Fern Britton - The Holiday Home

Hearing her muttering under her breath, Greg glanced her way. ‘Can’t you just let your sister have the room she wants? She inevitably gets it anyway.’

‘Exactly my point. She always gets Mummy and Daddy’s old bedroom. It’s warmer, bigger and has the best view from upstairs. She knows it’s my turn this year yet she always wangles her way in. You and I deserve that room for a change.’

‘Does it really matter? You’ll be asleep anyway – you won’t see the view. Besides, we get her old bedroom, the blue room.’

‘The blue room that was meant for me and that she took!’

‘Darling, that was almost a quarter of a century ago.’

‘Quite! She had the best room all those years, now I want Mummy and Daddy’s room. I like to go to sleep to the sound of the sea, and wake up to the sunshine. And anyway, the blue room is so dated and dingy. Why should I have Pru’s cast-offs?’

Greg, who’d speeded up to overtake a horse box, pulled back into the inside lane and slowed down. An elderly Vauxhall with several young lads in it overtook him.

‘What did you do that for?’

‘What?’

‘Let those yobs through.’

‘They weren’t yobs. And if they had been, what would be the point of upsetting them and risking them ramming me off the road?’

Connie sighed in frustration and looked again at her watch.

*

Francis tried to look as relaxed as possible, though he couldn’t stop himself casting nervous glances at the speedometer as the needle hovered over 110 mph. His legs were getting numb where they were jammed in the footwell against the cool box.

It made him nervous when Pru drove this way. Understandably. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that at least they would all die together.

This annual race between the sisters for the best room in Atlantic House was a mystery to him. All the rooms were lovely. A bit dated and faded perhaps, but that was part of the charm of the place.

He resisted the desire to brace himself and grip the armrests as Pru advanced aggressively, then braked hard, a few feet from the rear wheels of an innocent Renault Scenic with three bicycles strapped to its roof and a back window full of teddies and a potty.

‘Get out of the way, you moron!’ she hissed, rapidly tugging the stalk that flashed her headlights. ‘Use your mirrors and you’ll see me.’

The Renault resolutely stayed where it was: in the outside lane and pottering along at a reasonable seventy-five miles per hour.

‘Right,’ said Pru, and suddenly swerved to the left then accelerated hard, undertaking the smaller car and blasting her horn as she did so.

The driver and wife stared in astonishment at this madwoman rushing past them in a blur. She swung the steering wheel to the right and, causing them to brake, pulled out in front of them.

‘Ha! That’s better.’

Francis was aware he hadn’t taken a breath for a few seconds and took a quick gasp.

Pru looked over at him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, my love.’

‘Good. I think we’re going to do this journey in record time.’

Francis paled. ‘Great.’

Jeremy’s voice came from the back. ‘Are we stopping to eat?’

‘No,’ said Pru.

Francis rustled around in the cool box at his feet. ‘Would you like me to feed you a bite-sized sushi, Pru?’

Pru didn’t take her eyes from the bumper of the Porsche in front of her. ‘I’m driving.’

‘Righty-ho.’

One hundred and fifteen, one hundred and seventeen …

‘I’ll have one.’ Jeremy’s hand came over the back of his father’s seat. ‘Is there anything to drink?’

His mother cut in. ‘Don’t give him anything to drink. I told you I am not stopping. I want to get to Atlantic House before my idiot sister and her husband stake a claim on our room. When I inherit the house, as eldest child, we shan’t ever have this ridiculous argument again.’

To emphasise her point she rammed her foot on the accelerator.

That was when they heard the wail of a police siren.

*

‘Look – some silly fool has been caught by the cops.’ Greg pointed with delight at the car pulled over on the hard shoulder, an unmarked police car behind it with its blue lights twinkling cheerily across the back window.

‘Oh my God!’ cried Connie. ‘It’s Pru and Francis!’

Abigail reached for her mobile phone and texted her cousin:

Hi! Just passed you. What room do you want? I’ll make sure you get it. Love Abi xx

Connie could now relax. The police would hold Pru up for at least half an hour. Served her right.

‘Anybody want a crisp or a prawn sandwich? They’re next to you in the M and S bag, Abi love.’

As the small picnic was shared out between them, the atmosphere in the car lightened.

Greg upped his speed to just under eighty, Connie sang along to her Michael Bublé CD and Abi had a little snooze. By early afternoon they were in Cornwall.

Another eighty miles and Connie called out, ‘Get your pointy fingers ready!’ This was a family tradition. The first person to spot the sea and point was the winner.

‘I’m sharpening mine!’ said Abi, miming a sharpening movement. Connie laughed. Abi had completed the family ritual.

Up a small hill, past an old coaching pub, and there, at the crest of the road, they saw ahead of them the sparkling Atlantic. All three of them pointed their sharp fingers at the sea and shouted in unison: ‘I see the sea!’

Within minutes they had turned on to the familiar lane, through Lower Barton, on to Higher Barton and along the narrowing and sandy lane that led to Treviscum Bay.

Holidaymakers were carrying surfboards and shepherding children and dogs down to the beach. The tide was low and a warm afternoon sun had made a welcome appearance. Greg drove slowly past them all and then turned right into the tamarisk-lined driveway of Atlantic House. Parking in the shade of a handsome blue hydrangea he pulled on the handbrake and switched the engine off. ‘We’re here.’ He smiled at Connie.

She leaned over and kissed him. Pulling away, she said with a laugh, ‘Quick, let’s nab the main bedroom.’

As they got out of the car and stretched, an attractive older woman with implausibly chestnut hair, red lipstick and tight white jeans, topped off with a jaunty blue-and-white striped T-shirt, came walking round the side of the house. She stood with her arms open wide and a beaming smile.

‘There you are!’

‘Mummy!’ Connie ran to her mother and hugged her.

‘Hello, Dolly!’ said Greg, who knew that his mother-in-law hated this abbreviation of her name. She ignored him and his pathetically tedious joke.

‘Connie, darling! Welcome. Daddy and I have been on tenterhooks all day.’ She kissed her younger daughter.

‘Where is Daddy?’

‘At home, watching the wretched cricket highlights,’ Dorothy replied, turning to Abigail. ‘Abi darling.’ They embraced for a moment, then Dorothy stood back and appraised her granddaughter’s figure. ‘So pretty despite the puppy fat. Never mind – I’ll get that off you. I’ll tell Poppa he’s not to let you eat any of his chocolates.’

‘Mummy—’ started Connie, about to chastise her mother for picking on Abi’s weight, but she was cut off by Dorothy.

‘Come on, Connie, I want to hear all your news. Let’s put the kettle on. Greg – bring in the bags, will you?’

Dorothy swept Connie into the house, leaving Greg and a wounded Abigail to carry the luggage. Abigail kept her head down to hide the hot tears she could feel pricking her eyes. Greg put his arm round her. ‘Abi, she’s a silly, jealous old woman. Forget it. There’s nothing wrong with you. If anything, I reckon you need fattening up – and I shall make it my business to take you out for a cream tea every day.’