The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read

Penny sat shakily, her hands in her lap, her fingers weaving restlessly. She stared, unfocussed, at their wedding picture on the wall.

Simon waited.

‘Mumma?’ Jenna put her arms out and whined for reassurance. ‘Mumma?’

Penny spoke. ‘It’s my mother. An old friend just rang. Thought I should know. She’s dead.’

Simon frowned and put his hand on Penny’s. ‘Your mother is dead?’

Penny nodded, her face almost grey with shock.

‘Is she sure, your friend? How does she know?’

‘It was announced in the local paper.’

‘When?’

‘Last week, but she’s only just seen it.’

‘But why didn’t Suzie tell you?’

Penny shrugged helplessly. ‘We haven’t spoken since that terrible lunch. Maybe she thought I didn’t want to know? Maybe she thought I wouldn’t speak to her if she had called? Or maybe,’ she brushed a tear from her eye, ‘she’s punishing me just a little bit more.’

‘But, darling.’ Simon stood before her his hands in his corduroy trousers, out of his depth. Penny had never told him what had happened over that lunch. He hadn’t known her then and she had steadfastly refused to discuss either her mother or her sister since, other than that they were cut from her life. He said, ‘Maybe she just doesn’t know how to approach you? Could you ring her?’

Penny shook her head. ‘No. You are my family now, Simon. And I’m so grateful to you for loving me.’

‘Oh that’s the easy bit. You are very lovable.’ He put Jenna down. ‘You’re in shock. Your mother has died and you need time to process it all. There’s plenty of time to think about the future. How about a drink? Tea – coffee? Or would you prefer something stronger?’

Penny gave him a wry smile. ‘This morning I was drinking too much, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes, well. I think this calls for a drink.’

Instead of the kitchen he walked towards the drinks cupboard. ‘Brandy? I’ve some lovage cordial too – shall I put some in?’

Penny said nothing. Jenna climbed onto her lap and, putting a thumb in her mouth, stroked Penny’s hair.

‘Get this down you.’ Simon placed the glass in front of her.

*

Penny was just seven when her father had his first heart attack. That day she had woken early, about six, she supposed. The sun was already up because it was summer. She had heard the back door open and click shut. Her father must be checking on his greenhouse. She crept out of bed and just missed the creaking floorboard outside her mother’s bedroom. She stopped and listened for anyone stirring. All quiet.

In the garden the birds were busy chatting to each other and a fat thrush was pulling at an early worm. She threaded her way across the dew-soaked lawn, past the scented orange blossom bush and under the golden hop archway into the vegetable garden. There was her father, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes screwed up against the smoke as he tied up a stray branch of cucumber.

He jumped when he saw her and closed his eyes, holding his chest. ‘Oh my goodness, Penny. You gave me a fright.’ Then he laughed and she giggled as he held his arms out to wedge her on his hip, the cigarette still dangling from his lips.

‘Naughty, naughty,’ Penny admonished him.

‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he said conspiratorially, stubbing it out in a flowerpot.

She smiled. She liked sharing his secrets. ‘I won’t,’ she said.

‘Good girl.’ He looked up towards the house. ‘All quiet on the Western Front?’

She nodded.

‘Want a cup of coffee?’

‘With sugar?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Of course.’

In the far corner of his greenhouse was hidden a little camping stove, a bottle of water, jars of coffee and sugar and a tin of Carnation milk. There was also, hidden in a large cardboard box, a bottle of Gordon’s gin: another delicious secret that no one else shared.

The smell of the methylated spirits and the match as it caught the flame for the camping stove was intoxicating.

‘Do take a seat, madam.’ Her father snapped open a rickety folding chair and placed an ancient chintz cushion on the seat. She sat, her bare feet, with sodden grass stalks sticking to them, barely touching the gravel floor.

‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked. ‘You must be cold in your nightie. Here, would you like my cardigan?’

She nodded and enjoyed the warmth of his body heat stored in the wool as he draped it over her shoulders. The kettle was boiling and he made them drinks. He had two spoons of coffee, no sugar and black. She had one teaspoon of coffee, two of sugar and a large dollop of the condensed milk. She didn’t really like coffee but she didn’t want to hurt him by saying so.

He sat on an old wooden crate and pulled a serious face.

‘So, young lady, what have you got on at school today? Latin? Quantum Physics? Or a little light dissection?’

She giggled. ‘Daddy, I’m only seven. I’ve got reading. Sums, I think. Music and playing.’

‘A full and busy day then.’

She nodded. ‘Yep. What about you?’

He lit another cigarette. Rothmans. Penny thought them terribly glamorous.

‘Well, I’ve got to show a lady and a man around a very nice house that I think they should buy.’

‘Why do you think they should buy it?’

‘Because it is pretty, has a sunny garden, and their little boy will be able to play cricket on the lawn.’

Penny drank her coffee. The sugar and the Carnation milk made it just about bearable. ‘Can I come andsee it?’

‘No. Sorry, madam.’

‘Is it as nice as our house?’

‘Gosh, no. Ours is much nicer. And do you know why it’s nicer?’