Hidden Treasures

The church was fourteenth century with Victorian additions, most notably the clock tower. The bell ringers were calling the village to prayers and sending the rooks up into the trees like black plastic bin liners flapping in the breeze. As Helen came out of her gate, Polly and another man caught up with her. They were both in green ambulance uniforms.

‘Hello, Helen,’ said Polly, walking alongside her. ‘We’re on call today, but we don’t like to miss the service. We’ve got the pager, haven’t we, Pete?’ The man on the other side of Helen nodded. ‘You do look nice today,’ Polly continued. ‘I was saying to Pete, I wondered if we’d be seeing you at church today. Seeing as you and the vicar had quite a long chat the other night.’ Polly was smiling conspiratorially.

The man with Polly greeted Helen with a grin. ‘Hello. I’m Pete. Pleased to meet you. And so’s Reverend Canter, apparently.’

‘What?’ But Helen’s voice was lost as, flanked by the couple, she was swept into the church.

The entire congregation of twenty-five turned to look at her. Queenie, who was sitting near the front, waved the three of them over, and they sat down alongside her. For the next five minutes, Queenie, Pete and Polly introduced Helen, very proprietorially, to the entire church until, at exactly 10 a.m, Simon entered from a side door and the service began. As he introduced the first hymn he gave a little nod of hello to Helen and there was a definite thrum of excitement from the congregation.

*

The service was a good and simple one. Apart from a mild hiatus when Pete and Polly were called out to an emergency heart attack in Trevay, it went smoothly. Helen hadn’t taken communion for many years and was surprisingly moved by the gentleness of Simon’s touch and the blessings as he gave her the bread and wine.

When it came to giving the sign of peace, he made a beeline for her and held her hand a fraction longer than necessary while asking if she’d care to come over to the vicarage after the service to have a glass of sherry with several of the other parishioners. Helen felt she could hardly refuse in front of so many expectant faces.

‘Thank you. Just a quick one.’

Simon visibly relaxed and went on to shake hands with the rest of the throng.

*

‘Come in. Come in.’ He ushered his eight or so guests in to the sitting room. Helen could see that it hadn’t benefited from a woman’s touch for several years, but she noticed the flowers on the piano and the same musky smell that Simon carried with him. He’d tried hard to make it welcoming. She offered to help him hand around the sherry and small cubes of cheese sprinkled with paprika, from which he’d just taken the cling film.

She was surprised to find she enjoyed herself much more than she’d expected. Everybody was so kind and interested in her. She was definitely the celebrity of the day!

‘How do you know the vicar then?’ an elderly man in tweed and corduroy asked her.

‘Well, it’s a very funny story actually.’ Simon hovered with a bowl of cashews. ‘Tell Jack, Helen.’

As Helen told the story, the room fell silent as all eyes hung on every word. ‘I’m glad it was only his shin that I kicked,’ she finished.

‘So’s the vicar,’ laughed Jack, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

Within an hour everybody was heading off for their lunch, or to the pub, and Simon accepted Helen’s offer of collecting the glasses and washing them up in the sink.

They chatted comfortably about nothing in particular, Helen enjoying his friendly chatter and Simon enjoying the rarity of female company.

‘When did you decide the clergy was for you, Simon?’

‘It wasn’t a road to Damascus moment, I’m afraid.’ He smiled. ‘I was going to be a vet at first, then maybe a PE teacher, but my heart kept telling me it was people’s souls I needed to attend to, not their animals or their bodies. And I have never regretted my decision.’

Helen dried her hands and looked at her watch. ‘Golly, it’s a quarter to one. I must leave you to the rest of your day.’

As Simon led her back through the dark hall to the front door, she glanced into his office. Books were crammed into the floor-to-ceiling shelves and an ancient swivel chair with a squishy chintz cushion stood in front of a disordered but charming oak desk, which had a view over to the church. Leaning up against the adjacent window was an enormous surfboard.

‘Simon! Are you a surfer?’

‘A bit. We Cornish boys have to, by law.’ They both smiled. ‘I might go out this afternoon, actually. The tide’ll be coming in about two p.m., so just right.’

‘The sea must be freezing.’

‘Surprisingly warm right now. October is usually the warmest month. I have a good winter wetsuit though. Boots, gloves, helmet – the lot.’

‘Well, Reverend Simon Canter, I never had you down as a surf dude.’ He looked at his feet and scuffed one shoe over the other.

‘I-I’d be happy to take you, if you wanted to come.’

‘I can’t surf.’

‘I’ll teach you. I’m very patient and by next summer I’ll have you ready to enter the World Championships down at Fistral Beach.’

She laughed aloud and he smiled back, glad that whatever signals he was sending, they seemed to be working.

‘Great,’ said Helen. ‘Let’s go this afternoon.’

*

Helen nipped home to get her swimming costume and a towel and quickly made a flask of tomato soup to warm them up afterwards. This was fun. A friend to play with at last. She loaded up her beach bag and added a packet of custard creams, just in case.

Simon was parked outside, his surfboard on the roof rack. She hurried down the garden path and hopped in next to him. As he pulled away, he tooted his horn merrily at Polly, who was weeding her front garden with Pete. The pair of them straightened up and waved.

Their first stop was the Trevay Surf Shack, a shop devoted to everything surfy. Helen was poured into a skin-tight wetsuit and fitted with a beginner’s board, both of which she could hire for the day.

‘You’ll be wanting these as well, girl,’ said Skip, the Kiwi shop owner. Flattered at being referred to as a girl, Helen gladly took the boots, gloves and helmet he proffered.

*

‘Right. These are the rules.’ Simon was kneeling on the beach with his wetsuit pulled up only to his waist. Helen looked appreciatively at his strong, hairy chest.

Who’d have thought he’d have a bod like that? she thought to herself.

‘The water likes to find a deep part of the beach to suck itself back out to sea. Look at it now. You see where the smooth water is? Well, that’s usually where the rip or undertow is strongest. Always swim where the water is breaking. It’s safer. Once you’re strong enough, we’ll use the rip to get out to the back of the waves. OK?’

‘Is this knowledge something you Cornish boys are born with?’

‘No, I used to be a lifeguard.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Before I finally chose my vocation.’

‘You are full of surprises! Is that how you got those abs?’

He looked down at his body. ‘Well, I run a bit as well.’

He stood up and swiftly pulled his wetsuit on.

‘Can I just get my balance by holding on to your arm?’ Helen asked as she wriggled first one leg then the other into her suit.

Simon was so unused to this kind of interaction with a woman that he accidentally brushed her bosom as he tried to hold her elbow.

‘I’m so terribly sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ laughed Helen, ‘Can you zip me up?’

Her slender back was also sprinkled with freckles and his hand felt weak as he pulled at the zip. Please, please, God. Is this IT?

Helen was all for jumping straight into the surf, but Simon held her back.

‘There’s one more thing I have to show you, which is how to stand on the board. Lie down and pretend there’s a wave coming. Paddle madly, and at the right moment I want you to jump up on to both feet and stand sideways. OK? Let’s go!’

It was much more difficult than it looked. Catching the wave at the right moment was incredibly hard, and as for jumping up on her feet in one smooth movement – ridiculous! Her legs felt like jelly, her arms were pulled out of their sockets and her lungs were full of sea water. Apart from that, it was lovely. Simon was patient and helpful, just as her father had been, but after forty-five minutes, she was getting cold and had had enough.

Her body felt lead-heavy as she walked back up the beach to her bag. She wrapped her big beach towel round her shoulders and sat watching Simon effortlessly catch wave after wave while she drank all the tomato soup.

*

Piran Ambrose stood at the top of the beach with Jack, his terrier, snuffling in the grass of the dunes. What was that woman doing, surfing with the vicar? Piran had known Simon since they were schoolboys together. It was Piran who had got Simon back on his feet after Denise had jilted him. They weren’t exactly best friends, but they were mates and Piran would always look out for him. Simon was someone who didn’t deserve to be hurt again.

Piran walked down the beach towards Helen.

‘Hello, boy! Where have you come from?’ Helen tickled the ears of the little Jack Russell who was trying to get a custard cream out of its packet. A shadow fell over her.

‘He’s mine. He won’t pee on you.’

She knew who it was before she looked up.

‘I‘m Piran Ambrose and this is Jack.’ He held out his large, rough hand. She stood up and shook it.

‘I‘m Helen Merrifield. I’m sorry we met in such awkward circumstances before, and thank you for letting me know about my washing line.’

‘That’s all right. What you doing down here with the vicar?’

‘Oh … er … he’s teaching me to surf, but I got tired. He’s very good.’

They both turned to watch Simon as a wave crashed over him and he fell off the board.

‘I taught him everything he knows,’ said Piran.

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows. ‘Oh really? He told me he learnt when he was a lifeguard.’

‘That’s true. But I was the lifeguard who taught him.’

His full lips smiled, revealing rather nice teeth, but finding she disliked him more than ever, Helen busied herself with picking up the packet of biscuits and stuffing it back in her bag.

‘What are you doing down here? You’re a London woman through and through, aren’t you? Husband divorced you, I expect.’

She stood up quickly, her eyes burning. ‘How dare you! I’m divorcing him, actually,’ she carried on across his laughter. ‘And what I am doing here has nothing to do with you.’

‘Well it does when your knickers are flying about my place of work.’

She drew herself up to her full five foot six. ‘Mr Ambrose, it is obvious that we have got off on the wrong foot. I suggest that in future we steer clear of each other.’

‘Fine.’ And with that, he whistled to Jack, waved to Simon and walked back up the beach.

Simon strode, dripping, towards her. ‘Has Piran gone?’ She nodded. ‘Damn. I wanted to thank him for all the work he’s putting in on the churchyard restoration plans. He’s our local historian, you know. He can tell you things about the families here going back hundreds of years. Lovely bloke. I am proud to call myself his friend. What did he want?’

‘I really couldn’t tell you,’ said Helen, and smiled tightly.

*

Later that night when she was on her own, wallowing in a steamy bath by candlelight, she thought about Simon and Piran. One handsome but horrible, the other not so handsome but sweet. How could Simon be friends with that great Hagrid of a man? She lit a scented Jo Malone candle and tried, unsuccessfully, to banish all thoughts of Piran Ambrose from her mind.

9

The next morning, Helen woke again to brilliant sunshine. The TV weather forecast had predicted a warm, dry week ahead. Good news and excellent for gardening. After breakfast she hopped over the back garden wall and knocked on the door of Tony’s shepherd’s hut.

‘’Oo’s that?’ his voice asked.

‘Mrs Merrifield from next door. I was wondering if you’d help me with the garden this week.’

His innocent face with the moleish sleek black hair popped out from the opened door.

‘Oh, yes, Mrs M. Lovely. I’ll be there directly.’

‘Great, see you in a minute.’

She heard an amount of rustling within and assumed he was getting dressed.

Within a few minutes he was at her back door. ‘Mornin’, Mrs M. Lovely day. This kind of weather makes me feel as happy as a tom tit on a pump handle.’

She smiled at him, and he asked, ‘What you got for me today?’

‘Well, I’d like to put a lot of spring bulbs in and maybe do some deep digging on those two back beds, ready for the veg plot.’

‘I’m good at growing veg. My mum always said I was a proper turnip head.’ He looked pleased, then puzzled. ‘Which is odd, ’cos I ain’t never grown turnips. But I’d be good if I did!’

‘Well, in that case we shall grow some. Do you want to come with me in the car to the nursery to get the bulbs and stuff?’

‘No thankee, Mrs M. I get grumbly in cars.’

‘Ah. Well, I’ll go on my own, but I’ll be back soon. Perhaps you’d take some shears to that ivy that’s covering the privy then? I can’t open the door at the moment.’

‘Righto.’

*

The nursery was a treasure trove of goodies. She bought three large sacks of daffodils, two of tulips and some smaller bags of snowdrops, crocuses and bluebells. Then she chose seed packets of peas, beans, asparagus, lettuce, courgettes and turnips. While waiting at the till, she spotted an eight-foot Cornish palm in an enormous terracotta pot and a pair of large, blue glazed pots planted, the label said, with agapanthus. She bought the lot with great satisfaction.

She got back home to find the ivy neatly trimmed and her washing line expertly fixed back to the wall.

‘Tony, how kind of you to fix my washing line! And the privy looks very smart.’

‘I done the ivy all right, but Mr Ambrose fixed the washing line. Said as he thought the weather was so good, you might like to do some washing.’

Piran! Here again. Why couldn’t the bloody man keep out of her way? She looked over to the churchyard and there he was. Smiling his cocky little smile and tipping his non-existent hat at her.

‘Thought you might like to get some of your smalls out in the fresh air. Don’t worry, I’ve seen it all, so I’m not embarrassed,’ he shouted to her retreating back.

Grrrr. She took a deep breath and managed, ‘Thank you,’ through gritted teeth. ‘No plans for laundry today.’

*

It would have been a very pleasurable day if she wasn’t so uncomfortably aware of Piran working just a few feet away over the wall. His radio, his whistling, his phone going off and his loud voice as he answered, all served to jangle her nerves. Little Jack came over the wall once or twice to renew her acquaintance, but she tried to keep any conversation with Piran to the minimum.

At lunchtime, Piran and Jack drove off in the truck and Helen breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Can I get you some lunch, Tony?’

‘No thanks, I’ve got me sandwiches.’

‘Well, sit here with me and we’ll eat together.’

She pulled a wooden bench out into a patch of sun, and went inside to make herself a sandwich and a coffee.

When she came out, Tony was sitting in his upright barrow.

‘Are you comfortable like that?’

‘Yes, Mrs M. ’Tis lovely.’

She settled herself on the bench. ‘Tell me about your mum and dad.’

‘My dad was a fisherman and me mum was me mum. Dad went to hospital one day and died and Mum broke her heart. Broke my heart when she died ’n’ all. People can die of broken hearts, you know.’

‘Yes, I believe you.’ A silence. Then, ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

‘Nope. Mum and Dad said they broke the mould when they made me. Couldn’t have another like me, they said. “Simple Tony Brown, you’re a one off, you are.” That’s what they said. That’s what everyone says.’

‘You share the name of another gardener. A very famous one called Capability Brown. I think he’d have liked you working with him. You could have called yourselves Brown and Brown.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Oh no, only of him. He died a long time ago.’

‘Broken heart?’

‘I’m not sure. But you are my Capability Brown from now on. May I call you Mr Brown? If I’m truthful, I prefer it to calling you Simple Tony.’

Tony looked at her, weighing things up.

‘OK.’

‘Thanks. Come on then, Mr Brown, we’ll just plant these last few crocus bulbs and then let’s get digging the vegetable patch.’

*

Together they dug really deep into the fertile soil, and Mr Brown trundled his old barrow back and forth across the village green at least a dozen times to collect the well-rotted manure from Pendruggan Farm. The farmer and his wife were only too happy to let it go.

Helen took her sweatshirt off, her muscles really warm now. The last bit to go was to dig two trenches for the runner beans and fill them with manure too. She and Mr Brown had a quick drink, he Ribena, she Diet Coke, and then they started.

As Tony thrust his spade into the ground, they heard a thud as it made contact with something hard.

‘Ow,’ said Mr Brown, shaking his jarred wrist. ‘What’s this?’

He carefully felt round with the spade, and gradually unearthed a black, painted tin box. It was around two feet across by sixteen inches wide and ten inches deep. He bent down and lifted it out.

‘Treasure, Mrs M.!’

‘Let’s have a look, Mr B.’

They carried it to the wooden bench and brushed as much soil off as they could, revealing a gold pattern in the Indian style which decorated the top and sides.

‘It’s so pretty,’ Helen said, lifting it and shaking it gently, ‘There’s something in it. I’ll wash this mud off my hands and get a damp cloth to wipe it over in case there’s something really precious in here.’

Once it was clean, she dried her hands on her discarded sweatshirt and eased the rusty lid open.

No water or rust had got inside to spoil anything. The first object was a beautiful jet brooch shaped like a black bird. It lay on a white blanket, which, when Helen shook it out, looked to be a baby’s shawl, the yarn spotted with age but the lacy crochetwork still beautiful. Under this lay a photograph of an Edwardian couple. The woman was holding a baby in her arms, and the man had his hand resting gently on the shoulder of a young boy aged no more than four or five years old. The final item was an ancient Peek Frean’s biscuit tin, which was something that looked like crushed ash. Perhaps the cremated remains of something, or somebody.

‘Oh my God. What is all this? Who does it belong to?’ gasped Helen.

‘I don’t know,’ said Tony, looking a bit pale. ‘I think we should bury it again so as not to disturb any spirits.’

‘Mr Brown! Don’t go soft on me now. This must be so precious to someone that they hid it. It’s our duty to return it to its rightful owner so that it has a happy ending. Don’t do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Hmm. Well, I’m intrigued. Leave it with me and I’ll have a think what to do next. Maybe I’ll ask around – someone might know something. Exciting, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Mr B, this is an adventure for us. What an end to our day! Tomorrow we’ll clear out the privy and see if there’s anything interesting in there, all right?’

‘OK. Bye, Mrs M. See you tomorrow.’

When he’d gone she closed the Peek Frean’s tin securely. As she did so, she noticed a small sticky label on the lid. In copperplate handwriting, it said Falcon.

A clue? She put everything back into the larger black tin and carried it carefully inside.

After making a pot of tea, she carried the tin box and her mug into the sitting room.

She took everything out again to look more carefully. Who on earth had buried all this and why?

She lit the fire and got on the phone to Penny.

10

‘Penny? It’s me.’

‘Hello, darling. I was going to phone and book some dates to see you. How’s it going?’

‘Well, I’ve got quite a lot to tell you. There are some extraordinary people down here. All straight out of central casting! They would be perfect extras for your new programme.’

‘Great! We might need them. Anyone handsome caught your eye?’

‘No! You’re as bad as Chloe. I’m not on the market, as you well know.’ She paused to allow Penny’s scornful laughter to run its course. ‘However, I do have a nice little mystery for you.’

Penny listened to Helen’s story of the tin box, only occasionally interrupting with the odd question.

‘Wow. How fascinating. How are you going to find out more?’ she asked.

‘Well, I thought I’d try Simon first. He’s the—’

Penny interrupted. ‘Simon? A mystery man on the scene already! Come on, don’t keep me in suspense!’

‘He’s the vicar—’

‘A lusty vicar! I love it, tell me more.’

‘Shut up and listen, will you? He’s the vicar who’s very—’

‘Married?’

‘NO! Single. He’s very sweet and—’

‘You want an excuse to see him so you’re going to ask him to take a look at your box! Oooh, matron.’

‘NO! LISTEN!’

‘OK, sorry. Carry on … vicar.’ More sniggers.

Helen sighed, ‘This is too exhausting. I’ll tell you the whole story when you come down. Which is when, exactly?’

They agreed to a date in early October, which was just a couple of weeks away.

‘You can stay here with me, but we’ll have to share my big bed. Do you mind?’

‘I am too old for sleepovers. Can you recommend a good hotel?’

‘The Starfish in Trevay is supposed to be THE place, locally.’

‘Great. I’ll get my PA to book it, and you and I will have a wine-fuelled dinner there. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

After 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.