Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

‘I do …’ An image of Gull’s Cry, the dream cottage that she’d made a reality, flitted through her mind. Once the children had flown the nest, she’d realised that she couldn’t go on sharing a Chiswick townhouse with her philandering husband. So she’d asked Gray for a divorce and uprooted herself to Pendruggan. She’d settled in so well, it was hard to believe only two years had gone by since she moved in. And after years of playing housekeeper and homemaker to her family, it was a luxury to be free to do her own thing.

She was brought back to the present by Piran squeezing her hand. ‘Something tells me there’s a “but …” coming,’ he said.

‘No – well, sort of. I do like my independence, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate a bit of spontaneous passion now and again.’

‘Why are women so bloody contrary?’ growled Piran in mock exasperation. ‘If it’s passion you want, maid, I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs.’

‘Oooh, would you – right now?’

Her laughter echoed up the stairs as Piran make good on his threat.

*

Piran’s bed was a big old wooden thing, made, he said, out of the wreckage of a fishing boat that had run aground years before. It was the most comfortable bed Helen had ever known. She stretched herself out then curled herself around Piran as he slept with his back to her. Bosun and Sprat lifted their heads as they were gently bobbed about on a sea of tartan blanket, waiting for her to settle. When she was finally still, they put their heads down and curled their tails round their noses. Piran mumbled something.

Helen lifted her head slightly, the better to hear him. ‘What did you say?’

He spoke a little louder.

‘I said, What time is it, cloth ears.’

‘Seven fifteen.’

‘Want a cup of tea?’

‘Yes please.’

For a big man he moved with a fluidity that never failed to amaze her. She watched as he bent down and picked up his discarded T-shirt from the night before, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull it over his head. As all men do, he looked faintly ridiculous and even vulnerable as he stood up displaying his naked lower half. He checked his testicles unconsciously, before shuffling his feet into an ancient pair of leather slippers and reaching for an equally ancient dressing gown that had been draped over a chair.

Bosun and Sprat’s ears pricked up, their eyes watchful in case this was a false alarm or whether it was looking good for breakfast. At the words ‘Come on, boys’ they both sprang off the bed and followed their owner downstairs.

Helen sank back into the tangle of soft cotton sheets and blankets (Piran was never going to be a duvet man) and closed her eyes. She could hear him talking to the cats and the scrape of their food bowls as he placed them on the tiled floor of the kitchen. She could hear the whoosh of the water from the tap as he filled the kettle, and then the radio came on, tuned to the local news. With a sigh she snuggled into the pillow and was almost drifting back into sleep when she heard a loud ‘Oh, for chrissake!’ and the sound of Piran’s footsteps marching towards the bottom of the stairs.

‘Helen, come down here. They’re on the bloody radio.’

‘Who?’ she called back, but he had returned to the kitchen and was out of earshot.

Hurriedly pulling on one of Piran’s old shirts, she made her way to the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, staring at the battered radio and listening intently.

‘What …?’ she asked.

‘Shhh.’

She shut up and listened.

It seemed to be a phone-in. Pam, the show’s presenter, was talking to a female caller:

Caller: The point is, Pam, this is an important and much-loved part of our heritage. The community still uses the Pavilions building and it mustn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of some global coffee chain.

Pam: This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you run three of Trevay’s cafés and you don’t want the competition?

Caller: It’s not about money. It’s about what the Pavilions means to us as a community.

Pam: And when did you last go to the Pavilions?

Caller: That theatre is a piece of Trevay history and should continue to be so.

Pam: When did you last buy a ticket to attend an event there?

Caller: That’s irrelevant. It’s not a matter of when I last went or when you last—

Pam: I last went six months ago, to an antiques fair. I was shocked at the state of the place. It reeks of damp, the window frames are rusted, some of the panes of glass are cracked and boarded up. It needs a lot of money spending on it. Café Au Lait taking over might just be the best thing that could happen to the Pavilions. Let’s see what the caller on line two has to say.

Second caller: Good morning, Pam. My name is Mrs Audrey Tipton. I have lived in Pendruggan for the last forty years. It’s a quiet, unspoiled village with a strong community—

Pam: Audrey, do you think the Pavilions should be preserved as a theatre?

Audrey: Well, yes, that’s my point. Trevay is a ten-minute drive from my house in Pendruggan and offers everything I need for shopping and entertainment. The Pavilions should be fully restored by the council so that it will once again be the top attraction for our summer visitors.

Pam: The council say it’s a white elephant they can no longer afford. Café Au Lait promise that their redevelopment of the site will not only attract more visitors to the area, it will guarantee jobs for local people. That’s a good thing, surely?

Audrey: I have started an action group with several high-profile local supporters and we will fight the council all the way.

Pam: You’ve got a fighting fund, have you?

Audrey: We are establishing one right now with the help of a local television producer – Penny Leighton. She’s our vicar’s wife and very hands-on with local issues. Also Piran Ambrose—

Pam: A local historian we know well here at Cornwall Radio.

Audrey: Indeed. Piran has assured the action group that he can prove the historical importance of the Pavilions and—

Audrey was cut off mid-flow by Piran pulling the plug. Pointing at the now-silent radio in frustration, he turned to Helen. ‘That bloody Tipton woman! I have assured her blasted action group of no such thing – I haven’t even been approached by them. And if she had bloody well approached me …’

Leaving him ranting at the kitchen sink, punctuating each sentence by slinging one of yesterday’s dinner plates noisily into the bowl, Helen picked up her coffee and tiptoed back to bed.

*

Piran wasn’t the only one left apoplectic by Audrey’s comments. Over at the vicarage, Penny was pacing up and down the kitchen in a fury.

‘How can she be allowed to say that stuff? Now she’s put my name out there, people will think I’m committed to the cause.’

Simon ran a hand over his balding head and ventured tentatively, ‘I know she’s put you in a terrible position, darling, but …’ his chocolate eyes took on a pleading look. ‘I’m sure you could phone a few of your actor friends to help, couldn’t you?’

‘It’s not as simple as that. These people have lives of their own and busy diaries. Plus they’re swamped with requests to do something for nothing. No – I can’t do it. I won’t. Besides, what time do I have to get involved? We’re about to start filming the Tibbs series – I won’t have a moment to call my own until that’s done and dusted.’

‘I see.’ Simon’s expression hovered somewhere between expectation and disappointment.

‘Now don’t give me that look.’ Penny hated letting down her loving and devoted husband, especially when he asked so little of her.