The Holiday Home (12 page)

Downstairs, Connie was littering up the kitchen with her mother and father. Henry had bought himself an iPad while on the trip to see staddle stones in Lostwithiel. He didn’t have a clue how it worked so Connie, not exactly a high-tech whizz herself, was attempting to get it up and running.

‘Don’t keep touching the screen, Henry, you’ll put fingerprints all over it,’ said Dorothy.

‘Mummy, you’re supposed to touch the screen, that’s why it’s called touch screen,’ said Connie irritably, trying to make sense of the instructions.

Dorothy was getting bored and impatient.

‘Why did you buy the thing, you silly man?’

Henry frowned at her. ‘Why don’t you go and decide where to put your bloody staddle stones and leave me and Connie to sort this out.’

Dorothy was huffy. ‘It’s starting to rain.’

‘Well, make some coffee then. Francis has washed the machine out,’ said Connie.

Francis heard this and was dismayed. He took pride in cleaning out the coffee machine and really enjoyed making the first pot with a sparkling appliance. It was clearly not to be. Gathering up the hoover and his trug of polishes and dusters, he put his bum to the drawing-room door and pushed it open.

Greg was lolling on the sofa, squashing the newly plumped cushions. He was on his mobile. He signalled Francis to sit down and be quiet. ‘I’m glad you had a good time … of course I’m not jealous … So what’s Adrian like? … Is he? … Does he? … Did he? … Sounds a lot of fun … What did you wear? … What time did he drop you off? … That’s late, you must be tired this morning … Mmmm … yeah … It’s OK here … Yeah, having a great time … Connie’s really brown, nice tan marks … Not jealous, are you? … ha ha ha … OK, you’d better answer it … Speak later … Same to you … bye, bye.’ He hung up. ‘Janie,’ he explained.

‘Ah,’ said Francis. ‘How did the date go?’

Greg put a fingertip in his mouth and started to bite the nail. ‘Too bloody well.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

Greg stopped chewing and gave a half-hearted smile. ‘Yeah, sure it’s good. For her. But not for my mate. I mean, he really likes her.’

‘But he’s married.’

‘Sometimes, it’s not enough to have one woman in your life.’

Francis thought of Belinda and coloured. ‘Hmmm.’

They sat in silence for a bit before Greg said, ‘If my friend left his wife for her, it would cause a hell of a stink.’

‘Divorces are never easy.’

‘No.’

‘Does he have children?’

‘Yes. It would be horrible for Abi.’

‘Abi? That’s a coincidence. Same name as your daughter.’

A look of fear fled through Greg’s eyes. Then he laughed, ‘Oh! I see what you mean! Never thought of that. Ha! Abi! Yep. Popular name and all that. Anyway …’ He slapped his hands on his knees, stood up and beamed at Francis. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Weren’t you looking for me?’

‘No. I want to vacuum round.’

‘Oh, right, right. I’ll get out of your way then.’

He patted Francis on the shoulder and walked out. Francis looked at the squashed cushions on the sofa and replumped them.

The phone rang twice and the postman knocked once. Each interruption sent Francis’s heart a message to stop beating for a second. Belinda had said she was arriving at lunchtime.

One bathroom left to do. What time was lunchtime? Twelve? One? Two? Oh God, this waiting was purgatory.

By two thirty there was still no sign of Belinda. Connie’s lunch, of shop-bought Scotch eggs, bagged lettuce and plastic-potted potato salad, would have played havoc with Francis’s digestion at the best of times, but today it was impossible for him to even sit at the table. The synthetic smell of cheap salad cream was the last straw.

‘Nothing for me, thank you, Connie. I had a big breakfast. I’m going to get some fresh air. Do excuse me.’

He went to the front door and stepped out into the watery sunshine. The clouds were parting at last. He sat on the stone bench, underneath a beautiful overhanging apple tree with low-lying, thick branches. He had overheard Henry saying to Dorothy only yesterday that they should get the tree surgeon in to trim it back. Francis liked the seclusion that it afforded him. The garden really was amazing. An Albertine rose bush bloomed lusciously nearby. He drew in great breaths of salty air, full of the aroma of freshly mown grass. His nerves were giving him nausea. He closed his eyes, hoping it would pass.

‘Frankie! Look at you sitting among the apples and roses. Just like Romeo waiting for Juliet!’ His eyes snapped open. Belinda was coming towards him. Francis jumped up so quickly at the sound of her voice that he forgot about the branches that were dangerously close overhead. As he stood, his skull took an almighty crack from a particularly thick branch.

‘Argh, Jesus!!’ Francis clutched at his head and then, looking up, he saw Belinda heading towards him. The bump on his head had obviously been a nasty one; as he took his hand away from his skull he saw blood on his fingers. Nausea welled within him. Belinda, who had looked quite normal to begin with, suddenly seemed crystal sharp, almost as if he were watching Henry’s HD television, then her outline grew smudged and wonky as if in a dream. Her ample bosoms were dancing like dandelion heads in a soft breeze. Her voice was coming and going in waves of sound he couldn’t make out. Closer and closer she got to him, her mouth moving and her arms outstretched. So close was she now that the light of the sun was dimmed, while the ground beneath him rose up and tipped his stone seat to the left. Her lips were almost on his own. Then darkness came.

Later he was aware of a softness beneath his horizontal body. He heard voices talking quietly nearby.

Belinda first: ‘I saw him sitting there, probably waiting for me, bless him. Then he hit his head on one of those branches and was out cold.’

Greg’s voice: ‘My dear, what a terrible shock for you. Let me get you a brandy.’

Belinda again: ‘Don’t mind if I do. I feel a bit shaky.’

Greg: ‘And I’ll join you, naturally. I’d never let a lady drink on her own.’

He heard footsteps on the front porch, then Pru’s voice: ‘Francis! For God’s sake, get up. You’ll get damp through lying on the grass like that.’

Belinda: ‘He’s had a nasty knock. This gentleman helped me get him flat. Frankie’s bumped his head on the stone, look.’

Pru’s voice now; loud and close in his ear: ‘Francis! Get up.’

Belinda: ‘He’s hurt. We’ve called an ambulance.’

Pru’s voice, cold: ‘Who are you?’

Pru was scanning the woman in front of her. She was on the pretty side – if overweight could be pretty – and overtly girly and feminine. Pru felt rather sorry for her.

‘My name’s Belinda. I work with Frankie.’

‘Ah! Belinda. My name is Pru and I am married to Frankie.’ She corrected herself: ‘Francis.’

Belinda: ‘How do you do.’

Greg again: ‘Here, get this brandy down.’

Pru: ‘Francis doesn’t like brandy.’

Greg: ‘Oh, he does. But only when you’re not around. Besides, this is for Belinda and me.’

Somewhere above the sound of talk and seagulls Francis could hear a siren. The ambulance, he supposed, as he drifted off back into darkness.

*

The hospital discharged him a few hours later, when they were quite sure the bump on his head was nothing serious. They gave him a leaflet to read on watching out for signs of concussion, a box of paracetamol and advised bed rest.

‘Bed rest! He seems perfectly fine,’ interjected Pru as the doctor tended to her husband.

‘Your blood pressure is a little high, Mr Meake. Are you under a lot of stress?’

‘My husband is
not
stressed
or
anxious. If anyone is, it’s me. My masseur says she’s never felt such tense and knotted shoulders as mine.’

The doctor ignored her and spoke to Francis.

‘What about your diet? You’re a bit underweight.’

‘His diet would make Gwyneth Paltrow look as if she’s been on the Hobnobs!’ answered Pru, as though Francis were a small child unable to answer for himself.

The doctor admonished her: ‘Please, Mrs Meake, let your husband answer.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Francis.

‘Well, you have a nasty bump on the head and it appears from the blood tests that you are also a little anaemic. I want you to eat lots of leafy green vegetables, dried fruits, nuts. Try a steak every now and then, if you can. And try not to worry about things. Take it easy for the next day or two. OK?’

Pru, who had followed the ambulance to hospital in her own car, was driving him back to Atlantic House now.

‘I’m sorry about all the fuss and bother,’ Francis said.

‘I think it’s your friend, Belinda, you should apologise to. You gave her quite a shock.’

‘I was surprised to see her.’ He looked down at his grazed knuckles.

‘She claimed she
works
with you,’ Pru snorted, and gave him a short glance.

‘That’s something of an exaggeration. I told you, she’s on the PTA and is a bit of a busybody.’

‘She called you Frankie.’

Francis started to feel sick – his head throbbed. ‘Yes. It’s very annoying.’

They settled into a familiar silence. Francis leaned his head on the half-open window, taking deep breaths.

The car rolled into Higher Barton and finally down the narrow, sweet-smelling lane leading to Treviscum Bay and Atlantic House. Pru helped Francis out and up to their room. As he cleaned his teeth he saw the graze on his cheekbone and the swelling above his eye.

‘That’ll be a shiner tomorrow,’ said Pru, behind him. ‘Come on,
Frankie
, let’s get you into bed.’ She passed him a glass of water and his tablet.

‘Thank you, Pru.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘For looking after me.’

‘Hmm. Don’t get used to it. Get some sleep and I’ll try not to wake you when I come up.’ She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Sleep well.’

*

He woke the next morning to a gentle shake of his shoulder and a cup of tea from Jeremy.

‘Here you are, Dad.’

‘Thanks, Jem.’ Francis sat up feeling very groggy while his son set the mug down on the bedside table and perched on the bed.

‘How do you feel?’

‘OK.’

‘We’re all worried about you. Maybe we should look after you for a bit, instead of the other way round, eh?’

Francis smiled at his beloved son. ‘I’m fine. You know me, I enjoy looking after you and Mum.’

‘Yeah, well, stay in bed a bit. Mum says she can get her own breakfast today.’

Father and son smiled at each other, sharing the joke.

Jeremy stood up and walked to the door. ‘Shout if there’s anything I can get you. Oh, nearly forgot, your friend Belinda says she’ll be over to see you in a minute.’

Francis didn’t have time to take evasive action. No sooner had Jem left the room than he heard Belinda’s trilled ‘Morning’ through the always unlocked front door.

He sat rigid in bed, his ears straining for any sound, above that of the noisy thumping of his heart, that might suggest she would stay downstairs. No. He could hear her armfuls of jingly bracelets jangling on the banisters, the squeak of the top landing floorboard, the turn of the bedroom doorknob.

‘Frankie!’ She filled the room with her hips and bosoms and burnished curls caught up in an adolescent posy of silk poppies.

‘You poor thing.’ Now she was on the bed, opening carrier bags full of Lucozade, magazines and sweets.

‘I’ve been so worried about you.’ She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. Am I interrupting something?’

Greg was standing at the open door, giving Francis a sly wink.

‘I have been sent by Pru –’ he smiled archly at Belinda – ‘that’s Francis’s
wife
, to see if you would like a tea or coffee?’

Belinda looked innocently at Greg. ‘How very kind of her. A coffee would be nice.’

‘Excellent. I’ll be back in a moment.’ He shot Francis a knowing look under raised eyebrows before departing.

Belinda continued where she had left off. ‘I am so glad I was there when you had your accident. Thank goodness Greg heard me call. He’s your brother-in-law, is he?’

‘Yes,’ Francis replied limply.

‘Well, he was wonderful. Gave me a brandy and really calmed me down.’

‘Good.’

‘Now then, when you are up and about, I’m going to have a barbecue in the cottage garden, for all of you.’

‘That’s very kind, but no need. There are a lot of us …’

‘Yes! I’ve met them all downstairs. Aren’t Jem and Abi sweet? They’ve taken my Emily under their wings. They’re going to go down to the beach and look at the rock pools together.’

‘That’s nice.’

Belinda patted his hand. ‘Emily and I were so lucky to get into Dairy Cottage early. It’s lovely.’

‘How did you know this was where I was staying?’

‘Ooh. That bump on the head must be worse than we thought! You told me.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you doing here?’ His headache was worsening and he looked around for the painkillers the hospital had given him.

She got to them first and popped two out of the blister pack, then handed him a glass of water.

‘Emily and I needed a holiday and it was sheer coincidence that I found Dairy Cottage on the Internet.’ He swallowed down the tablets and passed the glass back to her. She took it and frowned. ‘I’m not stalking you, if that’s what you think.’

He tried to laugh and shake his head but it hurt.

She looked with great concern into Francis’s face.

‘Frankie, you do look pale.’

‘My head aches a bit.’

‘Well, I’ll cancel my coffee and let you rest.’ She picked up her large sequin-spangled handbag. ‘I’m going into Trevay to do my big shop and then get really settled into Dairy Cottage. Emily and I won’t intrude, I promise.’

Francis attempted some gallantry through his swimming consciousness. ‘You’re both welcome. More the merrier.’

‘What a lovely couple of weeks we’ll all have.’ She leaned over and kissed his bruised forehead. ‘I’ll have you right as rain in no time.’

Whether it was this threat, the shock or the pills, he’d never know, but his body shut down and he slid gratefully back to sleep.