The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read. Fern Britton
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think?’
‘My sister told me a few days ago and it was … It was a shock.’
‘I’m sure it was. Has there been the funeral yet?’
‘It happened without me knowing.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, no wonder you have been feeling so low. Just one of those events – new baby, problems at work or the death of a parent – would be enough to make anyone feel the way you do.’
‘I suppose.’ She looked at Simon. ‘I’m so sorry, Simon. So sorry.’ Her tears came again.
He blinked his large chocolate eyes behind his spectacles and got up, bending awkwardly to hug her prone body lying in the bed. ‘I’m sorry, too,’ he said. ‘I should have noticed how bad you were feeling. I’m so grateful that I’ve been given the chance to make things better for you. I could have …’ He fought the lump in his throat. ‘I could have lost you. But I know now, and we can get through this, together.’
Dr Nickelson talked a bit more about the tests they’d run. Her liver and kidneys were undamaged but she should get a lot of rest and do only the things she wanted to do. ‘More long baths, walks and time to heal,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to your GP and will see you once a week for the next month or so, after which we’ll see which is the best way forward.’
‘Not the Priory?’ she said as another small joke.
He smiled. ‘No. Not the Priory.’
‘When can I take her home?’ asked Simon.
Dr Nickelson looked from one to the other. ‘Well, as long as you promise to ring me or your GP or even the hospital if you feel the harmful thoughts coming back, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go home now.’
‘Really?’ Simon tightened his hold on Penny’s hand and her own fingers tightened in response.
‘Really. I’ll write a prescription and then you can jump on your horse and ride outta here.’
As soon as Nickelson had gone, Simon sat on the bed and took Penny’s hand. He pressed it to his lips as he looked into her eyes. She saw his fear and his love and squeezed his hand tightly. ‘I do love you, Simon Canter. I’m so sorry.’ She felt a tremendous rush of gratitude for her husband and the life she still had. ‘I love you. I really do love you. I promise, I won’t ever try to leave you again.’
They went home, Simon settling her into the front seat and then driving very carefully to the vicarage. There was too much to say to each other, and neither had the words.
Helen was there when they arrived, opening the front door with Jenna on her hip. Penny took her beloved daughter in her arms and hugged her tight, kissing her sweet-smelling hair. Helen got them both upstairs and ran a hot bath for Penny while putting Jenna into Simon’s care.
Helen watched as Penny undressed and got into the bath. ‘Would you like me to wash your hair for you?’ she asked. Penny nodded, and shed more tears as her friend performed this gentle and loving kindness.
‘I’m so sorry I spoke to you harshly yesterday,’ said Helen, keeping her own guilty tears at bay. ‘I wasn’t a good friend to you.’
Penny shook her head. ‘You’ve been a wonderful friend. Always. I’m so sorry I have let you all down.’
‘All you’ve done is make us realize how very unhappy you have been.’
‘Does Simon think me very selfish?’
‘You’ll have to talk to him about that.’
Penny nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Here, tip your head back and I’ll give you a good rinse.’ Helen took the showerhead and allowed the warm water to do its job. ‘Bloody hell! When did you last have your roots done?’ she mocked affectionately.
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Well, that’s tomorrow sorted then. We’re going to get ourselves pampered.’
Lying in bed that night, Penny listened to the house gently settling around her. She heard Simon see Helen out of the front door, thanking her again. She turned and looked at the bunch of Christmas roses and winter honeysuckle in the blue jug on her windowsill. Helen had put them there, knowing that they were her favourites. Old friends and family … She closed her eyes and felt so grateful. Tonight she could have been in a mortuary, but instead she was in her own bed, surrounded by her true family and the scent of honeysuckle.
At her parents’ house she could remember the breakfast table always had a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers perfectly in the centre, but with the atmosphere crackling with barbed comments from her mother and patient responses from her father. She would always arrive late for school having been hurried and harried and, more often than not, having forgotten some vital piece of homework or kit in the flurry. Life was chaotic and loud and tense.
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