Fern Britton - The Postcard

Helen was back in Gull’s Cry, her cosy cottage across the village green from the vicarage. She’d listened to Penny as she’d sunk a bottle of wine and then eventually been persuaded to go to bed. Helen nestled the phone between her shoulder and chin and put a pan of water onto the Aga for spaghetti. ‘I’m really worried about her, Simon.’

Simon, sitting in his study, phone in one hand, his head in the other, was feeling helpless. ‘She’s just a bit tired, that’s all.’

‘I think it’s more than that.’ Helen saw her boyfriend, Piran, walking up the path with a brace of mackerel in his hand. ‘I think she should go to the doctor.’ Piran pushed open the front door and Helen put her finger to her lips and mouthed ‘Simon’ at him before pointing to a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

She heard Simon attempt a half-hearted laugh before he said, ‘I’m not sure she needs the doctor, just a couple of good nights’ sleep. Jenna’s teething, work’s a bit stressful, and her mother dying …’

Helen rolled her eyes at Piran and said, ‘Simon, seriously, for my sake, could you go to the doc’s with her? Tell her you’ve made an appointment to check on Jenna’s teeth or something. Go together, the three of you. Then throw in that you’re worried about Penny. Please?’

Simon fiddled with his propelling pencil, a wedding gift from his parishioners, and sighed. ‘OK.’

Helen was relieved. ‘Good. Is she still asleep?’

‘Yes. I checked on her a little while ago and she’s fine. What actually happened earlier?’

‘I think Mavis Crewe isn’t going to write any more Mr Tibbs scripts and Jack Bradbury is taking it out on Penny. Also, I think she really should get in contact with her sister about when the funeral is. But when I suggested that she looked so … well, the only way I can describe it is that she seemed to have all her legendary courage drained from her. I ran her a bath and popped a hot water bottle in her bed and she didn’t argue. Just did it and got into bed. That’s not like her, is it?’

Simon pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. ‘No. It isn’t.’

‘Can you phone the sister?’ asked Helen hopefully.

‘I’m not sure. Pen won’t want me interfering behind her back. She never talks about them, not even when Jenna was born. I don’t want her more upset than she is.’

‘Understood. Let’s see how she is tomorrow.’ Piran handed Helen a glass of chilled Sancerre and sauntered into the small drawing room where Helen heard him turn on the television news. The water on the Aga began to boil. ‘Simon, I must go …’

Simon drooped in his chair a little. ‘One last thing, Helen: do you think a nanny might be a good idea? A little help with Jenna might help Penny a lot.’

‘Yes I do. Just try persuading her of that.’

Upstairs, Penny had woken from her sleep and was furtively searching for her tablet. She found it in her bedside drawer. She got back into bed and listened carefully in case Simon had heard her. Nothing. She turned the tablet on and the stream of ignored emails plus others popped up. She deleted a fair majority and managed to answer the simple ones. The three she’d deleted from Jack, she retrieved but there were two new ones, one of which sent a flood of panic through her abdomen. It was from Mavis. The other was from an old school friend, Marion Watson. A jolly hockey sticks sort of girl who married well and became an MP. The subject line said SUZIE. Penny didn’t know which to go for first.

The one from Mavis could be good, could be bad.

The one from Marion spooked her, so that had to be last.

The ones from Jack? Well, at least they wouldn’t hold any surprises.

She opened Jack’s first email.

TO: Penny Leighton

FROM: Jack Bradbury

SUBJECT: URGENT: MR TIBBS

P,

Mavis has flatly refused to write any more scripts.

What are you going to do about it?

Bloody call me.

J.

Penny thought it could have been worse. It could have been the sack.

She hovered between opening the next two.

She opened the one from Mavis.

TO: Penny Leighton

FROM: Mavis Crewe

SUBJECT: Jack Bradbury

Dearest Penny,

I really cannot deal with Mr Bradbury any longer. What an arrogant bully. Even if I were able to write more Mr Tibbs tales, I would never again let them go to Channel 7.

I can see now why your last email was trying to butter me up. Oh yes, I can tell. I wasn’t born yesterday. The odious Mr Bradbury has been leaning on you, hasn’t he? No wonder you made the wild suggestion that another writer could take over. No no no, my dear. That is never going to happen. Mr Tibbs is my creation and I will never give permission for another writer to take on the franchise while I have the copyright.

I understand this may be inconvenient for you and Penny Leighton Productions, but all good things come to an end, don’t they?

I have adored working with you and am still waiting to hear that you can come and join me on this marvellous cruise. How about hopping over for LA?

With affectionate regards,

Mavis

Penny felt dizzy. Black spots were clouding her vision. She was breathing in little rapid pants. She heard her father’s voice: Keep going, Penny. She wished she had a drink but couldn’t face Simon’s disappointment if he caught her creeping to the fridge.

She concentrated on getting herself calmer then she opened the email from Marion.

TO: Penny Leighton

FROM: Marion Watson

SUBJECT: SUZIE

Darling Pen,

Long time no see and all that. I have received an email from Suzie, which she has asked me to forward to you. She contacted me at my House of Commons address (very easy to find) wondering if I had your contact details. Apparently she has mislaid them. I sent them to her but she wants me to be an intermediary, God knows why, given that she and I only met at sports days and the like, hence my involvement. Being a nosy old cow, I did read it and may I say how very sorry I am to hear of your ma’s death. She was always the most glam of all the mothers at speech day.

Anyway, next time you’re in London drop in. I’d love to show you off in the Stranger’s Dining Room.

Regards,

Marion

Penny scrolled down.

Dear Penny,

Since you lost contact with Mummy and me, I have had to resort to going through Marion as she is a trusted friend of yours.

I’m sorry to break the news in this impersonal way. I would have rather phoned you or come to your home, but since I have no idea where you are, this is the best I can do.

Mummy died. She was very, very brave and was terribly ill at the end. I nursed her myself and friends and neighbours were very kind, bringing in meals. They have all said how marvellous Mummy was and how she wouldn’t have lasted as long as she did if it weren’t for me. I was with her till her last breath. It was so peaceful and such a privilege for me. She died listening to that lovely Schubert that she and Daddy adored. I made sure we played it at her funeral as she left the church for the crematorium.

I thought long and hard whether to contact you before the funeral but, honestly, after we last spoke I think Mummy wouldn’t have wanted you there.

As you can imagine, I am exhausted with it all and, even after all that happened, feel the need to make contact with you again. We are sisters and have been through so much together. Your life has been a lot luckier than mine. You have forged a career and now have a family of your own. I couldn’t have selfishly left Mummy to do what you have done. I forgive you for all the upset of the past and would like to come and visit you. Perhaps in the New Year? I am taking a little sunshine break over Christmas. Doctor’s orders. Too many memories of Mummy … You are my only family and my dearest wish is for us to reach the hands of goodwill towards each other in my bereavement.