Fern Britton - Hidden Treasures

‘A bit. We Cornish boys have to, by law.’ They both smiled. ‘I might go out this afternoon, actually. The tide’ll be coming in about two p.m., so just right.’

‘The sea must be freezing.’

‘Surprisingly warm right now. October is usually the warmest month. I have a good winter wetsuit though. Boots, gloves, helmet – the lot.’

‘Well, Reverend Simon Canter, I never had you down as a surf dude.’ He looked at his feet and scuffed one shoe over the other.

‘I-I’d be happy to take you, if you wanted to come.’

‘I can’t surf.’

‘I’ll teach you. I’m very patient and by next summer I’ll have you ready to enter the World Championships down at Fistral Beach.’

She laughed aloud and he smiled back, glad that whatever signals he was sending, they seemed to be working.

‘Great,’ said Helen. ‘Let’s go this afternoon.’

*

Helen nipped home to get her swimming costume and a towel and quickly made a flask of tomato soup to warm them up afterwards. This was fun. A friend to play with at last. She loaded up her beach bag and added a packet of custard creams, just in case.

Simon was parked outside, his surfboard on the roof rack. She hurried down the garden path and hopped in next to him. As he pulled away, he tooted his horn merrily at Polly, who was weeding her front garden with Pete. The pair of them straightened up and waved.

Their first stop was the Trevay Surf Shack, a shop devoted to everything surfy. Helen was poured into a skin-tight wetsuit and fitted with a beginner’s board, both of which she could hire for the day.

‘You’ll be wanting these as well, girl,’ said Skip, the Kiwi shop owner. Flattered at being referred to as a girl, Helen gladly took the boots, gloves and helmet he proffered.

*

‘Right. These are the rules.’ Simon was kneeling on the beach with his wetsuit pulled up only to his waist. Helen looked appreciatively at his strong, hairy chest.

Who’d have thought he’d have a bod like that? she thought to herself.

‘The water likes to find a deep part of the beach to suck itself back out to sea. Look at it now. You see where the smooth water is? Well, that’s usually where the rip or undertow is strongest. Always swim where the water is breaking. It’s safer. Once you’re strong enough, we’ll use the rip to get out to the back of the waves. OK?’

‘Is this knowledge something you Cornish boys are born with?’

‘No, I used to be a lifeguard.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Before I finally chose my vocation.’

‘You are full of surprises! Is that how you got those abs?’

He looked down at his body. ‘Well, I run a bit as well.’

He stood up and swiftly pulled his wetsuit on.

‘Can I just get my balance by holding on to your arm?’ Helen asked as she wriggled first one leg then the other into her suit.

Simon was so unused to this kind of interaction with a woman that he accidentally brushed her bosom as he tried to hold her elbow.

‘I’m so terribly sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ laughed Helen, ‘Can you zip me up?’

Her slender back was also sprinkled with freckles and his hand felt weak as he pulled at the zip. Please, please, God. Is this IT?

Helen was all for jumping straight into the surf, but Simon held her back.

‘There’s one more thing I have to show you, which is how to stand on the board. Lie down and pretend there’s a wave coming. Paddle madly, and at the right moment I want you to jump up on to both feet and stand sideways. OK? Let’s go!’

It was much more difficult than it looked. Catching the wave at the right moment was incredibly hard, and as for jumping up on her feet in one smooth movement – ridiculous! Her legs felt like jelly, her arms were pulled out of their sockets and her lungs were full of sea water. Apart from that, it was lovely. Simon was patient and helpful, just as her father had been, but after forty-five minutes, she was getting cold and had had enough.

Her body felt lead-heavy as she walked back up the beach to her bag. She wrapped her big beach towel round her shoulders and sat watching Simon effortlessly catch wave after wave while she drank all the tomato soup.

*

Piran Ambrose stood at the top of the beach with Jack, his terrier, snuffling in the grass of the dunes. What was that woman doing, surfing with the vicar? Piran had known Simon since they were schoolboys together. It was Piran who had got Simon back on his feet after Denise had jilted him. They weren’t exactly best friends, but they were mates and Piran would always look out for him. Simon was someone who didn’t deserve to be hurt again.

Piran walked down the beach towards Helen.

‘Hello, boy! Where have you come from?’ Helen tickled the ears of the little Jack Russell who was trying to get a custard cream out of its packet. A shadow fell over her.

‘He’s mine. He won’t pee on you.’

She knew who it was before she looked up.

‘I‘m Piran Ambrose and this is Jack.’ He held out his large, rough hand. She stood up and shook it.

‘I‘m Helen Merrifield. I’m sorry we met in such awkward circumstances before, and thank you for letting me know about my washing line.’

‘That’s all right. What you doing down here with the vicar?’

‘Oh … er … he’s teaching me to surf, but I got tired. He’s very good.’

They both turned to watch Simon as a wave crashed over him and he fell off the board.

‘I taught him everything he knows,’ said Piran.

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows. ‘Oh really? He told me he learnt when he was a lifeguard.’

‘That’s true. But I was the lifeguard who taught him.’

His full lips smiled, revealing rather nice teeth, but finding she disliked him more than ever, Helen busied herself with picking up the packet of biscuits and stuffing it back in her bag.

‘What are you doing down here? You’re a London woman through and through, aren’t you? Husband divorced you, I expect.’

She stood up quickly, her eyes burning. ‘How dare you! I’m divorcing him, actually,’ she carried on across his laughter. ‘And what I am doing here has nothing to do with you.’

‘Well it does when your knickers are flying about my place of work.’

She drew herself up to her full five foot six. ‘Mr Ambrose, it is obvious that we have got off on the wrong foot. I suggest that in future we steer clear of each other.’

‘Fine.’ And with that, he whistled to Jack, waved to Simon and walked back up the beach.

Simon strode, dripping, towards her. ‘Has Piran gone?’ She nodded. ‘Damn. I wanted to thank him for all the work he’s putting in on the churchyard restoration plans. He’s our local historian, you know. He can tell you things about the families here going back hundreds of years. Lovely bloke. I am proud to call myself his friend. What did he want?’

‘I really couldn’t tell you,’ said Helen, and smiled tightly.

*

Later that night when she was on her own, wallowing in a steamy bath by candlelight, she thought about Simon and Piran. One handsome but horrible, the other not so handsome but sweet. How could Simon be friends with that great Hagrid of a man? She lit a scented Jo Malone candle and tried, unsuccessfully, to banish all thoughts of Piran Ambrose from her mind.

The next morning, Helen woke again to brilliant sunshine. The TV weather forecast had predicted a warm, dry week ahead. Good news and excellent for gardening. After breakfast she hopped over the back garden wall and knocked on the door of Tony’s shepherd’s hut.

‘’Oo’s that?’ his voice asked.

‘Mrs Merrifield from next door. I was wondering if you’d help me with the garden this week.’