would he explain this to Pru? ‘Shit shit shit,’ he said again.
*
Normally, Francis liked nothing better than a trip to the shops in Higher Barton. He enjoyed renewing old acquaintances with the shopkeepers and chatting to the baker about his latest lines. Today, however, he had found it impossible to concentrate on the lengthy explanation the baker had given him about his new range of gluten-free products.
‘Would you like to try a loaf? It’s hard to tell the difference.’
Francis had ended up buying four more loaves than he’d intended. He’d wondered, with more anxiety than was necessary, whether there was any room in the freezer, admonishing himself for not checking before he’d come out. He’d fretted all the way home, trying to focus on the loaves instead of contemplating what would happen when Belinda arrived.
‘Francis, there you are.’ Pru was lying on a comfortable lounger outside the sliding kitchen doors, on the sunny terrace.
‘Hello, Pru,’ Francis called over-brightly, setting down the six or seven plastic carrier bags that were cutting into his fingers. ‘Let me empty the car and I’ll make us a cup of coffee.’
‘Did you get my paper?’
‘Yes, dear!’ He gave her a beaming smile, hoping that it would cover any remnants of guilty thoughts about Belinda.
Pru gazed at him steadily. Frowning slightly. Oh God, did she suspect? He looked back at her, unable to move.
She spoke. ‘Well, go on then. I’m waiting.’
‘What for?’ He felt a squirt of fear in his stomach.
‘Get. My. Paper.’
Weak with relief, he rummaged in the carrier bags: ‘Yes. Yes. Of course, darling.’
*
‘What’s for lunch, Dad?’ Jeremy and Abi walked in through the sliding doors bringing sandy feet with them. Francis visibly jumped again.
‘Don’t creep up on me! How many times have I told you! You’ll give me a heart attack!’
‘OK. Chill, Dad. What’s making you so nervy today?’
‘Nervy?’ Francis snapped. ‘I am never nervy!’ He looked at the two pairs of sandy feet. ‘Get outside and clean those bloody feet. Both of you. This is my holiday, too, you know.’
‘Blimey, Dad, no need to shout.’
‘I am not shouting,’ shouted Francis.
‘Sorry, Uncle Francis. Come on, Jem.’ Abi steered her cousin outside and threw over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be back to help you lay the table in a minute, Uncle Francis.’
Francis slowly resumed unpacking and storing the groceries, then made a start on washing the lettuce for his organic poached salmon salad. His thoughts were a mess. Should he tell Pru about Belinda? How would he introduce Belinda? How long was she planning to visit? Oh God, oh God.
‘Francis?’ Pru’s querulous voice made him jump yet again. He clutched his chest with a damp lettuce hand. He turned to face her. ‘Yes, darling?’
She studied him intently, until he felt as if his mind was being read. Eventually she said, ‘Are you all right? You look very pink and glazed.’
‘I’m fine. Just, erm, thinking about some jobs I need to do.’
‘Oh, good. Would you put the dripping tap in our en-suite basin on the list? Get Greg to help. He does bugger-all when he’s here. When’s lunch?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Bring it up to me, would you? I’m expecting a conference call any minute.’
‘Yes, Pru.’ But she’d already left the room.
Abi and Jem reappeared with clean feet and found Francis looking worse than ever.
‘Dad, you don’t look at all well. Sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’
Francis did as he was told.
Abi started to lay the table. ‘I’ll fix lunch, Uncle Francis, and Jem and I will wash up. You need a rest.’
Francis looked so poorly that even Pru noticed. Mildly concerned, she graciously vacated the big bedroom saying that she would take her conference call in the rumpus room, while Jeremy drew the curtains and settled his father down for a nap.
‘I’m absolutely fine, Jem.’
‘You’re not, Dad. You don’t look yourself. What time did you get up this morning?’
‘Not too early. Five-ish.’
Jeremy raised his eyebrows as his father lay down on the bed. ‘Did you run?’
‘Only a little jog.’
‘Well, there you are. You’re just a bit knackered. Get some kip and we’ll see you later.’ Jeremy pulled a soft rug over his father’s legs and left him to it.
Lying alone in the semi-darkness, Francis could hear the quiet roar of the ocean through an open window. His mind was in shreds. What should he do? Belinda was coming. Belinda was coming. Belinda was coming. Come on, man – pull yourself together – have a sleep and the answer will come to you. Belinda is coming, Belinda is coming. The rhythm of these words took him into a restless slumber.
*
Downstairs, the rest of the family sat down to the tasty salmon salad Francis had prepared. There was an odd silence as they ate, missing Francis’s attentions. Everyone finished quickly. Thanks to a bit of teamwork, they tidied up the kitchen in no time and cleared off to do their own thing.
‘Come along, Henry.’ Dorothy was standing impatiently by the back door. ‘It’s at least forty minutes to Lostwithiel.’
‘Lostwithiel? Why are you going there?’ asked Connie.
‘There are some staddle stones for sale. Supposed to have come from Daphne du Maurier’s house in Ready Money Cove. They’d look rather good on our drive.’
‘What are staddle stones, Granny?’ asked Abi.
Henry answered, ‘Those stone mushroom things. I’m not prepared to pay over the odds for them, Dorothy.’
Dorothy waved a hand airily. ‘Your Poppa has short arms and long pockets. Now come along, Henry.’
Abi looked at Jem. ‘Fancy a bike ride?’
‘Sure,’ he said, draining his glass of squash.
Abi dropped a kiss on her father’s head. ‘Bye,
