Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch

Connie hurried past an innocent-looking Merlin. He goosed her too. She gave him a cold glare, but he merely smiled his beatific smile and turned to Greg and Francis. ‘Right, chaps. I’ll start on the bottom and work my way up, shall I?’

*

In the drawing room, Connie and Pru finally spoke to each other.

‘I haven’t seen Dad that angry for a long time,’ said Pru, running her fingers through her hair.

‘I can’t believe Greg got Merlin in to do the work!’ exclaimed Connie.

‘A horrible coincidence,’ agreed Pru.

‘Ghastly,’ replied Connie. ‘And, Pru …’

‘Hmm?’ Pru was gazing around the room, taking in the faded curtains and stained rug.

‘… I’m sorry about yesterday.’

Pru stopped her mental inventory and looked at her sister. ‘Me too. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.’

‘It did, though. And it made me angry.’

‘I know.’

‘So, we’re back on a level playing field? For the house and everything.’

‘Yes.’

They gave each other a short hug, but a residual resentment remained – simmering away under the surface.

‘Mind you,’ said Pru, ‘there’ll be bugger-all left if we don’t look after it.’

Connie smiled, trying to shake it off. ‘Help me shift this sofa, would you?’

The castors hadn’t been moved for years and it took an effort to budge them. Eventually they dragged the sofa out, revealing a dusty but cleaner patch of carpet.

Pru surveyed the floor.

‘God, this is filthy. Look at the difference!’

Connie bent down to pick up two old biros, a marble and a rubber band from among the balls of fluff that had lain under the sofa for decades.

‘We’d better hire a carpet-shampoo machine. Do you suppose Mr Pomeroy’s in Higher Barton would have one?’

Pru wiped her hands on her i’d rather be surfing apron and threw the bits of rubbish into a black bin liner. ‘Bound to. Old Pomeroy does everything from Alka-Seltzer to wellingtons via sunbeds and lipgloss, as far as I can remember.’

Connie picked at a dead moth stuck in the brocade of the heavy curtains. ‘If I take these down, you could pop them into the dry cleaners. I think the one next to Pomeroy’s is still there. Oh look, a fifty-pence piece.’ She stooped to pick it up. ‘We can use that for parking.’

She flipped it to her sister, who caught it neatly.

‘Which reminds me,’ continued Connie, ‘how are we going to share the cost of all this spring cleaning and renovation?’

‘Keep the receipts, give them all to me and I’ll tot them up and split the bill down the middle.’

‘But suppose Greg and I spend more than you and Francis?’ Connie queried.

Pru tightened her lips, ‘Well, write your name on each receipt so I’ll know who’s paid what. OK?’

‘OK.’

Pru straightened up and put her hands on her hips. ‘I’m not trying to do you out of anything, Connie. I’m not going to get Daddy drunk and make him sign a will giving me everything.’

‘Hmm,’ murmured Connie as Pru turned away. She turned back quickly.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ trilled Connie. ‘Just pass me a bin bag and I’ll pop the curtains into it.’

For the next fifteen minutes neither of them said a word. While Connie balanced on a kitchen chair to unhook the curtains, Pru busied herself removing the loose covers from the sofas and armchairs.

When they had everything bundled up into seven or eight bin liners, they carried the first couple to Pru’s car.

Outside the front door, Francis and Greg were doing something with the guttering.

‘Let’s start with the roof and clear the gutters,’ Francis had suggested earlier. ‘A sound roof is the best basis for a sound house.’

‘Is it?’ said Greg. ‘What about good footings, a damp-proof course and solid brickwork?’

‘Well, of course, those are all important too, but they need to be kept dry by a sound roof.’

‘OK,’ said Greg, who knew as little about building as Francis but couldn’t be bothered to argue the point. ‘Who’s going up the ladder? You or me?’

‘I’m not good at heights,’ admitted Francis. ‘I’ll keep the bottom steady for you.’

‘Righto. Here I go.’

At the top of the ladder, Greg had a breathtaking view of the rolling fields and the rolling flesh of Belinda, who was in her garden, hula hooping in a bikini, with Emily.

Her invitingly wobbly bosoms and folds of comely stomach and hips were much more appealing than listening to Francis, who was standing at the foot of the ladder wittering about cracked slates.

Greg’s pleasant reverie was interrupted by Connie calling from below: ‘Greg, would you help me carry these bags into the car, please?’

‘No can do. I’m busy.’

‘I’ll help,’ said Francis.

Greg felt the ladder give slightly as Francis let go.

‘You’ll be all right up there, won’t you? I’ll only be a mo.’