Fern Britton - Hidden Treasures

Years ago, when she had come to Cornwall as a child, her father had bought her a little wooden bodyboard. He had spent long, patient hours in the shallows, teaching her how to catch a wave and ride it on her tummy. She so wanted to do it again. Perhaps she could get lessons in real stand-up surfing? She’d ask Queenie.

She stayed for another twenty minutes or so, watching the surfers and then turned for home.

Back at Gull’s Cry, the washing machine had done its stuff and she hung the wet laundry on the drying rack above the Aga. Her attempt to fix up the washing line outside was a failure; the bracket had fallen off. The pulley system installed in the kitchen to haul it all up to ceiling height made a satisfying squeaky noise. And at least if that fell down, it wouldn’t lead to another ignominious episode with the rude man in the fisherman’s smock.

She put a jacket potato in the oven and got the paper out to see what was on the telly. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Perfect.

A couple of hours later and she was ready for bed. It was only 9 p.m. A bit earlier than she was used to, but that was country life for you. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t getting bored already, was she?

It was 7 a.m. on Sunday morning and the Reverend Simon Canter was putting on his robes of office. On Sundays he took a no-frills, spoken rather than sung communion at 8 a.m. for those few communicants who wanted the peace of a child-free service first thing, leaving them free to get on with their day.

He’d got up earlier than usual today in order to give the vicarage a bit of a spring clean. His weekly help had been off with her hips for a couple of weeks now and the place was showing signs of neglect, so he’d vacuumed round the vast and largely unused Victorian sitting room and opened the French windows to allow the autumn air to disperse the smell of must and old hymn books that he felt must be hanging around. Then he cut another large bunch of his bronze dahlias from the garden and placed them in a vase on the modest grand piano. Not bad. Next he gave the downstairs loo a quick bleach and the kitchen a wipe.

When he finished getting dressed and came downstairs, he sniffed the air and immediately ran back upstairs to his bathroom. He returned with his aftershave (a Christmas present from Queenie, who’d assured him that David Beckham wore nothing less) and proceeded to squirt it liberally through the rooms downstairs. He sniffed again. Much better. Taking one last look round, he left to tend his flock.

*

Later that morning, walking over to the church, Helen mulled over the possibility that she might be missing London. Or, if not London itself, then maybe her friends. So she resolved to get some dates in the diary and encourage them to visit her.

Getting ready that morning, she’d looked in the mirror and decided she really ought to make an effort with her appearance. Once she’d applied a little mascara, rouge and lip gloss, she realised that it made her look much better than she had in weeks. She had decided on a cream and bronze chiffon tea dress which accentuated her freckles, over the top of which she was wearing a cream cashmere cardigan in case the church was cold. She’d kept her legs bare, with tan strappy sandals on her slim feet.

The church was fourteenth century with Victorian additions, most notably the clock tower. The bell ringers were calling the village to prayers and sending the rooks up into the trees like black plastic bin liners flapping in the breeze. As Helen came out of her gate, Polly and another man caught up with her. They were both in green ambulance uniforms.

‘Hello, Helen,’ said Polly, walking alongside her. ‘We’re on call today, but we don’t like to miss the service. We’ve got the pager, haven’t we, Pete?’ The man on the other side of Helen nodded. ‘You do look nice today,’ Polly continued. ‘I was saying to Pete, I wondered if we’d be seeing you at church today. Seeing as you and the vicar had quite a long chat the other night.’ Polly was smiling conspiratorially.

The man with Polly greeted Helen with a grin. ‘Hello. I’m Pete. Pleased to meet you. And so’s Reverend Canter, apparently.’

‘What?’ But Helen’s voice was lost as, flanked by the couple, she was swept into the church.

The entire congregation of twenty-five turned to look at her. Queenie, who was sitting near the front, waved the three of them over, and they sat down alongside her. For the next five minutes, Queenie, Pete and Polly introduced Helen, very proprietorially, to the entire church until, at exactly 10 a.m, Simon entered from a side door and the service began. As he introduced the first hymn he gave a little nod of hello to Helen and there was a definite thrum of excitement from the congregation.

*

The service was a good and simple one. Apart from a mild hiatus when Pete and Polly were called out to an emergency heart attack in Trevay, it went smoothly. Helen hadn’t taken communion for many years and was surprisingly moved by the gentleness of Simon’s touch and the blessings as he gave her the bread and wine.

When it came to giving the sign of peace, he made a beeline for her and held her hand a fraction longer than necessary while asking if she’d care to come over to the vicarage after the service to have a glass of sherry with several of the other parishioners. Helen felt she could hardly refuse in front of so many expectant faces.

‘Thank you. Just a quick one.’

Simon visibly relaxed and went on to shake hands with the rest of the throng.

*

‘Come in. Come in.’ He ushered his eight or so guests in to the sitting room. Helen could see that it hadn’t benefited from a woman’s touch for several years, but she noticed the flowers on the piano and the same musky smell that Simon carried with him. He’d tried hard to make it welcoming. She offered to help him hand around the sherry and small cubes of cheese sprinkled with paprika, from which he’d just taken the cling film.

She was surprised to find she enjoyed herself much more than she’d expected. Everybody was so kind and interested in her. She was definitely the celebrity of the day!

‘How do you know the vicar then?’ an elderly man in tweed and corduroy asked her.

‘Well, it’s a very funny story actually.’ Simon hovered with a bowl of cashews. ‘Tell Jack, Helen.’

As Helen told the story, the room fell silent as all eyes hung on every word. ‘I’m glad it was only his shin that I kicked,’ she finished.

‘So’s the vicar,’ laughed Jack, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

Within an hour everybody was heading off for their lunch, or to the pub, and Simon accepted Helen’s offer of collecting the glasses and washing them up in the sink.

They chatted comfortably about nothing in particular, Helen enjoying his friendly chatter and Simon enjoying the rarity of female company.

‘When did you decide the clergy was for you, Simon?’

‘It wasn’t a road to Damascus moment, I’m afraid.’ He smiled. ‘I was going to be a vet at first, then maybe a PE teacher, but my heart kept telling me it was people’s souls I needed to attend to, not their animals or their bodies. And I have never regretted my decision.’

Helen dried her hands and looked at her watch. ‘Golly, it’s a quarter to one. I must leave you to the rest of your day.’

As Simon led her back through the dark hall to the front door, she glanced into his office. Books were crammed into the floor-to-ceiling shelves and an ancient swivel chair with a squishy chintz cushion stood in front of a disordered but charming oak desk, which had a view over to the church. Leaning up against the adjacent window was an enormous surfboard.

‘Simon! Are you a surfer?’