The Holiday Home (18 page)

*

Merlin, who had been making up some hours lolling against a roof truss with a comfy pile of old dust sheets under his bum, was snoozing with the
Daily Mirror
.

The sudden noise gave him a fright and he leapt up, banging his head on a wooden crossbar. Once the dust had cleared, through the shaft of sunlight pouring through the new hole in the roof, he saw Greg, lying prone on the rafters and swearing.

‘’Ello there, boy,’ he chuckled. ‘Nice of you to drop in.’

‘Help me up, you idiot. I think I’ve broken my arm.’

Merlin lifted Greg easily and hooked his arm under Greg’s shoulder. ‘D’ye reckon you can make the loft ladder?’

Wincing, Greg replied through gritted teeth, ‘I’ll give it a try.’

‘Hellooo?’ Francis was on the landing below. ‘Greg. Can you hear me?’

‘’E can hear you, all right. It’s ’is arm that’s hurt, not his ears.’

Slowly Merlin eased Greg through the loft hatch and on to the ladder.

When the three of them finally made it to the kitchen, Merlin assessed the damage. Greg’s arm was looking misshapen and his face had gone very pale with a tinge of green.

‘Does that hurt?’ Merlin asked, trying to straighten the arm out.

‘Aaaarrrggghhh! What the hell do you think?’ shrieked Greg.

‘Stop screamin’ like a girl and sit quiet a minute while I look at Francis’s eye.’

Francis’s eye could barely open and was all raw and red.

‘I’m not going to touch that,’ shuddered Merlin. ‘Might make it worse. I’d better get you both down the hospital. Your eye could do with washing out and you’ll need an X-ray on that arm, G.’

‘Is there a Bupa clinic nearby?’ moaned Greg.

‘Nope. But we’ve got very good vets in Cornwall.’

*

‘I cannot for the life of me understand how you managed to make such a mess of everything.’

Connie had no sympathy for the two wounded soldiers sitting in the drawing room on the coverless sofas.

‘I mean, look at the pair of you. One with an arm in plaster, the other with an eye patch. Together you could go to a fancy-dress party as Nelson!’

Greg smiled ruefully. ‘That’s rather good, old girl.’

‘It’s not a joke, it’s a bloody disaster,’ huffed Pru. ‘A disgrace. You were supposed to be clearing the gutter – instead you go and make a bloody great hole in the roof.’

Greg was defensive: ‘I was trying to help you and your family. And look where it got me: an NHS casualty department with a brutish male nurse and an arm broken in two places. And not so much as a thank you!’

‘Thank you for what?’ Pru rounded on him. ‘Thank you for half-blinding my husband? You should have left the roof to the professionals. Surely you could have found the phone number for a roofer in the parish magazine?’ Greg felt the arrow of her sarcasm fully pierce his ego.

Francis spoke, ‘Pru, be fair, it wasn’t Greg’s fault. We were trying to help.’

‘And you’ve been left with a severe laceration to the cornea. You have been very lucky, Francis. Very lucky indeed.’ Pru swept her hands through her short dark hair and looked at Connie, who was trying to figure out how to work the carpet-shampoo machine.

‘There’s nothing else for it, Connie. You and I will have to take the maintenance work while the men look after the children and the cooking.’

*

The following days saw Connie and Pru working from dawn till dusk, cleaning the house. Woodwork was washed, curtains and windows cleaned, every nook and cranny vacuumed and dusted. From time to time Dorothy would pop in to annoy them. One morning, while the girls were shampooing the stair carpet, Dorothy called up to them from the hall:

‘Whatever you do, don’t touch this chandelier. It needs professional cleaning.’

Connie turned off the machine and gritted her teeth. ‘Mum, all it needs is a quick rub with some wet wipes to get it sparkling again. We don’t need to spend a fortune on a professional cleaner.’

‘Wet wipes?’ Dorothy pointed indignantly at the chandelier above her head. ‘That’s Venetian glass, I’ll have you know.’

‘Yes, we do know, Mum. We were there when you bought it, remember?’ grumbled Pru, recalling the oppressive heat of an Italian August. She and Connie had pleaded to go on a gondola ride, but Dorothy had insisted on dragging them around the glass factories of Murano instead. Visiting the furnaces had been like stepping into an inferno. She shuddered at the memory.

Dorothy sniffed. ‘In that case, you’ll remember how much money Daddy paid for it. The chandelier
must
be cleaned professionally.’

‘OK, whatever you say,’ sighed Connie. ‘Who do you use? I’ll give them a ring.’

‘I have never had it cleaned,’ Dorothy replied breezily. ‘I’ll have a look on Daddy’s computer web net thing. You can find anyone on there, you know.’

Pru and Connie smiled fondly at their mother. ‘Yes. We do know.’

‘Right. Well. I’ll go and do that now then.’

‘OK, Mum,’ the girls chorused.

As soon as she had gone, Connie said to Pru, ‘Pass me the wet wipes.’

*

While the girls did their chores, Greg and Francis kept their heads down and tried to run the domestic side of things as smoothly as they could. The kitchen became their domain. Francis was in his element, taking charge of all the cooking.

‘What do you fancy for supper tonight, Greg?’ he asked. ‘How about some lobsters?’

‘Where will you get them from, old man?’

‘Down in Trevay at the fish market.’

‘And how do you propose to get there when neither of us can drive?’ Seeing his brother-in-law’s shoulders slump in defeat, Greg tried to make amends for his sharp tone. ‘I know. Give me a moment and I’ll sort you out a taxi.’

Minutes later he was back, smiling broadly. ‘Francis, your chariot awaits! Be at the front door in five. Belinda said she’ll be only too happy to have you to herself for a couple of hours.’

Francis blanched. ‘No – no need. I’ll call the mini-cab place in town. Go and tell her no.’

They heard the front door creak open and Belinda’s voice calling, ‘Yoo-hoo.’

‘Too late!’ Greg gathered up Francis’s horseshoe-shaped leather purse and a bundle of jute sustainable shopping bags, and in a low voice said, ‘Come on, old man, give yourself a treat. Take her out for lunch.’

‘But Pru and Connie – what will they think? I’m supposed to be fixing their lunch,’ Francis whimpered.

‘I’ll cover for you.’ Greg dropped his voice further still. ‘Strictly
entre nous
, I’m expecting a call from Janie shortly, so I could do with the privacy.’ He pushed Francis out into the hall. ‘Ah, Belinda! This is so very kind of you,’ he gushed, propelling them both towards the front door. ‘Francis says he’s going to treat you to lunch as a thank you. Off you go now. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Ha ha ha. Bye!’

As he slammed the front door shut behind them, the phone in his pocket began to vibrate.

*

Belinda insisted on taking Francis’s arm and helping him into her 2CV. In the footwell, his feet rested on several cardboard coffee mugs and a carpet of chocolate-bar wrappers.

‘Sorry about the mess. It’s Emily and her mates. I haven’t had time to clean it out. Now, let me just do up your seat belt.’

Francis sat, helpless as a toddler, as she leaned across him, smothering his face with her magnificent breasts. He breathed in her musky, sun-warmed smell. She really was extremely attractive. As she clicked his seat belt into place and moved back out of the car, he flicked his one good eye nervously up towards the windows of the house. Thank goodness Pru and Connie were cleaning the bedrooms on the other side this morning.

Belinda eased her sun-tanned flesh into the driver’s seat and started the engine. She laid her hand on his knee and patted it. ‘How’s your poor eye today?’

‘A little better, I think. The doc says the patch can come off in a day or two.’

‘That’s good.’ She smiled at him. ‘Pity, though: you look very dashing with a patch.’

She gave him a wink and started up the engine. ‘Trevay here we come!’

Although the day was sunny, there was a cool breeze as the 2CV, its soft-top rolled down and its engine chugging away like a sewing-machine motor, carried them into Trevay. Holidaymakers were strolling along the streets, oblivious to traffic, stopping and starting as they wished, licking ice creams and window-shopping. The main car park was full, but Francis directed her to a sneaky space – one of the few not covered in double yellow lines – behind the main street. They were lucky. It was empty.

Belinda was delighted. ‘Frankie, you clever man!’ And she leaned over and planted a warm kiss on his cheek. Gathering up a couple of his jute bags from the back seat, she said, ‘Right – where’s this fish market?’

Ambling arm in arm with Belinda as they made their way to the fish market was a revelation to Francis. Pru had never taken his arm; on the one occasion he had taken hers, she had shrugged him off. Belinda’s arm was comforting in its fleshiness. Her chubby wrists and tanned fingers made him feel powerful and … well, male. As they walked he found himself smiling at strangers and enjoying the sound of Belinda’s inconsequential but amusing chatter. Her golden curls kept blowing across her face and on to her lips. He didn’t hear much of what she said. He didn’t need to. He felt happy. Naughty, but happy.

Together they chose six lobsters, which the fishmonger packed into a polystyrene cool box.

At the trendy food market next door they got asparagus, new potatoes, lemons and – for home-made mayonnaise – eggs and good olive oil.

‘Look at those raspberries! My favourite!’ cooed Belinda.

‘Do you like Eton Mess?’ asked Francis, carried away by her foodie enthusiasm.

‘Who doesn’t?’ She smiled at him, twinkling her blue eyes.

‘Right. I’ll make meringues with the egg whites left over from the mayonnaise.’

‘Are you inviting me to supper, Francis Meake?’

Francis took a grip on his destiny. ‘Yes, I am. You and Emily. Come and have dinner with the family. Pru would love to have you share it with us.’ He was less sure about the last part, but this new shot of courage in his veins kept him from buckling.

Once they’d paid for everything, they returned to the car, which was sitting in the shade of the narrow street.

‘I’ll put all this in the boot – there’s no danger of it spoiling, here in the cool – and then we can go and have some lunch,’ twinkled Belinda.

There was a small café across the road that served huge bowls of moules marinières and chips. Francis couldn’t remember ever having such a relaxed lunch with a woman. The way Belinda chatted, laughed, enjoyed her food and drank her glass of perfectly chilled wine was fun.

‘… So, my husband walked out eighteen months ago and moved in with Steve. I had no idea whatsoever that he was gay. It’s always the wife who finds out last, isn’t it? Anyway, Steve is a lovely guy and Brett’s happy. We’re all good friends now. Emily is pretty cool about it, as she gets to go clothes shopping with a dad who really likes fashion.’ She leaned across and dipped a hunk of her French bread into Francis’s white wine and garlic sauce. ‘I do get a bit lonely, though. I don’t want to be single for ever … Still, there’s always tomorrow, right?’ She laughed and wiped her lips on her napkin. ‘How about you? Are you and Pru happy?’

Francis coughed as he took a gulp of wine. ‘Yes, yes. Very happy. Well, as happy as two people who’ve been married for almost eighteen years can be.’

‘She looks a bit of a ball-breaker to me,’ said Belinda with candour.

Francis was horrified. ‘No, no. She’s strong and kind and a good wife and mother. We look after each other.’

‘Hmm.’ Belinda gazed deep into his eyes until he looked down at his wine glass. ‘I notice you didn’t mention the word love.’

‘Well, of course. That goes without saying.’

‘So, say it.’

‘What?’

‘That you love your wife.’

‘I … I love my wife.’

‘Good. When was the last time you told her?’

‘Good lord. I mean, after all those years together, one doesn’t need to.’

‘Yes, you do. When was the last time she told you she loved you?’ Belinda fixed her blue eyes on him. ‘If she loved you, she’d tell you every day.’

Francis was getting very uncomfortable, ‘Well, we’re all different, aren’t we.’ He beckoned the waitress. ‘I think we’d better get going.’

He spent the journey back to Atlantic House in deep thought. Belinda, beside him, chattered away as if blissfully unaware that he wasn’t listening.

She had awoken something in him that he’d managed to suppress for a very long time. Years. He thought the world of Pru, but what did she think of him? Was he just faithful old Francis, chief cook and bottle washer? Where was the passion? He felt the vibrant heat emanating from this buxom and attractive woman by his side and realised how much he missed the physical joy of love-making. Could he take Belinda as a lover in the way Greg had taken Janie? The thought thrilled and terrified him in equal measure.

‘So, shall I come over at about six thirty? I’ll bring a couple of jugs of Pimm’s.’

He forced his mind back to the present.

‘Yes. That would be lovely.’

Belinda helped him out of the car and then helped carry the bags to the front door of Atlantic House.

‘I’ll take them to the kitchen for you, shall I?’

‘That’s very kind, but just leave them on the step. I can manage from here,’ he said. He pushed the heavy oak door open. The hall was cool and smelled of lavender polish. His ears strained to hear Pru. He didn’t want her to catch him like this, in Belinda’s company and smelling of wine.

‘OK.’ Belinda straightened up and kissed his cheek for the second time that day. ‘Thank you for a lovely morning and for lunch. Any time you need a driver, you know where I am.’

‘Thank you.’

‘See you at six thirty.’

‘Six thirty. Yes.’

‘And, Francis …’

‘Yes?’

‘Those things we talked about over lunch? I don’t mean to stick my nose in, but you are a lovely man and deserve to be appreciated.’

‘Oh well, erm, I’ll see you later …’

Francis watched as she manoeuvred the 2CV back on to the drive of Dairy Cottage, then he quietly closed the front door and carried the bags to the kitchen. While the kettle was boiling for the calming cup of camomile tea he so badly needed, he fished in his pocket for a piece of extra-minty chewing gum.