The Stolen Weekend

THE STOLEN WEEKEND

Fern Britton

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Fern Britton 2014

Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition ISBN: 9780007513222

Version: 2017-11-21

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Keep Reading

Extract from The Seaside Affair

About the Author

Also by Fern Britton

About the Publisher

1

‘What on earth?’ Penny Leighton grappled at the side of her bed, trying to locate her mobile phone as it rang loudly somewhere close by. She blinked, bleary-eyed, at the blue fascia of her iPhone 5 as it flashed insistently at her in the darkness of the bedroom. The usually jaunty, old-fashioned ringtone was the last thing she wanted to hear at six in the morning. This morning in particular. Who the hell was ringing her at this ungodly hour?

Penny sat bolt upright in bed as she saw the caller’s name appear.

‘Audrey bloody Tipton!!’ Penny angrily pressed the silent button and shoved the vibrating phone back under her pillow.

‘What is that woman pestering me for now?’ Penny turned over in the bed, directing the question to where her husband Simon ought to be, but was surprised to see that his side of the bed was empty. The Right Reverend Simon Canter, vicar of Pendruggan, was normally an early riser, as members of the clergy tended to be, but she hadn’t anticipated that he would have got up at this unearthly hour. After all, it was a Tuesday, no early services today, and last night they’d both got to bed late. Penny was the sole owner of Penny Leighton Productions, a successful TV production company that had a string of prime-time successes under its belt. Her latest hit was a TV show called Mr Tibbs, based on the mystery stories of Mavis Carew. The series was filmed in and around Pendruggan, a small, unspoilt Cornish village that Penny had discovered when her best friend Helen Merrifield decided to make a fresh start there after divorcing her philandering husband. Penny had come for a visit and ended up finding not only the perfect location for Mr Tibbs but the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Though she would never have imagined herself as a vicar’s wife, she’d never been happier. Her loving and gentle husband with his chocolate-brown eyes and soft-spoken voice had brought out the best in Penny and she had no regrets about upping sticks to move to Cornwall. Or at least, not until this morning.

Knowing that Simon was up and about, Penny found it impossible to settle back to sleep. She swung her legs out of the bed and reached for her satin dressing gown, which was hanging on a peg nearby. Then she went to the window and pulled open the heavy curtains, which kept out even the most persistent sunshine.

It was April and the sky was still tinged with the night, but the purple and pink fingertips of dawn were already starting to snake their way across the horizon.

‘Mmm. Red sky in the morning,’ Penny observed. ‘Looks like bad weather. Again.’

She trudged down the stairs to find that the house was in total darkness, except for Simon’s study, where a gentle light emanated from under the doorway.

Penny knocked softly and popped her head around the door.

‘Morning, Vicar.’

Simon’s head was head was buried in what appeared to be the parish appointments diary. Penny could tell from the way his fingertips were pressed against his furrowed brow that he was feeling harassed.

‘Oh, good morning, darling.’ He looked up from his desk, blinking at her through his glasses. ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘I’m not sure it is quite morning yet,’ Penny replied. ‘And no, it wasn’t you who woke me, it was a phone call from that busybody, Audrey Tipton.’

‘Really, what did she want?’

‘Dunno – I cut her off.’ Penny looked down at her iPhone. ‘But it looks as though she left me a message.’

‘You should be having a lie-in. You look done in.’

‘I feel done in. The last few weeks have been really gruelling. I’m so exhausted, I couldn’t even enjoy the wrap party.’

‘I’m sorry you had to go alone, darling, but there was so much to do here,’ he sighed guiltily.

Penny walked over to her husband and gave his balding head a kiss. ‘Oh, stuff that. You didn’t miss anything: it was only the usual shenanigans. The lead actors all lording it over each other and getting pissed while the runners and researchers snogged one another.’ She peered at the papers spread over his desk. ‘What’s the problem? Is there anything I can do to help?’

Simon put down his pen, took off his glasses and ran a hand anxiously over his shining scalp. ‘It’s this whole business with the new vicar at St Peter’s.’

The church of St Peter’s was in Trevay, the nearest town and a thriving seaside resort. It had been without its own vicar for months and Simon had been asked by the bishop to help out with services until a suitable candidate was found to fill the post. As if it wasn’t enough having two congregations to minister to, Simon was also expected to supervise the builders carrying out restorations to St Peter’s bell tower. As a result, the last few weeks had been as gruelling for him as they had for Penny. They’d barely had a moment to themselves and were both exhausted.

‘The verger at St Peter’s Church has been taken ill,’ Simon told her. ‘He’s been a godsend, helping me out with the services and keeping things ticking over. Without him, I just don’t know how I’m going to cope. We’ve got two funerals scheduled tomorrow morning – one here and one in Trevay – at the same time, so I’m going to have to phone around and find someone to officiate.’ He looked up at her despairingly. ‘And it doesn’t end there. Until the verger recovers, I’ll have to cut evensong down here so that I can dash over to Trevay to take the six p.m. service, and then there’s—’

Penny laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Have you told the bishop? Surely he can sort something out?’

‘I called the diocese secretary yesterday, but the bishop is on a retreat until next week. I probably won’t see him until he shows up to bless the new bell tower. There’s so much to organise, but I already feel as if I’ve been pulled in half – there’s only so much of me to go round.’ Simon’s pinched face was etched with worry. Penny’s heart went out to her beleaguered husband.

‘Oh, Simon. Poor you. Have you even had a cup of tea yet?’

He shook his head.

‘Well,’ said Penny, giving Simon an encouraging smile, ‘ecclesiastical matters may not be my forte, but I do know how to boil a kettle.’

Later that morning, at a more civilised hour, Penny knelt on the sofa in the cosy sitting room at the vicarage. From this vantage point, she was able to see the last of the trucks loading up the dismantled sets of the Mr Tibbs shoot. The set was a painstaking reconstruction of Fifties village life, strategically placed in front of a terrace of Sixties council houses whose occupants were well compensated for the inconvenience. All in all, everyone was happy: the TV crew did their utmost to keep disruption to a minimum; the actors mingled cordially with the residents; locals and visitors alike came to watch the location shoots and the popularity of the series had given tourism in the area a much-needed boost. There was little conflict, but the occasional voice of dissent could sometimes be heard.

It was usually the same voice.

Penny held the phone away from her ear as Audrey gave vent to her feelings.

‘The success of your programme owes everything to the co-operation of we, the villagers! Without us, Mr Tibbs would be a complete failure, Mrs Canter!’

Penny took a deep breath. She’d already been listening to Audrey for ten minutes. Apparently, the woman’s neurotic, smelly and aged cocker spaniels had been disturbed by the crew dismantling the set early this morning, hence the dawn phone call.

‘Yes, Audrey, we do everything we can to avoid disturbing anyone, but if the crew leave it any later there’s a risk the trucks could hold up through traffic at rush hour, or what passes for rush hour in this part of the world.’

It took another ten minutes of yes, Audreys, no Audreys, and three-bags-full, Audreys before Penny was able to get her off the subject and onto another one. But predictably, even then, it was an unwelcome topic.

‘So, as vicar’s wife, it is incumbent upon you to represent the qualities of charitable benevolence, which is why the Old People’s Christmas Luncheon Committee have nominated you as chairperson. Our first meeting will be held in the church hall tomorrow at five p.m., we will expect you there.’

‘What?!’ Penny couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Who nominated me? I’ll have you know that I’ve given myself two weeks’ holiday after a very long and punishing shoot. I’ve no intention of doing anything other than putting my feet up!’

‘The committee nominated you.’

‘Who’s on the committee?’

‘Geoffrey and I, of course, and Emma Scott – Pendruggan’s Brown Owl. It’s a great honour for you. And it’s not merely a token role, either. Your task will be to drum up support. The Old People’s Christmas Luncheon is a village institution. The old folks rely on it.’

‘But it’s only April.’ Penny said, weakly.

‘December will come around sooner than you think. Tomorrow at five p.m., remember.’ And with that, Audrey rang off, leaving Penny under a cloud of doom.

Helen Merrifield was feeling damp, cold and miserable. Cornwall had just endured its wettest and wildest winter on record, and while Pendruggan had got off lightly compared to many of the coastal communities, it hadn’t emerged completely unscathed. The lovely, cosy charm of Helen’s old farmworker’s cottage, Gull’s Cry, had been severely compromised by the constant deluge of rain. The tiny, slow trickle that had started in one corner of her bathroom had turned into a steady drip-drip, the drips multiplying with each fresh rainfall until the upstairs ceilings were a patchwork of weeping stains and the bedroom floors were littered with pots and pans and buckets.

‘Piran! Come and look at this – the one in the bathroom is definitely getting worse!’

Piran Ambrose was Helen’s boyfriend and the epitome of brooding masculinity. They’d been together for a while, but they didn’t live together. Both valued their independence and knew that sharing a house would drive them nuts. Much of the time Helen found his dark and mercurial nature quite thrilling, but it could also be a blooming pain the arse. This was one of those pain-in-the-arse moments.

His deep Cornish bass reverberated up the stairs. ‘’Aven’t got time. Gotta dash.’

This was immediately followed by the clatter of buckets being overturned as Helen came dashing out of the bathroom and down the stairs. She managed to catch him before the front door of the cottage had creaked fully open.

‘Where are you going? You promised me that someone would come out to have a look at it. That was days ago and we’re still waiting.’

‘Think you’re the only one with a leaky roof? There’s plenty worse off than you, maid, and I can’t be expected to sit twiddling my thumbs, waiting!’

‘So I have sit around and twiddle mine! But of course, my time isn’t important, unlike Piran Ambrose, historian of note!’

Piran frowned at the sarcasm in her voice. ‘What exactly have you got to do that is more important than my job?’

‘Er …’ Helen faltered momentarily, but then rallied: ‘I promised to run Queenie down to the surgery later. Her bunions are playing up.’ She jutted her chin out defiantly.

‘Bunions, eh? Really? How taxing for you.’ Piran was quite good at sarcasm himself when it suited. ‘Look, maid, we’re talking about the discovery of a Roman fort here! This is the most significant find Cornwall’s seen in decades – and it’s only two miles from my own doorstep. Opportunities like that don’t come along very often in a historian’s life. The archeological team need all the local support they can get. The bad weather has hampered the dig and they’ve got to work quickly if the site isn’t going to be washed away by more bad weather.’

Piran and Helen stood at the door and looked out at the ominous sky.

‘But what about me and the cottage? Aren’t we in danger of being washed away too?’ she asked plaintively.

Piran shook his headed and headed off towards his car, speaking as he went: ‘Look, I’ve asked Gasping Bob to come out, He should be here later.’

‘Who?’ Helen shouted after him.

‘Gasping Bob!’ And with that, Piran climbed into his pickup and sped off.

‘For some reason,’ Helen said to herself, ‘that name doesn’t inspire me with confidence.’

‘Where’s my phone?’ Simon’s panicked voice carried through the hallway and upstairs to where Penny was hunting for some ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet. She was finding it impossible to wind down. Even though the shoot was over, the phone hadn’t stopped ringing with requests and queries for Simon. His stress levels were starting to get to her now. She’d slept badly and had a throbbing pain in her shoulder, not to mention the remnants of a hangover.

‘By the front door, on the sideboard,’ she shouted back, riffling through the packets of aspirin, indigestion remedies and vitamin C tablets.

Moments later, another anxious shout: ‘My car keys, where are they? I just had them in my hand.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Penny gave up her fruitless search and headed downstairs. She found Simon anxiously hopping from foot to foot. ‘Where did you have them last?’

‘Just now!’ His voice was a strangled screech.

‘Calm down, darling. They won’t have gone far.’

Penny’s eyes spied his Nokia, still on the sideboard, and next to it a set of keys.

‘Here you are, Simon. You must have put them both down when you put your coat on. Now, is that everything?’

‘Er … not sure, possibly not. Look, I’ve got to go – I’ve should have been at St Peter’s ten minutes ago! Bye.’

He planted a distracted peck on her cheek and then dashed out the door.

As the house settled into silence, Penny let out a sigh of relief. ‘Right, now for half an hour on the sofa with a hot-water bottle on my shoulder.’

Switching her mobile phone off, Penny boiled a kettle, filled her hot-water bottle with its Paddington Bear cover – tatty and much loved since childhood – and headed off to put her feet up. She’d no sooner arranged herself on the sofa than the doorbell rang. Penny pretended not to hear it. It rang again. More insistently this time.

‘Bother, bother, bother.’

Penny launched herself from the sofa and stomped down the corridor. She threw open the door, ready to tell whoever it was to bugger off, but managed to bite back on the words when she found herself confronted by the toothless grin of Queenie Quintrel.

Normally Penny would have been delighted to welcome the ancient Cockney proprietress of the village store, but right now she wasn’t it the mood. She offered a tight smile. ‘Queenie. What an unexpected pleasure.’

Queenie had run the village store for longer than anyone could remember. An evacuee from London during the war, she’d stayed on and married a local man. She’d never lost her accent, and her outspoken manner and blue rinse were as famous as the home-made pasties she sold in her shop.

‘Wotcha, Pen. Ain’t you expecting me?’ An untipped fag dangled between her lips, its blue smoke wisping its way into the Vicarage.

This left Penny on the back foot. ‘Er, should I be?’

‘Yeah! You ain’t forgot, ’ave yer?’

‘Possibly.’

‘The Great Pendruggan Bake-Off, ain’t it! Raising money for the St Morwenna’s Respite Home for the Elderly. We’re all supposed to be making something and you and me was gonna be a team, remember?’

Penny’s heart sank. Yes, she did remember now. How could this have come around so quickly?

‘But I thought that was months away?’

Queenie gave one of her trademark cackles. ‘Well, it was months away, months ago! I did tell Simon to remind you I was coming round today when I saw him at church on Sunday.’

‘He’s got so much on his mind, he must have forgotten. Does it have to be today? You see, I’ve …’

Queenie wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘It’s gotta be today. I’ve got Simple Tony in, minding the shop for a couple of hours, but you know what ’e’s like! Anyway, the first round of judging is tomorrow and we’re on. Dontcha remember, we’ve called ourselves “The Best of the West”. I’m doing the best of Cornwall with my Cornish pasty pie and you’re doing the best of London with those little puff-pastry cheesecakes, Richmond Maids of Honour.’

‘But I haven’t done any shopping … the ingredients … the recipes …?’

‘Never you mind about that, dearie. I’ve got all we need in this little bag of tricks.’ Queenie stood aside to reveal a bulging tartan shopping bag on wheels, fit to bursting with bags of flours and other sundry items.

‘Now shove out the way. We’d better get a move on.’

Penny stood aside as Queenie wheeled all before her. Her shoulders sagged, as she felt all resistance drain away – along with any hope of five minutes’ peace.

2

Helen ended up waiting in all day for ‘Gasping Bob’. Despite leaving him numerous messages, there had been no word from Piran. Presumably he’d been so absorbed in his Roman fort that he’d forgotten all about her. That evening, the storm took a nasty turn as another weather front settled in over the region. Helen made her way up to bed with a strong sense of foreboding about what the latest bout of wind and rain would do to her little cottage. She slept fitfully and was already awake when a large chunk of her bedroom ceiling caved in, the water cascading down the flaking plaster and all over her John Lewis symmetric weave, thick-pile rug.

Not normally given to crying, she sat in stunned silence and surveyed the wreckage of what used to be her bedroom. Feeling the hot well of tears threatening to bubble over, Helen realised she had reached some sort of breaking point. Grabbing her dressing gown, she made her way down to the front door and pulled on her wellies. Within minutes she’d jumped into her little car and driven the short distance to Piran’s house. It took a few angry thumps on the old wooden front door before his gruff voice could be heard from within.

‘All right, keep your ruddy ’air on. Where’s the fire?’

The words died in his mouth as he took in the vision of his usually elegant and graceful girlfriend. Sopping wet and looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, Helen fired out her words like short, sharp pistol shots.

‘If I have to suffer one more night of Chinese water torture in my own home, I, Helen Merrifield, am personally going to beat you, Piran Ambrose, to death’ – she yanked a sodden and muddy welly from one foot – ‘with this Wellington boot!!’ She brandished it at him.

For a moment Piran could only stand there in his hastily pulled on boxers, gawping at her. Then he collapsed into gales of helpless laughter. Helen promptly burst into tears and Piran scooped her up, took her inside and then tucked her up in his bed.

It was now Thursday morning and Helen was watching slightly aghast as a man of indeterminate age, but somewhere between eighty-five and one hundred and five years old hoisted a ladder from the top of a battered white van and staggered towards the door of Gull’s Cry. His wispy grey hair was tied back in a ponytail, he wore the tightest of skimpy shorts that showcased the knobbliest of brown knees. He was wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend Cornish Men Do It Slowly and a brown roll-up poked out of the side of his mouth.

‘This is Gasping Bob? The man who’s going to fix my roof?’ she whispered to Piran, incredulous.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, maid.’

Piran greeted Gasping Bob like a long-lost friend and Helen was surprised to see the old man shoot up the ladder and on to the roof with the agility of a geriatric Tarzan.

Moments later, he’d assessed the damage and was back down again.

‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Helen.

Gasping Bob shook his head and said, ‘Ah …’

‘Is that good news or bad news?’

He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Ah …’

‘Well, are you going to fix it?’

‘Ah …’

Helen turned to Piran. ‘Please tell me that this man is going to fix my roof. I don’t think I can take much more of this.’

Piran looked at her with irritation. ‘Leave the man to do his work and stop wittering, woman.’ And with that, he and Gasping Bob wandered off in a huddle and carried on their private conversation in what sounded to Helen like more ahs and umms.

Helen balled her fists in annoyance. ‘Bloody Cornwall! Bloody Cornish men!’

And with that she headed off across the village green to the vicarage in hope of finding a cup of tea, or something stronger.

‘So, you’re camping out at Piran’s until further notice then?’ Penny poured them each a cup of tea from the shiny brown tea pot and offered her friend a chocolate HobNob.

‘Looks that way, but we’ll drive each other nuts after a few days. He can’t bear to have a woman cluttering up the place and he’s impossible to live with – just so bloody male, and Cornish male to boot.’ Helen sipped her tea. ‘Got anything stronger?’

‘Brandy? Can’t join you – Simon’s car is playing up again and I’ll have to pick him up in Trevay.’

‘No fun tippling on your own,’ Helen responded. ‘What about you – you look exhausted?’

‘I am. It’s been one thing after another. What with the shoot, then Simon’s stress levels, plus the whole village contriving to drive us into an early grave … I spent most of yesterday baking with Queenie for this Pendruggan Bake-Off thingummy and then, to top it all, we only went and won the first heat.’

‘Congratulations!’ Helen registered the thunderous look on Penny’s face. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Pleased? That’s the last thing I needed! Now I’ll have to go through the whole blooming thing again next week. There’s four heats and then a grand final, with Mary Berry herself coming to judge. Still, it’ll be a lovely feeling if we beat Audrey Tipton. That woman is the bane of my life.’

‘Oh yes, very satisfying.’