The Newcomer. Fern Britton

      Queenie was sitting in her comfy old armchair in the Pendruggan village store chatting to Tony, the village gardener.

      ‘So I wants some window boxes this year. Make the shop entrance even more enticing.’

      Tony scratched his nose. ‘Do you want me to write things down?’

      ‘Help yourself to one of them notebooks on the shelf behind you and there’s me pen on the counter. I was thinking apricot geraniums.’

      Tony sat back down and opened the school exercise book he’d found. ‘I’ll write that down.’

      ‘And maybe some light blue pansies.’

      ‘Right you are.’

      ‘And African marigolds. My husband loved marigolds. Now he did have green fingers. Just like you.’

      ‘Mrs Merrifield says that too. I don’t know what she mean. Mine fingers are brown,’ said Tony, looking at his weather-beaten hands.

      ‘Yes, but that’s what makes them green.’

      The bell above the shop door rang and Mamie entered, distracting Tony from this puzzle.

      Queenie was on her feet in a flash. There was nothing she liked more than a stranger.

      Mamie towered over Queenie’s arthritic frame. ‘Good morning.’ She flashed her most charming smile.

      ‘Good morning,’ replied Queenie, looking the glamorous woman up and down critically, absorbing every detail to recount to her customers. She folded her arms and hitched up her bosoms. ‘Can I help you?’

      Tony was sitting with his mouth open, entranced. ‘Is that your Jensen Interceptor sports car outside the vicarage?’

      Mamie smiled. ‘Yes. Do you like cars?’

      ‘No. But I like yours.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘A 1976 seven-point-two litre,’ he recited.

      ‘Yes. My goodness,’ smiled Mamie. ‘You sound very knowledgeable. Would you like a ride in it?’

      Tony bobbed his head down quickly, blushing furiously. ‘No. I don’t like going in cars. They make me all bobbled up.’

      Mamie put her head to one side and assessed this man-child in front of her. ‘I see. But perhaps you’d like to look at it one day?’

      Tony, keeping his head down, nodded. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Any time you like.’ She stuck her hand out. ‘Hello. I’m Mamie. I am the new vicar’s aunt.’

      Tony kept his hands by his sides and, without looking at her, said, ‘I’m Simple Tony. I do gardening. But I like washing cars.’

      ‘What a marvellous thing.’ Mamie took her hand back. ‘She needs a good wash and polish. When are you free?’

      ‘I’ll go home and get a bucket and a sponge now.’ He looked at Queenie. ‘Am I allowed to?’

      ‘Of course you are.’ Queenie was pleased to get Mamie all to herself. ‘Off you go.’

      The two women watched him leave, his dark shiny hair as sleek as a mole’s.

      ‘He’ll do a good job. Don’t worry,’ Queenie reassured Mamie.

      ‘I’m sure he will.’ Mamie looked around at the shelves in the shop and took in the time warp of goods on offer. Blakey’s heel studs. Bra strap extenders. An impressive news stand laden with gossip magazines. Faded stationery items. Tinned mandarins, frankfurters and processed peas. A vast display of cigarettes, vapes and pipe tobacco. Cheap plastic dolls and boxes, small and large, of jigsaw puzzles. Mamie twirled on the spot to take it all in. ‘This isn’t a village store,’ she breathed in admiration. ‘This is an emporium.’

      ‘Oh, yes, me duck, it is that. I can send a parcel to Peru from me post office counter and feed you a homemade pasty, all in the same five minutes.’ Queenie moved a tatty lamp with a pink-fringed shade out of the way and took herself behind her ancient wooden counter. ‘So, how can I help you?’

      Mamie pointed a fiery red fingernail at a jar of red sweets. ‘May I have a quarter of the aniseed twists, please?’

      Silently Queenie weighed her up. She recognised something in the woman in front of her, one gossip to another. ‘What have you really come for?’

      Mamie held her hands up in surrender. ‘I’m new and want to know the ins and outs of the village.’

      ‘Take a seat.’ Queenie pointed at Simple Tony’s empty chair. ‘I’ll put a pot of tea on.’

      ‘Coffee, love?’ Robert nudged the office door open with his elbow. Angela had filled all the bookshelves but the very top one, and was now balanced on a chair with several hardbacks in her hands. ‘Let me do that,’ he said.

      She reached up on tiptoes but still couldn’t quite reach. ‘Couldn’t find the stepladders.’

      Robert put the mugs down on the desk. ‘Come down. I’ll do it.’ He put his hands on her waist and effortlessly lifted her to the floor. ‘Drink your coffee.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      She sat and watched as he pushed the books into their new home. ‘Any more?’

      She shook her head. ‘Done.’ She sipped her coffee and put a foot on his lap as he pulled the chair he’d been standing on closer and sat down.

      He rubbed it gently. ‘Where’s Faith?’

      ‘In her room grumbling about the Wi-Fi. Has the Sky TV man fixed the telly?’

      ‘Oh, yes. My fifty-four-inch pride and joy is now receiving all the favourites and Love Island.’

      ‘Couldn’t we lose that one?’

      ‘And lose Faith too?’

      ‘Life would be quieter …’

      He nodded. ‘And cheaper.’

      They quietly acknowledged this truth.

      Robert broke the silence. ‘Nice view of the village green from here.’

      ‘Mr Worthington likes it.’

      ‘Where is he?’

      ‘On Faith’s bed.’

      ‘I thought we said no …’

      ‘We did but he persuaded me she needed him.’

      ‘You’re too soft.’ He stopped rubbing her foot. ‘Other one.’ She swapped. ‘That’s why I love you,’ he said. ‘I love all of you. Even your cheesy feet.’

      She smiled. ‘I can’t thank you enough for coming all this way. Uprooting yourself, and Faith, to support me.’

      ‘I am a saint.’

      ‘You are!’

      ‘Is there a Saint Robert?’

      ‘Yes. I’m looking at him.’ She drained her coffee and took her foot back. ‘How many more boxes have we got left to empty?’

      ‘The last few are in the sitting room. Only my books. I thought I’d put them on the shelves by the fireplace?’

      ‘I’ll help you and then we could take Mr W for a walk?’

      There was a sharp knock on the front door. ‘And so it begins.’ Robert stretched his arms above his head. ‘A parishioner. I’ll bet a fiver.’ There was a second impatient knock. ‘Definitely a parishioner. I’m off to hide in the sitting room.’

      On her own, Angela opened the front door.

      Audrey Tipton pushed her way over the threshold. ‘Ah, Angela.