Authors: Fern Britton
‘In the kitchen,’ called Connie, noticing Francis scuttle out to the garden.
Belinda pushed her way into the room with armfuls of bags. Her bracelets were tight on her podgy wrists, the buttons on her shirt mostly undone, revealing her tanned bosom and a pink bra. Her tiny mini skirt was riding up over freckled thighs.
‘Where’s Francis? I have some ideas on the party food.’
Catching sight of Francis scampering across the lawn towards the beach gate, Connie summoned him in a loud voice: ‘Francis! Belinda is here and would like to speak to you.’
He stopped running and turned towards the house, knowing when he was defeated.
‘Look at all this lovely stuff Belinda has bought for the party, Francis!’
He could see a lot of shimmering net fabric and boxes of fairy lights bursting out of the carrier bags Belinda was dumping on the kitchen table.
Plucking some of the netting out of the bag, she walked towards Francis and wrapped it around his shoulders. ‘You’d make a wonderful sea nymph, Frankie.’
He tried to smile and shrug the fabric off himself at the same time, but he wasn’t quick enough.
‘Uh-uh. Stay there. Let me find …’ She dug in the bag again. ‘Ah, here we are!’ She pulled out a necklace made of winkle shells and put it round his neck. ‘There we are! Give us a kiss.’
‘Francis, what are you doing?’ Pru had come in from the hallway.
Belinda threw her arms round Francis’s neck and chanted, ‘I am under the spell of the mighty sea god, Frankie. There is nothing I can do …’ And she slid down Francis’s thighs and draped herself about his knees.
Connie hooted with laughter.
Pru felt that peculiar draught catch her heart again. Noticing the change in her expression, Francis quickly took off the shells and stepped over the prostrate Belinda towards his wife. ‘Pru, Belinda is just showing us some of the stuff she got for Abi’s party.’
Belinda stood up.
‘I’ve decided on a sea-fairy theme. Green, blue and pink. Wait till you see the lights and candles and costumes I’ve bought!’
‘Abi’s not keen on pink,’ Connie ventured.
‘Not keen on pink!’ Belinda shook her head disbelievingly. ‘Every girl loves pink. Get me a cold drink would you, Con? It’s so hot. Is Abi in?’
Connie was at the fridge, pouring a beaker of juice. She put it into Belinda’s outstretched hand.
‘Oh, that’s better. Thank you.’
‘Abi’s not home yet. I’m expecting her around six-ish.’
‘Right, I’ll wait for her. What’s for tea? I’ll help you make it. You don’t mind me and Emily joining you, do you?’
Connie had no say in the matter. Before she knew it, Belinda was knocking up a bolognese sauce and leaving a trail of saucepans for Connie to wash up.
*
‘Belinda! I love it! It’s going to look amazing. Isn’t she clever, Mum?’ Abi had come in from work more animated than Connie had seen her in ages. All the family were watching as Belinda pulled out one extraordinary thing after another.
‘Yes,’ said Connie, wanly, trying to clear the table and lay it up for eight. ‘So clever. I didn’t think you liked pink.’
‘Pppffff! Of course I like pink! Who doesn’t! Honestly, Mum, where did you get that idea from!’
‘Oh, you know your mother,’ said Greg, standing over Belinda and topping up her glass while trying to get a good gander down her cleavage. ‘She’s very good at getting the wrong end of the stick.’
‘I am not,’ huffed Connie.
‘Yes, you are,’ chorused Abi, Greg and Pru.
Connie felt crushed. She had to dig the nails of her right hand into the palm of her left to stop herself from crying.
‘Can I help you dish up, Con?’ asked Francis kindly.
Eventually everybody was seated and munching their supper.
‘This spaghetti bolognese is delicious,’ said Francis, smiling at Belinda.
‘One of my own recipes, Frankie. Glad you like it,’ shrieked a wine-filled Belinda. ‘I’ll give it to you, if you like?’ she leered.
Greg laughed raucously. ‘Ooh, now that’s a promise I couldn’t turn down, Francis! Ha ha ha.’
Connie turned to him. ‘Sit down, Greg. You’ve had too much wine.’
‘Yes, and you, Francis. I think you’ve had quite enough.’ Pru looked sternly across the table at him.
‘I’ve only had one glass.’
‘Yes, but after all that fresh air today, it’s gone to your head.’ Pru stood up decisively and put the bottles of open wine away. ‘Thank you, Belinda, for a lovely supper. I’m sure you need to get Emily to bed.’
‘But it’s almost nine …’
‘Quite,’ said Pru determinedly.
‘Oh. I see.’ Belinda stood up, ‘Come on, Emily. We need to leave the family to themselves and get back to Dairy Cottage.’
‘I was going to watch TV with Abi and Jem.’ Emily couldn’t hide her disappointment.
Belinda was gathering up bags and bits. ‘You must always leave people wanting more. Never overstay the hospitality of others. Now come on.’
They left and the room was instantly quieter.
Pru started to stack the plates. ‘Thank God she’s gone.’
‘S
torms are still battering the Eastern Seaboard of the United States,’ said the breakfast television newscaster. ‘Several hundred families have been evacuated from their homes after a second night without electricity. This report from our Washington correspondent …’
Henry and Dorothy watched the footage of distraught householders, looking on helplessly as their houses and possessions were swept away by the raging torrent.
‘They should be grateful they don’t have Merlin as their plumber,’ said Dorothy. ‘Poor devils.’
‘They keep promising us a hooley blowing in on this side of the Atlantic, but we’ve been lucky so far.’
Dorothy smiled at him. ‘It’s been a pretty good summer, hasn’t it? Apart from the flood next door and the various injuries sustained by the boys.’
Henry chuckled. ‘Bloody useless, the lot of them. Still, they have got the house back in order. And the moron Merlin should be finished by the end of today.’
‘Are you really going to make the kids pay?’
Dorothy and Henry always referred to their grown-up daughters as ‘the kids’.
‘Well, I might chip in. I’ll nip over later and take a look at what kind of job Merlin’s made of it.’
‘He’ll know you’re checking up on him.’
‘I have a plan.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m taking the iPad – that way I can pretend that I need the kids to help me with it.’
‘Very good, Sherlock.’
‘I want an email address. Where do you get one from?’
Dorothy gave a dry laugh. ‘How should I know? Ask Jem or Abi. They’ve got good brains on them. They’ll get you one.’
*
‘Hey, Poppa!’ Abi had reached the cliff-path gate and was letting herself into the garden.
‘Hello. How was work today?’
‘Knackering!’
He ruffled her sun-streaked and untidy hair. ‘Poor old you.’ He kissed her and she nestled herself into his warm, navy-jumpered chest.
When he let her go, she put her hand in her shorts pocket and pulled out a wodge of folded notes. ‘Pearl’s paid me, though.’
‘Good stuff. Shall we run away to Penzance and catch a boat to Spain? Don’t tell Granny.’
Laughing, they arrived at the French windows just as Greg and Merlin emerged from the kitchen, the latter carrying his tool bag.
‘I’ll put the invoice through the door as soon as I’ve worked it out,’ Merlin was saying, shaking Greg’s hand.
‘Thank you for everything, old man. Obviously, if you can sharpen your pencil, I’d be grateful. I can pay cash, if you like.’
At that moment he noticed Henry. ‘Oh, hello, Henry. Merlin’s finished. Done a great job. The roof, new boiler and pipework. All excellent.’
Henry gave Merlin a long look then slowly said, ‘It had better be good. And the price had better reflect the ridiculously generous cash payment my wife gave you the other day.’
Merlin outstared Henry. ‘Oh yes. I always do a good job for the price.’
Greg, eager to get Merlin off the premises, clapped him on the back. ‘Well, thanks again, old man. Don’t forget, if cash helps …’ He winked. ‘I’m off to have a hot bath. Ha ha ha.’ He laughed insincerely and steered Merlin to his van.
Henry’s gimlet eyes followed them.
‘You don’t like him, do you, Poppa?’ said Abi.
‘I’ll like him a lot more once I’ve checked his work and found it satisfactory.’
Henry took his time checking all the upstairs taps for leaks and loos for flushes. Then he turned on all the radiators and checked the boiler’s thermostat.
Greg dogged him. ‘It’s OK. Merlin’s done a good job.’
Henry refrained from passing judgement. ‘While the heating comes on, I’m just going to make sure the outdoor cellar room is dry.’
He pushed open the heavy old door and stepped into the ancient, cold store room. The flood had left behind a smell of damp, but other than that the floor was dry enough. He opened the door that led to the underground cave and flicked on the lights. The steps were a bit slippery, but nothing out of the ordinary. He climbed down them and into the natural boathouse beneath. The tide was low and the
Dorothy
was resting on the shingle. Shrouded in her cover, he knew she was perfectly dry.
Tomorrow morning, weather permitting, he would take her out. Maybe get Dorothy to make a picnic.
Which reminded him. He must get one of the grandchildren to set his iPad up. Internet, email, Skype, apps – he wanted the lot.
Back inside Atlantic House, the radiators were warming up nicely. Greg was looking pleased with himself.
‘Good as new,’ he told Henry. ‘All the rads are toasty warm.’
Henry felt the radiator in the hall and had to agree it felt fine. ‘OK, let’s see what the bill is.’
Greg turned away from Henry and threw his eyes to heaven while walking back into the kitchen. Henry followed him.
Jeremy was home from work and pouring himself a cold drink. ‘Why’s it so hot in here?’
‘The heating’s fixed and your grandfather and I are checking it. I’ll turn it down now.’
‘Good. Hey, Poppa.’
‘Jem, just the fellow! I need your help with my iPad …’
*
‘There you are, Poppa. All sorted.’
‘Marvellous! Would you mind showing me again how I send an email.’
Patiently, Jem showed him again.
‘And my email address is …?’
‘I’ll write it down for you, here.’ Jeremy wrote
[email protected]
. ‘I’ve connected you to the company email system so you’ll get all the messages that Dad gets.’
‘Excellent. Will you send me my first email?’
Jeremy tapped out a message on his phone and within a few seconds Henry’s iPad went ‘ping’. Following Jem’s step-by-step instructions, he managed to open and read the message:
Hi Poppa. Here is your first mail. Love Jem.
‘That’s wonderful, my boy. Your grandmother will be amazed that I’ve joined the twenty-first century, at last.’
*
As he carried the laptop over to The Bungalow, Henry heard a succession of pings. He couldn’t wait to read them.
Settling himself in the conservatory with the first Scotch of the evening, he opened them up. They were all addressed to Greg. Assuming this was something to do with sharing online access with the entire Carew company, Henry opened the first one with interest.
It was an invite addressed to Greg, for a corporate golf day in the autumn. He read three or four emails from the sales and marketing team, all reporting positive interest and figures. Next was an email from Greg’s secretary, Janie, with the subject heading ‘Bloomers’. He clicked on it. It took him only a few lines to realise that his son-in-law was cheating on his daughter.
For a moment Henry sat, unmoving, absorbing the ramifications. His instinct was to go next door, grab Greg by the throat and sling him out. His second was to keep this to himself until he’d thought it through.
He poured himself another whisky. Greg had a good marriage and a loving wife in Connie. Didn’t he? Henry clenched his fist, fighting the urge to march over there and smash it into Greg’s face.
Henry was no stranger to the misery of an unhappy marriage, but he’d hoped his daughters would never have to go through what he’d endured. How could Greg do this to Connie and Abi?
Much as he hated Greg at that moment, preying on his mind was the knowledge that he hadn’t exactly been a model husband himself.
H
enry hadn’t slept a wink. All night he’d been tossing and turning, trying to decide what to do. Should he confront Greg? Tell Connie? Upset Abi before her birthday? Early the next morning he got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. His slippers made track marks in the dewy grass as he walked across the garden to Atlantic House. He managed to catch Jem before he went to work.
‘Ah, Jem. Just the chap. I appear to be picking up your Uncle Greg’s emails on my iPad and I wonder if you could show me how to stop that?’
Jeremy, swallowing a large glass of orange juice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Yeah, no worries, Poppa. Can it wait till tonight? You can delete anything you don’t want.’ He grabbed his bag and packed lunch. ‘Drag the arrow to the dustbin icon and left click.’ He gave his grandfather a quick hug. ‘Laters.’
Back in the solitude of his bedroom, Henry did as instructed and removed the incriminating email, along with all the others addressed to Greg.
Then he snapped closed the iPad cover and hid it in his wardrobe.
Dorothy was still in the shower. He didn’t want to face her until he’d come up with a solution to the Greg problem, so he slipped out of the house to go and get the boat ready.
As he walked across the lawn to the fortified door that led to the cave, he saw Greg and Connie waving to him from the kitchen. Greg was looking pleased with himself, standing there with his arm draped round Connie. It was all Henry could do to stop himself running over there to confront his philandering cheat of a son-in-law. His hand clenched into a tight fist as he imagined landing a punch that would wipe that smirk off Greg’s face. Instead he smiled grimly and walked on.