of the house next door – had come round with mugs of camomile tea for the unimpressed removal men, who would definitely have preferred a more energising builder’s brew. Helen hadn’t had a chance to chat to her properly or find out anything about her, but since then there had been several occasions when she’d looked over into the garden and caught sight of a youngish man in a navy-blue boiler suit, sitting on the steps of the hut boiling a kettle on his camping stove. This must be Tony, Helen realised. She was glad to have an excuse to go round and find out more.
‘Is that all, duck? Want a magazine? I got some good ones there. Julia Roberts is a lovely girl, ain’t she? I like to read about ’er. And Fiona Whatsit what reads the news. Not enough about ’er. She’s very popular in my ’ouse, you know.’
‘I’ll have a bottle of wine please. I’ll take it round to Polly.’
‘Righto.’ She handed Helen a dusty bottle. ‘This has been ’ere since the Easter Raffle. Should be good by now.’
4
The smell of woodsmoke drifted over from Polly’s chimney and mingled with the damp of the conkers lined up in a row on the doorstep.
Polly opened the door with a smile.
‘Hello, Helen. Welcome to Candle Cottage. Don’t mind the conkers. I put them there to keep the spiders away – apparently they don’t like the smell of them. It’s for Tony, the big softie. He hates them! What can I do for you?’
She greeted Helen with a kiss and showed her into a room decorated with beachcombing finds and filled with vintage furniture.
‘Polly, what a wonderful room – is that a real crystal ball?’
‘Oh, that’s my ball to do the village fayres. I like a bit of fortune-telling, but only for fun. Occasionally I’m right. Little Michaela up the way came to see me last year with a broken heart and fretting about her GCSEs. I told her that her life would change in twelve months, and now she’s got five grade Cs and is five months’ pregnant! We’re all very proud of her. Cup of tea?’
‘How about a glass of wine? I’ve brought you a bottle from Queenie’s.’
‘Proper job! Let me find some glasses from the whatnot.’ Polly went to her dark wood shelves and took out two original Babycham Saucer glasses. ‘How are you settling in to village life then?’ She poured the wine and sat down on a Moroccan pouffe. ‘A bit quieter than London, I expect. I’d have come round to see you before now, but I was worried you’d think I was being nosy.’
‘It’s certainly quieter than London, which can only be a good thing. Polly, I want to pick your brains. I need a gardener and Queenie suggested Tony – the man from your garden. Does he actually live with you?’
‘Well, when his mum died, I couldn’t bear to see him on his own so I offered him the use of the hut and he loves it. He’s a super lad and will get your garden back on track. Don’t spoil him, though, and make sure he knows who’s boss.’
‘Queenie calls him Simple Tony. Is he … ?’
‘Don’t go confusing simple for stupid,’ said Polly. ‘He ain’t stupid. But he does have a tendency to take everything very literally. I once told him I was dying for a cup of tea and then had to stop him dialling 999!’ Polly laughed. ‘I’ll send him round to you in the morning and you can show him what needs doing. More wine?’
They sat and talked until it was quite dark outside. Helen filled her in on her previous life and then it was Polly’s turn.
‘Have you heard about Green Magic? It’s all about working with the power of nature and Mother Earth. Any little potion or spell I can rustle up for you? I find it complements my main work as a paramedic with the ambulance service.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Absolutely not! I’m highly skilled – won awards and everything. So, if there’s any magical or medical emergency, don’t hesitate to call me! Would you like supper? I’m vegan, mind.’
‘That’s sweet of you but maybe next time. Thank you, Polly. I look forward to seeing Tony in the morning. Bye!’
*
At 6.45 a.m. Helen was woken by hammering on the front door. Scrambling from her bed she peered out of the window. It was just getting light and she could make out the top of a man’s head. He was wearing a thick green check lumberjack coat and carrying a spade. Opening the window, she called down, ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
‘I don’t know?’ said the top of the head, crouching now in order to look through the porthole. ‘I’ve come to ’elp you. Polly said that I was to come this mornin’ and do gardening? I’m right, I know.’
‘Just a minute.’ This has to be Tony, thought Helen. She ran downstairs and threw open the front door. ‘Good morning. It’s very early, Tony. I’m not dressed yet.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Do you want to come back a bit later. In about an hour?’
‘No thank you. I am here to do the garden.’
‘Well yes, OK. Follow me, then.’
She took Tony out to the back garden, pausing only to slip on her wellies.
‘While I’m getting dressed, perhaps you’d like to start on the big bed here.’ She pointed at an eight-foot-square raised bed where the brambles were at least six feet high.
‘Just weed it and clear it and then I’ll be down to help you. OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No thankee. I’ve got me Ribena.’ He patted his canvas shoulder bag. ‘Don’t hurry, lady. Tony will be all right.’
‘OK. See you in an hour or so.’
Back indoors, Helen struggled to get her wellies off her slightly sweaty bare feet, put the kettle on and looked at the clock: 6.55 a.m. Realising there was no point in going back to bed, she made herself a cup of milky coffee, opened up her laptop and logged on. There were seventeen new messages, fifteen of which were spam. But there was one from Penny and one from Gray. She looked at Gray’s first.
Darling, longing to see you and get the hell out of town. Can you give me a number for the best hotel you can think of? Better book a double in case I can’t escape the bloody girlfriend. Thanks, darling. Your Gray.
‘I am not your bloody secretary and you are no longer MY Gray!’ Helen muttered to herself, but nonetheless she sent a polite email with the number of the swish Starfish Hotel in nearby Trevay.
The Starfish was exactly Gray’s kind of place. In summer you couldn’t move in the old harbour car park for Porsches and Bentleys, and the Starfish was always awash with visiting celebrities pretending they were staycationing (before they jetted off to the South of France or the Bahamas). The Cornish locals didn’t mind a bit. If the townies with more money than sense wanted to spend their bucks down here, well, why not! Never underestimate the
