in the vicarage, Simon Canter gazed out of his study window overlooking the church car park. He smiled and returned Piran Ambrose’s wave as he drove off in his rusting Toyota truck. Good man, Piran. A bit surly, but a good heart and he was really helping the Graveyard Committee in identifying which plots needed to be renovated, relocated or simply removed all together.
Just beyond the church was the churchyard, and beyond that Helen Merrifield’s back garden. Simon was in love. She was perfect; a goddess of medium height with what looked like shapely long legs. He hadn’t been able to see much because of the gardening trousers she’d been wearing, but he had noticed her full bosom when she’d taken her coat off and stood there in her T-shirt looking at his ankle. Her hair was dark auburn with a natural curl. Her eyes amber. Her creamy skin was scattered with freckles. Her lips stained as if with raspberry juice, plump and wide …
He sighed. Meeting Helen had shaken his orderly world. He’d felt the same when he first saw Denise and then, a couple of years after the Denise debacle, when he’d met Hillary, a woman in her thirties who came to him for confirmation classes. Week after week they’d sat here in his study, just the two of them, discussing her faith and the challenge of believing in a God who didn’t show himself so magically these days; no vivid dramas and burning bushes like in the Old Testament. Her faith had been strong, but she seemed to be having trouble allowing God to accept her as she was. Simon had high hopes of getting her to trust God and eventually trust him too. Then her trust would turn to love and he would have the wife he so very much wanted.
What’s that old saying? Simon thought. ‘Man plans and God laughs.’ Never had it been truer than when Hillary confessed she was struggling with her lesbian feelings towards one of her married colleagues. Sometimes Simon didn’t like God’s sense of humour.
And now there was Helen Merrifield. Her name sounded like crystal water sparkling into a little pool.
‘Canter S.,’ he heard his Latin teacher’s voice in his head, ‘get on with your work.’
He looked down at the scribbled notes he was making for tomorrow’s sermon. All nonsense. ‘Come on, man, get a grip.’ Living alone was a wonderful excuse for talking aloud to yourself. ‘Yes, yes, now where was I? Helen Merrifield … did she get my flowers? Did she like them? Shall I go over and see her? Erm … no, I’ll phone her instead. Drat, don’t have her number. She’ll phone me. I am in the book. And if she doesn’t, I’ll see her at church tomorrow. And I’ll talk to her about … stuff. Yes. Now, what am I doing? Writing tomorrow’s sermon. That’s it. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Which he did, and tried to knuckle down to the task at hand, but Simon was unable to keep thoughts of Helen at bay for long.
‘I wonder what she’s doing now?’ he mused.
*
Helen was on the beach. She’d followed the path from the village green down the side of Pendruggan Farm and walked half a mile across the fields from Gull’s Cry to where the Atlantic Ocean swept in and out of Shellsand Bay. It was a beach which the holiday visitors rarely found as it was awkward to trek down to, especially with windbreaks, cool boxes and buggies. Today it was empty.
She walked down to the tideline and turned over lumps of seaweed with her wellies, looking for interesting bits of wood or shells. She found a cork ring attached to some green fishing net and a beautiful piece of slate shaped like a heart. She put them both in her pocket and then walked down to the sea. The breeze was mild, ruffling her wavy hair, and with every buffet she felt her humiliation at Piran’s hands slowly dissipate. The tide was out quite a way, but the swell was big and she spotted two surfers looking like seals in their wetsuits. They were lying on their boards waiting to catch a big wave. She took a great lungful of the salty air and reminded herself that this was why she was here. The wildness of the elements and the freedom of a life without responsibility. She watched as the surfers paddled furiously just ahead of a big breaker and then leapt up on to their boards and expertly rode the wave almost right up on to the beach.
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?
8
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.
