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 turned his chocolate-brown, magnified eyes to hers, and blew out his slender cheeks.
‘I had a disappointment, you see. A few years ago now, but I still think of her. We met on a trip to the Holy Land. One of those organised excursions, you know. We sort of paired up and found ourselves sitting next to each other on the coach each day. Her name is Denise. She’s an RE teacher. Or was. I’m not sure what she’s doing now. Anyway, I knew I had fallen in love with her and we began writing to each other when we got home. She was in Scotland, not far from her parents. We ended up speaking on the phone every day and after a couple of months we met up in Coventry. The cathedral had a special service and we both thought it was a good halfway point. It was a marvellous day. The service was really inspiring. Wonderful music and singing. I got caught up in the elation of it all and over supper I asked her to marry me.’ He looked down at his worn cuffs.
‘And she said no?’ asked Helen.
‘Oh no, she said yes! It was all so exciting. I walked her to her B&B and said goodnight, and in the morning we met briefly at the station before I came back here and she went back to Scotland to make the wedding arrangements.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The night before the ceremony she said she felt unwell and didn’t want to go to the rehearsal. I sat with her and she was crying. I suggested calling the doctor, but she stopped me. She told me she wasn’t ill, it was just that …’ He tipped his head back and looked at the kitchen ceiling. ‘It was just that she didn’t love me enough to marry me after all.’
Helen leaned forward and held his hand as it cradled the sherry glass.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said.
‘I’m not looking for sympathy.’ He took out a hanky and wiped his glasses. ‘But it was a blow. I came here a very young man, twenty-one, freshly ordained and full of heroic ideals. A job where I could make a difference to society, the opportunity to meet my soul mate. The vicarage is such a lovely family house. It would come alive with people in it. Children … that sort of thing.’
They both sat in silence for a moment. Finally Helen said, ‘I think she made a big mistake. I bet she regrets it every day.’
‘Well that’s kind of you, but … it wasn’t God’s will. So,’ he stood up, ‘church on Sunday. I give communion at the ten o’clock service, if you’re up to it?’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’
Simon buttoned up his coat and after apologising again for frightening her earlier in the garden, walked down the path. As he turned towards the vicarage, her eye was caught by Polly waving at her from her window next door and giving her the thumbs-up. Helen returned the thumbs-up and waved back. Two minutes later, back inside and with a fresh glass of sherry in her hand, she wondered what Polly had meant by her gesture. Surely she hadn’t thought that there was anything between her and Simon? They’d only just met. She laughed at the idea – what a joke!
6
The following day was Saturday. Helen had survived two weeks of her new life and hadn’t once wanted to run back to London. It was a gorgeous day and the September sunshine flooded into her bedroom as she drew open the curtains. Today she intended to rig up a washing line and get some laundry out.
The nearest hardware store was in Trevay so she decided to nip over and treat herself to breakfast as well.
The five-mile drive was a pleasure in itself. Up the steep hill out of Pendruggan, past the Dolphin where she tooted at Dorrie as she swept the leaves from the pub porch, along the cliff road where she could see the surf whipping off the ocean and then down another sharp incline into Trevay. With the roof off the little Mini, she revelled in the splashes of sunlight that dappled the lanes. The local drivers were so different to London ones. They were happy to reverse up the road where it was too tight for two cars to pass, and if she returned the favour they always thanked her. Quite unlike Gray, who was horrendous to drive with. As a passenger he was a bully and as a driver, a dictator. He once shouted at an already nervous Helen when she accidentally curbed the wheels of his latest gas guzzler, ‘YOU should NOT have a LICENCE!’
Her journey to Trevay ended without incident and she arrived safely in the harbour car park. She got out and left the car, roof down, doors unlocked, to take in the beauty of the ancient fishing port. Above her, and overlooking the harbour was the Starfish Hotel. Built just before the First World War to accommodate the holidaymakers flocking to Cornwall by train, it had fallen on hard times after Dr Beeching closed the station in the sixties, and cheap, foreign package holidays became all the rage. No rail passengers meant fewer holidaymakers and the old hotel had quietly been allowed to run down. But about fifteen years ago it had been bought up by a stylish and very wealthy widow who persuaded a young, sexy TV chef to take on the kitchens. It was an instant success and was now the shining template for all other faded seaside hotels. Helen thought how much Gray would love it, if and when he came down.
She walked across the road towards the harbour wall. The tide was out and the little fishing boats were resting on their keels in the mud. A seagull swooped down and with a cackle collected up a dead crab from the silt.
Her first stop was the local chandlers and ironmongers. The shelves were lined with cardboard boxes full of everything any self-respecting sailor or builder could want. You could even buy a single screw or washer if necessary. She walked up and down the three aisles until she found a twelve-metre ball of yellow washing line. She took it to the counter and asked the young man what he would recommend to fix it to the old brick privy wall and the back door jamb. He found her some metal screw eyes and swivelly things with some masonry nails and a metal plate with a loop in it. She thought she understood the instructions and tried to pay particular attention when he showed her a useful knot that would withstand a force ten gale.
Pleased with her purchases and the young man’s faith in her abilities, Helen left the shop and walked along the road to the inner harbour. She stood for a couple of moments looking at the way the sun sparkled