The Holiday Home

Within minutes they had turned on to the familiar lane, through Lower Barton, on to Higher Barton and along the narrowing and sandy lane that led to Treviscum Bay.

Holidaymakers were carrying surfboards and shepherding children and dogs down to the beach. The tide was low and a warm afternoon sun had made a welcome appearance. Greg drove slowly past them all and then turned right into the tamarisk-lined driveway of Atlantic House. Parking in the shade of a handsome blue hydrangea he pulled on the handbrake and switched the engine off. ‘We’re here.’ He smiled at Connie.

She leaned over and kissed him. Pulling away, she said with a laugh, ‘Quick, let’s nab the main bedroom.’

As they got out of the car and stretched, an attractive older woman with implausibly chestnut hair, red lipstick and tight white jeans, topped off with a jaunty blue-and-white striped T-shirt, came walking round the side of the house. She stood with her arms open wide and a beaming smile.

‘There you are!’

‘Mummy!’ Connie ran to her mother and hugged her.

‘Hello, Dolly!’ said Greg, who knew that his mother-in-law hated this abbreviation of her name. She ignored him and his pathetically tedious joke.

‘Connie, darling! Welcome. Daddy and I have been on tenterhooks all day.’ She kissed her younger daughter.

‘Where is Daddy?’

‘At home, watching the wretched cricket highlights,’ Dorothy replied, turning to Abigail. ‘Abi darling.’ They embraced for a moment, then Dorothy stood back and appraised her granddaughter’s figure. ‘So pretty despite the puppy fat. Never mind – I’ll get that off you. I’ll tell Poppa he’s not to let you eat any of his chocolates.’

‘Mummy—’ started Connie, about to chastise her mother for picking on Abi’s weight, but she was cut off by Dorothy.

‘Come on, Connie, I want to hear all your news. Let’s put the kettle on. Greg – bring in the bags, will you?’

Dorothy swept Connie into the house, leaving Greg and a wounded Abigail to carry the luggage. Abigail kept her head down to hide the hot tears she could feel pricking her eyes. Greg put his arm round her. ‘Abi, she’s a silly, jealous old woman. Forget it. There’s nothing wrong with you. If anything, I reckon you need fattening up – and I shall make it my business to take you out for a cream tea every day.’

‘Thanks, Daddy,’ said Abigail, managing a smile.

*

Pru, still on the Okehampton bypass but driving at only ninety miles an hour now, was seething.

‘These jumped-up nobodies in their little blue uniforms, doing no good to anyone. Why aren’t they out catching criminals instead of hassling innocent motorists? It’s appalling. I shall get on to the solicitor and demand an apology from the chief constable. They’re not getting away with this.’

Francis kept quiet, merely nodding when he felt it appropriate to do so.

On and on she went. Past the sign to Jamaica Inn and St Breward, through Bodmin, Wadebridge and Padstow, until finally they arrived at Atlantic House.

As soon as he saw that Greg and Connie had got there before them, Francis knew what was coming.

‘Mummy, how well you look!’ Pru limped slowly round to the front of the car and towards her mother, who was standing on the doorstep with a mug of tea in her hand.

‘Prudence! Connie and I have been waiting ages. How long did the police stop you for? Connie saw you.’

Connie came to the front door too. ‘Yes. Poor things. We saw you, but there was nothing we could do to help so we just pushed on. We made good time actually.’

Pru smiled through gritted teeth. ‘How super!’

Dorothy stepped aside and ushered Pru in. ‘So, apart from the speeding ticket, how are you? Why are you limping?’

‘I’m fine, Mummy. So happy to be here again – oof!’ Pru suddenly came to a halt as if in spasm, her right side collapsed on itself, a look of pain on her face.

‘My God, whatever’s the matter?’ Dorothy rushed to her aid.

Smiling bravely and steadying herself, Pru replied, ‘It’s the drive. I’ve been sitting too long. You know Francis, he never lets us stop.’

Her mother glowered at the blameless Francis, who was standing on the drive with several heavy bags at his feet. He gawped at his wife with his mouth open in astonishment.

‘Francis, don’t stand there like a halfwit. Bring Pru’s things in while I get her comfortable.’

‘I’m fine, Mummy. Really I am. Ow! Don’t take my arm, it radiates the pain into my leg.’

The pair walked into the cool shade of the beautiful old hallway, leaving Connie to help Francis with the bags.

‘How was the drive?’ she asked him knowingly.

He smiled at the sister-in-law he was so fond of. ‘The usual.’

‘How was she with the police?’

He sighed. ‘Forceful is the best word for it.’

‘Ah.’

‘Quite.’

They looked at one another and laughed.

‘Let’s get these bags in and I’ll fix you a brew – unless you fancy something stronger?’

‘Oh, Con, you are a dear. I think a nice cup of camomile tea will do me nicely.’

Pru, meanwhile, had followed her mother to the large cream drawing room overlooking the sea.

Dorothy plumped the cushions on the long and inviting sofa.

‘Here, darling, put your feet up. I’ll have Connie bring you tea and a hot-water bottle.’

Connie, hearing this as she entered the room, looked at Pru suspiciously.

‘Hi, sis. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing really. The osteopath thinks it’s a slipped disc, but I’m fine. Aargh!’ She screwed her eyes up at the alleged sudden pain. ‘It’s only when I move. Mummy, would you find my bag? Francis will know where it is. I have some painkillers in it.’

‘Of course, darling.’

As soon as their mother had left the room, Connie rounded on her sister.

‘There is nothing wrong with you. And, no, you are not having the big bedroom.’