calculated, ‘… about eighty-five-ish?’
A chill ran through Penny. ‘I hope nothing happens to her while we are away.’
Helen tutted. ‘Nothing is going to happen to her. She’s pickled in nicotine and her mind is as sharp as a razor. She can still add up quicker than a bookie. I promise you, she’s not going anywhere.’
‘Mumma?’ A tired Jenna wandered in, cuddling little Jack like a baby. His paws were limp and his eyes blinking. ‘Can we go now?’
Piran lifted Jack from her. ‘Bleddy dog. Spoilt, he is.’ He ruffled Jack’s ears and kissed his nose.
‘He loves that dog more than he loves me,’ said Helen, shaking her head.
‘Well, I’ve known ’im longer than I’ve known you. We share history.’
‘Bye-bye, Jack,’ said Jenna sleepily. ‘Bye-bye, Uncle Piran. You won’t forget my fisherman’s knife, will you?’
‘Certainly not. Auntie Helen and I will have it here the minute you get back.’
Saying their goodbyes, Simon scooped Jenna up in his arms, and led his beloved little family back to the vicarage.
Later, snuggled in bed with the lights out, Penny had a sense of foreboding. She fidgeted over to Simon, whose warmth comforted her. He reached an arm around her. ‘You OK?’ he asked sleepily.
‘Yes. Just thinking about how different the village might be when we get back.’
‘It’ll be the same as always,’ Simon told her. ‘Nothing changes in Pendruggan. Take it from me.’
That night, Penny had a torrid dream. Their container ship was sunk by a terrible Atlantic storm, taking all their possessions to the seabed. Her father was there and tried desperately to save everything but, after many dives, was finally swallowed into the murky depths. She woke up gasping, but as she lay in her bed next to her sleeping husband, she heard the high-pitched wail of a strong wind coming off the sea and the rattle of heavy rain.
She turned over to be closer to Simon and tried to shake off the bad feeling that still lingered.
‘It’s just an ordinary Cornish storm,’ she told herself. ‘And a simple anxiety dream. Everything will be OK.’
Eventually she did sleep, while outside, the storm raged, shaking Jenna’s cherry tree and running up the beach on Shellsand Bay to wash away the great walls of the sand dunes.
But when Simon woke, first as he usually did, the sky was the cleanest, washed-out blue, without a cloud. The sun was rising and bringing with it the first promise of summer warmth.
In the kitchen as he waited for the kettle to boil, he opened the back door and saw the wind-strewn leaves of Jenna’s cherry tree on the lawn and the slender necks of the daffodils bent to the earth. But today was not a day to grieve over nature. Today he needed all his emotional strength to hand his flock over to their new caretaker, Angela.
‘Well?’ The suspense was killing Robert. ‘Are we going to Cornwall?’
Angela’s heart was racing, the pulse in her throat throbbing. She lifted her eyes from the letter in her hand and said, in a quivering voice, ‘Yes.’
Robert ran to where she stood in the hall. ‘Woo hoo.’ He lifted her off her feet. ‘Congratulations.’ He squeezed her hard and without letting her go called up the stairs, ‘Faith! Mum got the job! We are going to live by the sea for a whole year!’
‘Great,’ came the muffled reply.
‘Well, come on. Come down and I’ll make a celebratory breakfast. Bacon sandwiches all round!’
‘Dad, it’s Saturday. I want to sleep.’
‘Let her be,’ said Angela fondly.
‘But it’s already eleven. She should be down here with us, celebrating.’
‘Darling.’ She kissed the top of his handsome head. ‘Put me down and we’ll have breakfast together. Just the two of us.’
‘I’m so proud of you.’ He gave her another tight hug, then set her back on her feet.
A short while later, Robert placed the bacon sandwich in front of her. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please.’ Angela bit into the soft white bread and butter, and found the bacon crispy and warm. ‘The food of the gods,’ she said.
Robert put a mug of tea in front of her, then sat down with his own sandwich and coffee. ‘The vicarage is going to feel huge after this little house.’
‘It will.’ Angela looked out of the kitchen window onto their tiny but neat courtyard garden. ‘I shall miss this, though.’
‘Oh, I won’t,’ Robert said through a mouthful of bread. ‘Farewell west London, hello west coast.’
‘You’ll miss work.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, you will. It’s your meat and drink.’
He wiped his mouth with a piece of kitchen towel. ‘We have talked all this through. Finish your sandwich.’
‘When will you let work know?’
‘I’ll talk to Gordon on Monday. It won’t come as a surprise. He told me you’d get the job.’
‘He’s been so good to you. To us.’
‘Yeah. He’s a good bloke.’
Angela stirred her tea. ‘And you are sure? About having a year off?’
He put the last of his sandwich in his mouth. ‘Absolutely. All those dark rainy nights standing on College Green or outside the door of Number Ten, shouting questions that won’t or can’t be answered to politicians who are as clueless as the rest of us.’
‘I’m not sure Cornwall will offer any of the excitement you’re used to.’
‘But I shall have a new job. Househusband extraordinaire …’
‘Not quite as exciting.’
He shook his head. ‘Look, you have always been there for me, never minding when the office ring at ungodly hours to send me out on a story, never refusing a camera crew a bed for the night, always taking the burden of domestic responsibility. It’s my turn to look after you.’
Angela put her hand on his knee and her head on his shoulder. ‘I am so lucky.’
‘The good people of Penwhatsit are luckier.’
‘Pendruggan.’
He raised his coffee mug. ‘To my wife. The vicar of Pendruggan.’
She laughed. ‘Vicar for a year, anyway. I hope I can do it.’
Robert grew serious. ‘Darling, Ange.’ He took the hand she had on his knee and lifted it to his lips. ‘What you will be doing is a million times more worthwhile than any television news report. You are doing yourself and me and Faith proud.’