The Postcard, page 8
Dr Nickelson talked a bit more about the tests they’d run. Her liver and kidneys were undamaged but she should get a lot of rest and do only the things she wanted to do. ‘More long baths, walks and time to heal,’ he said. ‘I’ll write to your GP and will see you once a week for the next month or so, after which we’ll see which is the best way forward.’
‘Not the Priory?’ she said as another small joke.
He smiled. ‘No. Not the Priory.’
‘When can I take her home?’ asked Simon.
Dr Nickelson looked from one to the other. ‘Well, as long as you promise to ring me or your GP or even the hospital if you feel the harmful thoughts coming back, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go home now.’
‘Really?’ Simon tightened his hold on Penny’s hand and her own fingers tightened in response.
‘Really. I’ll write a prescription and then you can jump on your horse and ride outta here.’
As soon as Nickelson had gone, Simon sat on the bed and took Penny’s hand. He pressed it to his lips as he looked into her eyes. She saw his fear and his love and squeezed his hand tightly. ‘I do love you, Simon Canter. I’m so sorry.’ She felt a tremendous rush of gratitude for her husband and the life she still had. ‘I love you. I really do love you. I promise, I won’t ever try to leave you again.’
They went home, Simon settling her into the front seat and then driving very carefully to the vicarage. There was too much to say to each other, and neither had the words.
Helen was there when they arrived, opening the front door with Jenna on her hip. Penny took her beloved daughter in her arms and hugged her tight, kissing her sweet-smelling hair. Helen got them both upstairs and ran a hot bath for Penny while putting Jenna into Simon’s care.
Helen watched as Penny undressed and got into the bath. ‘Would you like me to wash your hair for you?’ she asked. Penny nodded, and shed more tears as her friend performed this gentle and loving kindness.
‘I’m so sorry I spoke to you harshly yesterday,’ said Helen, keeping her own guilty tears at bay. ‘I wasn’t a good friend to you.’
Penny shook her head. ‘You’ve been a wonderful friend. Always. I’m so sorry I have let you all down.’
‘All you’ve done is make us realize how very unhappy you have been.’
‘Does Simon think me very selfish?’
‘You’ll have to talk to him about that.’
Penny nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Here, tip your head back and I’ll give you a good rinse.’ Helen took the showerhead and allowed the warm water to do its job. ‘Bloody hell! When did you last have your roots done?’ she mocked affectionately.
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Well, that’s tomorrow sorted then. We’re going to get ourselves pampered.’
Lying in bed that night, Penny listened to the house gently settling around her. She heard Simon see Helen out of the front door, thanking her again. She turned and looked at the bunch of Christmas roses and winter honeysuckle in the blue jug on her windowsill. Helen had put them there, knowing that they were her favourites. Old friends and family … She closed her eyes and felt so grateful. Tonight she could have been in a mortuary, but instead she was in her own bed, surrounded by her true family and the scent of honeysuckle.
At her parents’ house she could remember the breakfast table always had a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers perfectly in the centre, but with the atmosphere crackling with barbed comments from her mother and patient responses from her father. She would always arrive late for school having been hurried and harried and, more often than not, having forgotten some vital piece of homework or kit in the flurry. Life was chaotic and loud and tense.
But life with Uncle Nick and Auntie Dawn was nothing like life at home. Here they let her enjoy the forbidden pleasures of Kellogg’s variety packs, syrup on her porridge and ketchup on her toast. At weekends Uncle Nick always cooked a fry-up, which Auntie Dawn adored. There was crispy bacon, fat sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes with fried bread, and, occasionally, black pudding. And always tomato ketchup. Their world was tranquil and structured. She arrived at school on time and without stress. When she got home there would be a hot chocolate and a snack followed by a dinner of cottage pie or ham salad or – her favourite – a packet of Vesta Chow Mein with crispy noodles. (A thing her mother called an abomination to cuisine.)
It wasn’t that she didn’t miss her parents, her father in particular, but she felt riven with guilt that she didn’t miss her mother or Suzie more. So she diligently prayed for them all each night.
She ticked off the days in her five-year diary, the only thing she ever did put in it, and after thirty-two days her father came to pick her up.
‘Daddy!’ She flung herself into his arms, which felt as strong as they always had as they wrapped themselves around her.
‘Hello, sausage. Have you missed your old dad?’
‘I have. Where’s Mummy and Suzie?’
‘They’re at home. We came back last night.’
‘Why didn’t you get me last night?’
‘Mummy wanted to make sure that the house was all ready for when you came home.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘really!’ He patted his trouser pocket. ‘Oh, now what have I got here?’
He pulled out a small camera on a key ring.
‘Does it take pictures?’
‘No, but look through it and press the little button.’
She did as she was told and a series of photographs of St Tropez, Cannes and Monaco appeared with each click. Beautiful women in bikinis and men in smart sports cars were enjoying themselves on beaches and outside pavement cafes.
‘It’s lovely, Daddy.’
‘I hoped you’d like it.’
She had adored it.
*
Simon had made her an appointment with the doctor when they got home yesterday, and the feeling that someone else was now at the helm had given Penny permission to stop worrying, even if it was just for a couple of hours. And God knows how Helen had swung it, but she’d got the pair of them an afternoon at the Starfish Spa. Just three weeks before Christmas and the place was buzzing with clients, chatter, stylishly coordinated Christmas trees, and huge vases full of sparkly twigs. Penny pushed any anxious thoughts about her own lack of Christmas preparations to the back of her mind.
Sitting with a pile of magazines and a skinny latte as her colour was being mixed she felt better than she had for a while. Helen, sitting next to her with wet hair waiting for her blow-dry, winked at her and raised her cappuccino. ‘Happy Christmas, Pen.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ she smiled back. She looked at herself in the mirror. The hour-long detoxing, rejuvenating and lifting facial had definitely brightened her skin tone and the ninety-minute aromatherapy body massage had had her snoring happily.
‘Feeling a bit more like yourself?’ asked Helen.
‘Much.’ She leant over and touched Helen’s arm. ‘Thanks, Hel.’
‘And we’ve still got our manis and pedis to go.’
Penny looked at her hands. ‘Look at these!’ she said, holding them up. ‘And my feet? Well, I haven’t even looked at them for months.’
‘Maybe the therapist could put horseshoes on you?’ laughed Helen.
‘Piss off!’ laughed Penny.
A young girl dressed all in white arrived with two glasses of chilled champagne. ‘Compliments of the season,’ she said.
Helen smiled and raised her glass. ‘To you, Pen, and your happiness.’
Penny felt the spike of the bubbles as they trickled down her throat. She was really beginning to feel a lot more like herself – the spa day was just a start to getting her life back on track, and the doctor’s appointment tomorrow would be another massive boost. If she could just get through these two days then surely everything would be fine, wouldn’t it?
On her lap, her bag began to vibrate and she fished out her phone without looking at the caller ID.
‘Helloo,’ she said cheerfully, mouthing to Penny, ‘probably Hollywood!’ Then her tone changed. ‘Jack, hello.’ She listened. ‘When? Yes, I can come up … I see … OK, see you then. Bye.’
Helen was looking at her with concern. ‘Who was that?’
‘Jack Bradbury from Channel 7 – he wants to meet me the day after tomorrow.’
Helen shook her head. ‘You can’t go. You’re not ready to take on any stress.’
‘I have to, Helen. It’s work.’
‘Bugger work. What did Dr Nickelson say? Rest and no stress. You’d be a fool to go now.’
But Penny was conditioned to these kinds of demands. ‘It’s only one day. A meeting, that’s all. I’ve got to go.’
9
Kit was sitting in the small lounge of Marguerite Cottage looking out at the rain. Celia and Terry were flopped elegantly on the rug in front of him, Celia snoring gently.
Kit was on the phone to Adam.
‘Weather’s been awful these past couple of days. The dogs aren’t impressed, but everyone tells me it’s normal for Cornwall. I thought it was all palm trees and sunny skies.’
‘Mate,’ said Adam, trying not to catch the gaze of the new blonde receptionist who was staring at him, moon-faced, through his half-open consulting room door, ‘I can’t wait to get away. I’ve had enough here. What are the neighbours like?’
‘So far, so good. Our closest neighbour is the vicar, Simon Canter.’ He heard Adam groan. ‘No, listen,’ he continued, ‘he’s married to a lovely woman, but she’s having some problems, I think. According to village gossip she took an overdose the other night.’
Adam frowned. ‘Poor woman. How is she?’
‘She’s back home now but Simon, her husband—’
‘The vicar.’
‘Yes. He came over and we had a little chat. He’s a very decent bloke. He knew that the gossip would be all over the village in seconds, so he’s telling us all what happened before the Chinese whispers begin.’
‘That’s a hell of a lot of people to tell, isn’t it?’ The new blonde receptionist caught his eye and raised her hands to form the letter T. He shook his head, trying not to let her feel he was giving her the brush off.
‘No, not really.’ Kit was still talking, ‘Pendruggan is even smaller than we thought and it seems that everyone knows everything there is to know about everybody.’
‘Oh God! I hope we don’t become village fodder.’ The receptionist was now openly staring at him. He got up and closed his door. ‘So, how’s the cottage?’
‘A bit small, but plenty for us. The builder, Gasping Bob he’s called, has put the new roof lights into my studio and I’ve been doing a bit of work in it today. Very nice.’
‘And that office thing in the garden. Is it going to be suitable for my private clinic?’
‘Yeah. It’s OK. Two rooms, doors out onto a little porch facing the back garden and the churchyard, and it’s got solar panels and running water.’
‘Room for a couch and my desk?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Two rooms you said? Waiting room and consulting room?’
‘Yep.’
‘Anyone who would be suitable as my receptionist-cum-secretary?’
‘I’ll look around.’
‘Look for a sane one.’
‘You won’t have time for flirting if you’re working in the GP’s in Trevay as well as playing with your tinctures and crystals in the garden shed.’
‘Acupuncture and homeopathy are highly effective.’
Kit laughed. ‘So it’s your farewell drinks tonight, is it?’
‘Yep.’
‘What’s the plan of action?’
‘I’ve been told to be ready for seven before the team take me out for my surprise curry and secret present of a surfboard.’
‘How the hell do you know all that if it’s a secret?’
‘I’m very good at listening through keyholes.’
‘Ha. You’re a bugger, Adam.’
‘Yes, but a charming one.’
The party went rather well. The curry was passable, the wine filthy, and the company dull. Carly, the receptionist, raced to sit next to him at the long table laid out in the darkest corner of the restaurant and made sure she touched his thigh or flashed her cleavage as often as possible. He wasn’t sorry to be leaving the practice. Two of his male colleagues were jealous of the attention he received from female patients, while his two female colleagues were clear from the start that he had to have a nurse in the room if he was performing an intimate examination. But he had never, would never, cross the line, despite the horrible rumours that had surrounded him. No, he was glad to be leaving for a place where no one knew him.
He left them all just before midnight, disentangling himself from the tentacles of Carly, making promises to stay in touch, even though he knew he’d break them.
The next morning he was up early and happy to lock the door to his old flat for the last time. A courier had already taken his last pieces of luggage, including the surfboard, and would deliver it all to Cornwall in a day or two.
He dropped the keys into the estate agents, drove his Audi TT to the garage for them to sell (he was hoping to buy a Land Rover Defender when he got to Cornwall) and grabbed a black taxi to Paddington.
He settled himself into the first-class carriage of the Cornish Riviera Express. The carriage was less than a third full and the hush of muted talk among plush seats filled him with a deep sense of pleasure. Out of his briefcase – Burberry, a gift from the widow of a patient he’d been fond of – he pulled the Lancet and the latest edition of Private Eye. He stretched his legs out under the table in front of him and luxuriated in the emptiness of the seats surrounding him. A steward came towards him. ‘Morning, sir. Will you be having lunch with us later?’
‘I think I will. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, sir. The dining car is the next carriage along. I’ll reserve a seat. Do you have a travelling companion?’
‘I shall dine alone.’
‘Righty ho, sir.’
As the steward left, Adam heard the guard’s whistle from the platform and the final slamming of doors. As he prepared for the train to transport him to the new chapter of his life he heard a young woman’s voice calling from outside.
‘Wait! Wait! Please can I get on?’ she shouted.
Through the window Adam saw the train guard, whistle still in mouth, walk past and behind him, a young woman, red in the face, wheeling a case and carrying what seemed to be an artist’s easel, and saying something imploring. Whatever it was, the guard smiled, took pity and opened the first-class carriage door, situated behind Adam. Adam heard her thanking the guard in a well-modulated and cultured voice as she climbed aboard. The door was slammed shut, the whistle was blown, and at last the train pulled itself haltingly out of the station.
‘Oh, phew. Oh my goodness,’ the young woman was muttering to herself as she found a spot in the luggage rack for her case.
Adam opened his Lancet and covertly glanced at her as she settled herself on the opposite side of the gangway but facing him.
Startling red hair with tight corkscrew curls.
Mid-twenties.
Tall.
She struggled out of her coat and pushed it up onto the luggage rack above her head. She caught his eye and he dropped his gaze back to the Lancet.
‘Phew. That was lucky.’ She took both hands to her thick curls and pushed them behind her shoulders. He looked up, pretending he hadn’t noticed her struggle to catch the train.
‘I’m sorry?’ he said.
‘I nearly missed the train. My brother’s car wouldn’t start so I had to push it to get the thing bump-started.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and went back to his Lancet again.
She settled herself into her seat and exhaled loudly. He prayed she wouldn’t be a talkative annoyance.
She wasn’t. She closed her eyes and slept.
The time went by peacefully and allowed Adam to finish the Lancet and look on Amazon for a fishing rod. He fancied himself standing handsomely in the breaking surf, reeling in sea bass after sea bass. Whilst he was in this reverie the ticket collector, an angry-faced bull of a man, made his presence known by thundering loudly, ‘Tickets, please, ladies and gentlemen. Have your tickets ready for inspection.’
Adam patted his pockets and found his ticket. The inspector pulled it roughly from his hand whilst looking at the rest of the carriage with aggressive suspicion. He clipped Adam’s ticket and shoved it back at him.
His next victim was the girl with the corkscrew red hair. She was sleeping still, her mouth a little open. The inspector stood over her with his ham-hock hands on his hips, then he bent towards her ear and said loudly, ‘Madam! May I see your first-class ticket?’
She jumped and blinked her eyes several times in confusion, staring as the man shifted his weight to his other foot and held out his hand, snapping his fingers as he did so.
She retrieved her bag from under her feet and went all through the purse and inner depths with an increasing panic. ‘It’s here somewhere.’
The man’s lips curled. ‘If I find you do not have a valid ticket for travel in first class, or no ticket at all, I shall have no alternative but to eject you from the train at the next station.’
‘I’ve got it. It’s – it’s here somewhere.’
The inspector had lost patience. ‘Right, come with me, miss. No first-class ticket, no first-class carriage.’ He bent very close to her face so that she could smell the sourness of the tea he had recently drunk. ‘Do you understand?’ he asked sarcastically.
Adam was uncomfortable for her and would’ve leapt to her defence if he’d been sure the mountainous man wouldn’t assault him. Then he remembered something, ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the girl, ‘but have you checked the pockets of your coat?’
She jumped up and dragged her coat down from the rack above her head. She checked first one pocket – nothing; then the other.
‘Here it is!’ she cried triumphantly.
