it going? You’ll never guess what … I’m working on a new costume drama based on the books of Mavis Crewe. Have you read them? She’s a poor man’s Daphne du Maurier, but one or two of her books have cracking stories. We’re scouting for a location in Cornwall and, having looked at the map, I’ve told the location manager to come and recce your village. I might come too – can I stay with you? It’ll be in the next month or so. Let me know. Love, Penny
Helen smiled and bashed out a quick reply:
Yes, any time! X
*
After she’d taken a bath and made herself presentable, Helen went out into the garden to see how Tony was faring. There was a bonfire smoking by the compost heap and the rich red soil of the flower bed was turned over neatly with not a weed in sight. Tony was sitting on the upturned wheelbarrow eating a pasty and drinking his Ribena.
‘Is that all right for ’ee, missus?’
‘Tony, that’s wonderful,’ said Helen. ‘Shall we crack on with some more?’
Together they worked for the rest of the day, stopping only for a quick sandwich – chicken salad for Helen and raspberry jam for Tony – until by sunset all of the large raised beds were cleared.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘I’ll ask Polly and tell ’ee later, missus.’
Tony collected his jacket, his bag and his spade and jumped over the low wall into Polly’s garden. Helen watched as he walked to the steps of his shepherd’s hut. He turned and waved to her, then went inside. She could see him turning on the light and drawing the blue gingham curtains.
What a dear man Tony was. Helen thought how fortunate he was to live here and not in a big city. In London he would surely be among the outcast homeless, forgotten by society. But here, among the caring community of Pendruggan, he was protected and safe. She was safe too. Safer than she had felt in years.
Helen turned and walked straight into an imposing male figure dressed head-to-toe in black. She screamed.
5
‘Ssssh sssh. It’s okay.’ The man held her arms tight. ‘I’ve just come to introduce myself.’
Helen kicked out at the stranger’s ankles and he let go of her, hopping about in pain. She ran to her back door, darted inside and bolted it behind her. Two seconds later, there was a gentle knocking.
‘I’m so sorry if I startled you. My name is Canter, Simon Canter. I’m the vicar of Holy Trinity Church here in the village. I’ve only come to say hello. Actually, I think my ankle is bleeding a bit.’
Helen slid the bolt open and looked at him. Amidst the black of his coat and trousers she saw the distinctive white dog collar.
‘Oh my God. You frightened the life out of me.’
‘I am awfully sorry. Shall I come back another time?’
‘No, it’s fine. Come in.’ She stepped aside and he walked into the kitchen.
‘Would you like me to look at your ankle?’
He rolled up his trousers to reveal a white and hairless leg with a long scrape and blood starting to ooze down his shin.
‘Oh God, I’ll get a plaster.’
Once he was fixed and she had apologised for her blaspheming, she brought out the sherry bottle and a tube of Pringles. He made himself comfortable at the kitchen table.
‘I knocked at your front door, but as there was no answer, and I could see you moving about in the back garden, I walked around the side to find you. Promise! Don’t think I’m a Peeping Tom or stalker or anything like that!’
Helen wondered if she would have been able to describe him to a police artist if he really had been an attacker; he had the kind of face you would be hard-pressed to recall. He was slim, slightly under six foot tall, with chocolate-brown eyes enlarged by his spectacles. A shiny bald head made him look older than he was, but she guessed he was about her age. He smiled at her as she looked at him. A lovely smile. Full of humour and sincerity. He had goodness and kindness emanating from him which was instantly likeable.
‘I thought I would just pop round, say hello, and welcome you to the parish and the church. Are you a churchgoer?’
‘I haven’t been for a long time. Not that I’m not a believer! It just hasn’t been on my agenda for a while.’
‘Perhaps I can persuade you to come along and meet some of the flock? We don’t bite!’ Simon’s Adam’s apple wobbled as he laughed. ‘Do you play the guitar? Or piano?’
Helen felt panicky. ‘No, not really. Not at all, actually. Why?’
‘Christmas is nearer than you think and we like to put on a bit of an entertainment in the church. Raise some much-needed funds with ticket sales. The churchyard needs a lot of work. Some of our graves are very old and getting rather dangerous. The parish council are concerned about headstones falling on children or elderly visitors. It all costs money.’ He drained his glass and she poured him another. ‘We may also have to move some graves and re-inter the remains to make a bit more room. The local archaeologist and county council need to be involved with that.’
‘Well, I’d certainly be happy to buy a ticket for the show.’
‘Excellent. How many?’
‘Just me. And maybe my daughter, if she’s down.’
‘Can we persuade your husband?’ He looked up with something in his eyes she couldn’t quite read.
‘I doubt it. We’re separated.’
‘A single lady in the village! Oh my goodness, I wouldn’t want you, or anyone else for that matter, to misconstrue my visit here!’ More Adam’s apple action.
‘I am sure your wife wouldn’t mind.’ She smiled.
‘Well, you see,’ he coughed, ‘I am a single man myself, and as a clergyman I have to be circumspect about my demeanour and behaviour. The village gossips love any excuse.’
Helen, swallowing a laugh, said, ‘You are safe with me, I assure you!’
He looked crestfallen.
‘Not that I don’t think you are an attractive man.’
He perked up.
‘It’s just that I … erm … am not ready for … anything like that … at the moment.’
‘It hasn’t been my good fortune to find a lady kind enough to take me on.’ Simon looked at his shoes. ‘Although I live in hope that one day the Good Lord will find a lid to fit my pot, as it were.’ The Adam’s apple was on a bungee rope.
He took another large slug of sherry. Helen, feeling that she was about to hear his life story, topped up his glass, and then her own. She waited.
He
