Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton
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1967 Riva. The best speedboat money can buy. And you see?’ He pointed at the floor. ‘I had the lads concrete a level jetty on the old rock ledge so we can tie her up and get on and off easily.’ The torchlight picked out the jetty and the polished wooden hull. Dorothy could make out cream leather seats and a shiny wooden steering wheel.
‘How much?’ she said in an angry voice.
‘It’s a present to us from the company. We deserve a little toy.’
‘You and your bloody toys! That’s not a board game. That’s a monstrous waste of money.’
Henry was crestfallen. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I can take you and the girls out for trips around the coast and picnics on secluded beaches.’
‘That’s another thing.’ She rounded on him. ‘Can you even drive the bloody thing?’
Henry smiled. ‘Ah well, yes, you see, I’ve booked the whole family on a seamanship course.’
Dorothy pursed her lips.
‘Don’t you want to know what she’s called?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Look, darling,’ he urged, pointing towards the boat.
She shook her head in disbelief as she picked out the golden letters painted on the stern: Dorothy.
Dorothy scowled. Henry kissed her. She frowned. He hugged her. Finally the beginnings of a smile reached her lips.
‘You’re mad and bad but lovely to know, Henry Carew.’
‘No greater compliment was ever received – thank you.’
*
Henry and Dorothy were very pleased with their newly restored home and loved inviting the locals in to marvel at how the old house was being reborn.
Prudence and Constance had come down to see it during the Christmas holidays and had been less than impressed. Still in the throes of being renovated, the house was barely habitable. The girls were billeted at a local hotel while the damp and mould in the bedrooms was being dealt with.
‘It’s so cold,’ shivered Pru, clad in her new striped dungarees and red ankle boots.
‘And spooky,’ added Connie, shaking her wash-and-wear perm so the corkscrew curls bounced.
Dorothy looked at them sternly. ‘There are no spooks here. And it’s cold because the central heating hasn’t been installed yet. Want to see your bedrooms?’
‘Do we get to choose?’ asked Pru.
‘Well, let’s see.’
Sighing inwardly, knowing that a jealous spat between the siblings was bound to ensue, Dorothy led the way upstairs. The three of them picked their way over the dust sheets, abandoned tools and other builders’ detritus cluttering the landing to the first door.
‘Look at the view, girls!’ Dorothy threw open the door leading to the yellow room. ‘Who wants this one, overlooking the garden and the cliff?’
Assuming their mother was showing them the best room in the hope of winning them over, Pru, who was always quickest off the mark when it came to getting what she wanted, jumped in: ‘I do!’
Connie’s shoulders slumped dramatically. ‘I knew she’d get the first choice. It’s not fair. I really like this room. Pru gets the best of everything.’
Fighting the urge to scream, Dorothy forced a bright smile and kept her voice tone jolly as she told them, ‘Prudence, wipe that conceited look off your face. Connie, please refrain from sulking. I have a super room for you – follow me.’
Pru pushed past Connie, who whispered, ‘You always get the best.’
And Pru replied sotto voce: ‘Tough shit, little sister.’
When their mother opened the door of the blue room, Connie’s mouth dropped open as she took in the double-aspect windows with views of the beach and the bay. ‘Yes!’ she cried, fist punching the air. ‘Yes! This has to be the best room. I love it! Thanks, Mum.’
Pru was now the one who was in a sulk. ‘I thought you said you wanted the other room.’
‘Nope. This is mine and that is yours. Fair’s fair, eh, Mum?’
Dorothy, distracted by the screech of the plumber drilling in the en-suite, answered vaguely, ‘Yes, of course, darling. Sort it out between the pair of you. Off you go.’ Moments later she was lost in a discussion about power showers and hot-water tanks.
Pru glared at Connie. ‘Give me this room.’
‘No. You chose yours. This is mine.’
‘It’s too big for you.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘The other room suits you much better.’
‘Why?’
‘Yellow is your favourite colour.’
‘No it isn’t. I like blue.’
‘You’re spoilt.’
‘You’re jealous.’
Dorothy wandered back in from the bathroom.
‘All settled, girls?’ Registering the sulky expressions on the girls’ faces, she promptly abandoned all efforts to placate them. ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake – why don’t you two go and explore the beach before I banish the pair of you to the box room – you’ll have plenty to mope about then, won’t you?’
*
Nothing more had been said about the bedrooms. Not because Pru had given up; she was just biding her time.
The family didn’t visit Cornwall again until the Easter holidays. That first day, both sisters were squashed into the back of their father’s new Range Rover, surrounded by the bedding, kitchenware and other household bits and pieces their mother had packed around them after they’d got in.
Henry insisted on having Radio 4 on for the entire journey, so the girls plugged themselves into their Sony Walkmans, staring glumly out of the windows at the passing traffic.
At Bristol they stopped for elevenses. Moody as hell, Pru and Connie trooped in behind their parents, scowling at the food on offer in the cafeteria.
Dorothy tried to adopt a light, cheery tone: ‘OK, girls, what do you want?’
‘A doughnut,’ said Connie.
‘That’s very fattening,’ said Dorothy, looking pointedly at Connie’s rounded tummy. ‘Have an orange juice and a banana. Pru?’
Connie’s lip wobbled, stung by the suggestion she was overweight.
Pru, still plugged into her Walkman, didn’t respond. ‘Pru!’ her mother asked again. No response. Henry took the headphones off his elder daughter’s ears and shouted, ‘Take those bloody things off and answer your mother!’
Pru stared blankly. ‘What?’
‘Your mother has asked you three times: what do you want to eat?’
‘Nothing. And she only asked me twice.’
Henry took the Walkman and headphones from Pru’s hands and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘Right. I’m confiscating these.’
‘But, Dad!’
‘What do you want to eat?’ he barked again.
‘Nothing,’ she shouted, and stalked off to W H Smith, throwing over her shoulder: ‘This is SO unfair.’
Henry nearly went after her, but Dorothy laid a hand on his arm. ‘Let her go. I’ll be glad of the peace.’
*