The Newcomer. Fern Britton

they went home to, covered in sawdust and sweat. They had done a good job. The outer walls were built of sturdy granite and slate. The inner walls probably plaster and lathe with horsehair to bond and insulate.

      He closed his eyes and pictured the men working in this room. Caps on. Tweed jackets. Aprons over trousers tied at the ankle. Feet shod in sturdy boots.

      They might have sat right where he was lying, eating pasties and smoking pipes.

      How many of them had gone on to fight in the Great War? How many had returned? How many were remembered?

      He somehow felt connected to them, through the house: now was his turn to make these walls his home. Well, Angela’s turn really …

      He reached across for Angela and carefully folded himself around her, feeling the strength in her sinewy back and shoulders and the warmth of her hips on his thighs. His hand reached round and held her taut flat tummy before travelling up to stroke her small breasts. He kissed her neck and she stirred.

      ‘Good morning, my love,’ he whispered.

      ‘Hey,’ she whispered back with her eyes still closed.

      ‘Do you want anything?’

      ‘What are you offering?’

      ‘Coffee? Tea? Me?’

      ‘Faith will hear us.’

      ‘I’ll be quick and quiet.’

      ‘Smooth talker.’

      Somewhere in the village an engine at full throttle disturbed the moment. It was getting closer and slowing into a lower throatier gear.

      Robert and Angela knew at once, even before the two-tone horn set the churchyard crows chattering. Robert rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling before saying, ‘Bloody Mamie.’

      The Jensen Interceptor drew to a halt outside their gate. Robert and Angela listened as the car door opened and slammed shut. A feminine, well-educated, husky voice shouted up, ‘Hellooo! Anybody home?’

      ‘Put your pyjamas on, quick,’ ordered Angela as she flew out of bed and over to her dressing gown. Fastening it round her, she went to the open bedroom window and looked out. The village green, thick with dew, sparkled fresh and green at her. A murder of crows, roused from their sleep by the noise of the engine, flapped and cawed furiously from the churchyard.

      A tall woman dressed in a tight pencil skirt, white blouse, with too many buttons undone, and a wide patent leather belt gripping her waist, looked up at her.

      ‘Darling.’ She opened her arms wide. ‘Am I too early? I have come straight from the dullest dinner date in town. A banker. Three ex-wives. Last one dead. Died of boredom, I suspect. But anyway, the sunrise was so divine I decided to drive straight down. Missed all the traffic. The old Jensen really opened up. If it wasn’t for the traffic cop stopping me I’d have been here even earlier. He was terribly sweet, though. Turned out he was a Jensen fan and wanted to know all about her.’

      Angela was still fighting with her dressing gown sleeve. ‘Were you speeding? Is that why he stopped you?’

      Mamie shook a white chiffon scarf from her coiffed blond curls and looked sheepish. ‘Maybe. A little. But he was awfully nice. Just a little ticking-off. Wasn’t that sweet? Aren’t you going to open the door and let me in? Mr Worthington is dying for a pee.’

      ‘An Aga, darling!’ cried Mamie as if she were looking at the crown jewels. ‘God, I am so jealous. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to have one of my own, but darling Jeremy’s mother – you know, the one who was married to the Home Secretary – cooked divine things on hers.’

      ‘Oh, good,’ said Angela, who didn’t have a clue who darling Jeremy was. ‘You can show me how to use it then.’ She reached for the big old steel kettle. ‘I can just about boil this on it.’ She lifted the left-hand lid of the Aga and plonked the kettle on it.

      ‘Now, darling, don’t be silly. You know I don’t cook. By the way, has my early arrival interrupted a little something between you and Robert?’

      Angela pulled her dressing gown closer around her. ‘No.’

      ‘Ah.’ Mamie smiled wickedly. ‘It’s just that you’ve got it on inside out.’

      Angela blushed and then began to laugh. ‘Oh, Mamie, I am so pleased to see you.’ She hugged her aunt.

      ‘Me too,’ said Faith, arriving with a yawn. ‘Group hug, please.’

      Mamie held her arms out for the three-way embrace. ‘Look at you. So beautiful, and so tall.’

      ‘Children do tend to grow,’ said Robert from the doorway. ‘Hi, Mamie. Welcome to Cornwall.’ The group hug separated and Mamie gave Robert the once-over.

      ‘Robert, you look divine in pyjamas. I had you down for a sleeping-in-the-buff kind of man.’ She raised an eyebrow saucily at him as Faith made a retching sound and Angela changed the subject.

      ‘Where’s Mr Worthington?’

      ‘In the car. Sleeping. Dreadful company. And he has had the most unpleasant attack of wind all the way down the motorway, so try not to breathe around him.’

      Faith was already out in the hall and wrenching open the front door. Within moments a long-legged, shaggy wolfhound with caramel eyes and a dignified face lolloped in. Faith followed behind. ‘Your car does smell terrible, but Mr Worthington says he’s very sorry.’

      Angela sank to her knees and fondled the big wise head in her lap. ‘Hello, boy. Welcome to your new home. You’ve come to live by the seaside. Shall we go walkies on the beach later? Shall we?’

      Mr Worthington thumped his long, feathery tail on the kitchen tiles and held a leg up to have his elbow tickled.

      Breakfast was a busy mêlée of boiled eggs and gossip as Mamie demanded to hear all about the new people of the village.

      ‘Queenie sounds like my kind of gal,’ she affirmed. ‘We’ll be great friends. Get her out on the tonk and I’ll know everything there is to know in a flash. And what about you, Robert? What will this year in Cornwall bring you?’

      ‘I am here purely as Angela’s wingman.’

      ‘Not going to put your journalistic talents to use?’ Mamie liked to get straight to the point. ‘I am certain that the local news outlets would love to have the famous Robert Whitehorn on their books.’

      ‘Oh, no, no. My first priority is to get Faith settled into her new school.’

      Mamie turned her shrewd eyes to Faith. ‘When do you do your GCSEs?’

      ‘Mocks are in the summer term,’ Faith said, scowling. ‘Real ones next year.’

      ‘A bit disruptive for you, then?’

      ‘My old school is keeping an eye on the syllabus down here, before I go back there. It should be fine.’

      Mamie nodded slowly. ‘Just promise me one thing.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You work hard and you don’t give your parents any trouble. This is a big year for your mother. Her first parish. She needs this to go well and for you to respect that. Got it?’

      ‘Got it.’

      ‘Good.’ Mamie stood up decisively. ‘I am going to unpack. Have a shower and get out of these townie clothes.’

      ‘Don’t you want to have a rest? You haven’t been to bed,’ said Faith kindly.

      ‘Good God, no. I’ve never needed much sleep. Time for that when I’m dead. Now, Faith, take that dog for a pee, please. He stinks. Robert, you wash up. Angela, get dressed. I want to see this new church of yours.’

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