Hidden Treasures. Fern Britton
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hanging up, Helen made another call.
*
At 6.30 p.m. every evening, Simon was in the habit of praying for his parish and the wider world. It was a part of his routine that was as important to him as cleaning his teeth. He would light a small candle under his simple wooden crucifix in the study and kneel in front of it. Recently he’d begun using the old chintz cushion on his desk chair to spare his knees. When he was comfortable, he would close his eyes and picture the face of Christ in front of him. He’d thank God for his calling, his home and his friends, and then would offer prayers for those he knew to be having difficulties of some kind. If there was some grim story in the news, he would pray for those involved. Finally he would ask for blessings for the royal family, the government, global leaders, and pray that peace may come to the world.
Very rarely would he trouble God with his own concerns, but since meeting Helen he couldn’t help but ask for a sign that would let him know if she was the one.
As he was finishing this last PS, the phone on his desk rang. He stood up, crossed himself and blew out the candle, making a final bow to Christ on his cross.
‘Yes, yes, hold your horses, I’m coming.’ His voice sounded weary, even to himself. He cleared his throat as he picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Reverend Canter.’
‘Simon, it’s me, Helen …’
Simon gave up a silent prayer of thanks. God had sent him the sign.
‘I’m cooking a spag bol and wondered if you’d like to share it with me?’ she continued. ‘There’s something I want to show you …’
His voice wobbled slightly and his eyebrows danced above his chocolate-brown eyes. ‘Yes, Helen, I’d love to. Ten minutes OK?’
‘Perfect. Bye.’
*
Piran watched her for a moment through her lighted kitchen window. He had been working late inside the church, trawling through the archives and trying to make sense of the higgledy-piggledy order of the graves out in the churchyard. It was late and he was tired. He watched for a moment as Helen spread the blue checked cloth on the table and grabbed a handful of cutlery from the side. She was a good-looking woman, he had to admit. Now she was opening a bottle of wine and putting out two glasses. Who on earth was that for? He turned the ignition on, ashamed of his prurient interest, but his headlights picked out the figure of Simon Canter, fairly skipping along towards her gate. The man was crazy if he thought a woman like that would be interested in him. Poor old Simon – he was a fool.
*
‘Hello, hello. Come on in. Nippy tonight, isn’t it?’ Helen opened the door wide for him and he stepped into her pretty kitchen. He viewed the neatly laid table. It looked rather romantic and his hopes rose higher. From behind his back he produced a bottle of Rioja, which earned him a kiss on the cheek from Helen.
‘Go and sit in the living room. I’ve got the fire going nicely. It doesn’t smoke any more now Don’s used some of his magic on it.’
Simon went and sat down gladly, before his legs buckled beneath her kiss. Helen talked to him from the kitchen about Don and the work he’d done and what a wonder he was, then joined him with a glass of cold white wine.
‘I’ll keep the Rioja for later, if that’s all right. I had this open already. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
He took a mouthful and was grateful for the steadying effect it would have on him.
‘It’s really lovely in here,’ he said. ‘You have a home-maker’s instinct.’
There was a hissing noise from the kitchen.
‘Oops, spaghetti’s boiling over. Chuck another log on the fire, would you? And then come and eat.’ The last few words were thrown over Helen’s shoulder as she went back to the kitchen.
Simon did as she asked, then followed her through and sat at the table.
‘Tony and I found some treasure in the garden today.’ Steam was billowing around her as she drained the spaghetti into the sink. ‘Take a look at that tin box on my desk.’ He got up and went to the small desk, more of a table really, in the corner between the sink and the Aga.
‘Go on, open it up.’
He did so. ‘Oh my. What’s all this?’ He took each object out carefully and examined them. He was particularly interested in the photo.
‘Do you know who any of them are?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder on the way to dishing up the pasta.
‘No. I have never seen any of them before. It might have something to do with Vi Wingham. She lived here before you came.’ Simon reached for the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. ‘She was a wonderful woman. Very self-contained and independent. Baked delicious sponge cakes in the old range where your Aga is now. She would donate them to raffles or bring them out when she entertained, although that wasn’t very often. A couple of times a year she’d invite me to tea. I enjoyed her company very much.’
‘Let’s eat and talk – pass me your plate.’ Helen spooned steaming pasta on to his plate. ‘Queenie told me that Miss Wingham had lost a fiancée in the war.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. She revealed very little about herself. After she died, the only thing I found out from the solicitors was that she’d bought this cottage in 1930 when she was only nineteen. She lived here with a succession of cats for seventy-seven years and never modernised it, apart from putting electricity in. You must have seen that she didn’t have a bathroom when you bought it, only the privy in the garden.’
‘However did she manage? I turned her spare room into my bathroom – I couldn’t do without it.’
‘She would be pleased for you, I’m sure. But although she was always immaculate, she had more than a touch of the Trojan about her.’ He ate a forkful of spaghetti bolognese. ‘This is excellent.’
Helen felt very relaxed with her new friend. Conversation with Simon was easy and she liked the way he was around her. No hint of sexual undertones. No hidden agenda. She topped his glass up again.
‘Tell me more about Miss Wingham.’
‘One morning after church, about three years ago, she invited me round for a quick sherry. She’d never done that before, so I thought, rightly, that it was to discuss something important. She told me that she’d just had her ninety-sixth birthday and, though still able to look after herself, felt it was the right thing to move into a care home. I didn’t try to dissuade her because she had always conducted her affairs exactly as she pleased and seemed in full possession of all her faculties. She told me that she had already found the right home, on the road to Newquay, where she would have a room with a sea view, and that she would be going the next day. She asked me to tell the parishioners the following Sunday in my Church Notices. She would be happy to receive visitors, but only if they really wanted to see her. She died a year later, peacefully in her sleep, and two years after that, the house was sold to you.’
‘Was her cat still alive? Queenie said they were all named after birds and that the last one was called Raven. Did she have one called Falcon?’
‘Not in my time here as vicar, which is almost twenty-two years. There was a Sparrow and a Robin before Raven.’
‘Where was MissWingham buried?’
‘Ah. Well … I haven’t discussed this with anyone before, but … I don’t suppose it matters now. I’m sorry to say that she’s in the bottom drawer of my desk.’
Helen stopped, her fork in mid-air. ‘I think that needs a bit of explanation.’
‘When she died, she left express wishes regarding her funeral arrangements. No mourners, no flowers. She wanted me to give her a proper funeral service in the church and then escort her to the crematorium. It was only myself and the funeral directors