Changes–Book Two

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A Penmarris Story

Previously…

I had found my home here in Penmarris–a place that I would never dream existed when I shut my eyes and pointed my finger on the map after leaving my house in such a terrible state. I had found a home and a family and some friends who loved me for who I am. I was such a lucky girl!

There were lots of things that I still needed to do. Dotty’s painting had to be finished and the gallery had to be stocked–I already had several artists who wanted to show their works, so I didn’t think that I would have many problems filling the walls. I wanted to make sure that my businesses were running smoothly and I didn’t have to keep running around the country sorting out problems. I had some ideas as to how I could use the profits to benefit the locals and I sort of had a kernel of an idea about running some sort of holiday home for underprivileged children so that they could have a free seaside holiday. Then I wanted to grab hold of that old crony and give her a piece of my mind for telling me such nonsense, but maybe she was just an old eccentric, so I might just give her a cup of tea and a sticky bun.

Other things started coming to me as I sat there with a couple of rabbits playing just a few feet away from me, completely oblivious to my presence.

Abby and I had to decide if and when I had the big op and whether we would we try to use the frozen sperm or produce some more so that young Heather could have a brother or sister–important things to consider. Also, should we have matching wedding dresses at our wedding, whenever that would be, and if we did, would it be bad luck–knowing what each other was going to wear?

Heady stuff!

Another idea just occurred to me and it was a ripper…

Then my mobile chirped at me.

I pulled the ’phone out of my bag. I had a message, it was from Abby.

‘Hi Honey, where are you? Heather wants to see Mummy!’

I smiled, replied ‘I’m on my way home,’ put the ’phone away, stood up, smoothed down my skirt and then walked back down the path to see my lover and my baby.

And now the story continues…

Chapter One
‘Who’s a lickle didi didums then?’

‘Samantha, you’ll never teach her the Queen’s English if you speak to her like that?’

‘Don’t start, Abby, I’ve heard you trying to teach the poor kid Devonian. I swear she gurgled “‘m’dear,” the other day.’

‘Not me. You must have misheard.’

‘Mmm.’

We were at Abby’s place and it was a one of those “quality times” that we liked to have when Abby and I together with Heather would spend time to ourselves and not worry about the pottery, gallery, my businesses and anything else for that matter.

Our lives were incredibly full and busy and I can’t say that I didn’t love it; but sometimes it was pleasant to relax a bit and enjoy ourselves at our own pace.

Penmarris was in full autumn mode now and we were for ever having to pull leaves out of the ponds. Most of the tourists had gone home, leaving a few diehards who didn’t have to worry about work, kids and other things that eat into one’s leisure time.

Heather had had enough of the babble-speak and had decided that it was dinner time–again. Abby, never backward in coming forward, grabbed her and made a beeline for the kitchen, where several bottles had been prepared for such an eventuality.

I did wish that I could switch off though. I had so many balls in the air, a juggler would have struggled. First I had my painting commitments. I still hadn’t finished Mummy Dotty’s painting, though it was getting close. I was also half way through doing another one for the Penmarris lifeboat appeal. They needed a new shed thingy where they could launch their boat. The old one had been built at the time of the Ark and was feeling the ravages of time somewhat.

I didn’t tell them this, but I had already decided to make up any shortfall — money wise — so that we could have a new shed or whatever it was called, that was state of the art with bells, whistles and shiny new brass bits too.

I know that I was well off now–I must be as the bank manager was very ’umble and Uriah Heap like towards me. He had scars on his nose with all the bowing and scraping he did in front of me.

Millie, my trusty estate agent friend was scouring the countryside around about so that I could buy somewhere for disadvantaged kids to come for a holiday. This was being done through Mummy as I didn’t want the publicity and she thrived on it. Likewise, Jocasta had been almost orgasmic–if such a thing is possible for a vicar’s wife–when I told her that I would rebuild the old scout/guides/cubs/brownies hall. She was in charge of that she suggested the possibility of my becoming a brownie, Brown Owl–Motley Vulture–or whatever they are called. The problem with that is that brown isn’t my colour and woggles don’t suit me.

I noted distractedly that the ducks, swans and other birds had taken flight. There was also a distinct lack of gull like noises and the cats had all gone off somewhere. Hmm.

My mind returned to my benefactor type thoughts. I rather fancied myself as the mysterious benefactor, I liked being rich if that meant helping people–

The bell by the front door donged followed by a loud knock on the knocker.

‘I’ll get it,’ I said as I got up from my comfy seat and went through the cottage to the front door.

I opened the door and there she was, in full rig.

‘There you are, young Samantha. Am I allowed in or this a granny-free zone?’

Mummy Dotty was wearing something dead around her shoulders and on her hat. Why she did that, I’ll never know, but she had been able to keep Isla Stuffitt–the local taxidermist lady in business for many years now. Mummy was never PC, in fact she thought it meant something to do with her step daughter Sarah’s computer–no one dared correct her on that one.

‘Hello Mummy, why, who is this I see before me?’

A rather knackered-looking Fifi had collapsed on the ground and appeared to be decidedly the worse for wear.

‘Damned vet said that she was too fat and needed more exercise. In my day, vets were only allowed to stick their arms up the backsides of cows; now they’re full of airs an’ graces. I ask you, don’t yer think she’s fightin’ fit?’

‘Mmm, possibly. Do you want to come in? All the cats have disappeared so Fifi is safe.’

‘Can’t stop: have to go an’ look in at the Vicarage. Just wanted to tell yer both to come up and have tea tomorrow. You don’t come up enough. I told you and young Abby, it’s as much your home and mine so barge in whenever yer fancy. Bring the sprog too, I haven’t seen her fer two days. Sure you aren’t puttin’ her down fer Roedean?’

‘No. We’ve had that out before, she’s goin’–I mean going–to school at the local primary.’

She shook her head, moulting a feather from her hat.

‘How is she goin’ to be a leader of the country if she goes to a council-run school?’

‘Mrs Thatcher went to a local school.’

‘Yes, and look what happened to her–stabbed in the back by that dead sheep, Howe.’

‘Mmm, anyway, we’ll come up tomorrow, promise.’

‘Right, Fifi, te-ennn shun!’

Fifi gave me a look that seemed to say that she would rather be gnawing on a bone in the garden than being on Admiral’s Parade, sighed and struggled back onto her wobbly feet. I must admit that she did seem a bit, shall we say, weight challenged.

Mummy gave me a nod and I swear that Fifi did the same and then without another word, she sailed off towards David in the vicarage. God knows what he had done now. It was incense at Matins last time.

~ §~

I wandered back into the kitchen. Heather was just finishing off a bottle of scotch–I mean milk. She was on solids now as well, making nappy changing time rather interesting. Prior to the milk, she had consumed some stuff that should have been condemned as unfit for human consumption, but she evidently liked leak and porridge soup. Not forgetting prunes and mayonnaise for afters. Anyway, she was past the “I want more” stage and into the lethargic, “I want to have a snooze” mode and the inevitable “stop pounding my back for a burp” torture.

Abby looked up and smiled.

‘I could hear Mummy from in here.’

‘Yes, she had the volume turned up a bit high.’

‘You look tired.’

‘Mm, I am a bit. Little Miss Perfect here kept me up half the night.’

‘Well it’s my turn tonight.’

‘I’ll have to get out the industrial strength ear plugs; that girl has some lungs on her,’

‘Mmm. Look, why don’t you go and have a sit down. I’ll join you after I put her down.’

‘Actually I have a bit of a headache, fancy a walk in the fresh air?’

‘Okay, we can stuff her in the buggy. She normally goes off after a few minutes’ walkies.’

It was a bit of struggle getting us all up to the coastal path. Buggies are not very stile friendly or is that, stiles are not–well you get it.

However, after a huff and a puff, we made it. It was pleasant up there and I was pleased that the winds were light, the air clean, fresh and it was still quite warm. Enough of the weather report, already. We made our way slowly along the well trodden path. The rabbits, who had more fur than sense, didn’t seem all that bothered by our presence as we ambled along.

Heather did her usual trick of going to sleep as soon as the wheels started turning and we were able to take in the beauty of the place without her vocal output. Gazing down on Penmarris, I still marvelled at my luck at finding this idyllic piece of England. The houses and cottages dotted on the hills and going down to the beaches and harbour looked as if they had been placed there in some sort of elaborate puzzle, where every piece fitted just so.

From our vantage point high up I could see the pottery and my gallery which would be opening this very week. Then there were the pubs–our favourite watering hole being The Toad and Tart. What with the baby and her needs, we hadn’t been there too often lately. Jocasta had told us many times that she would babysit as did Mummy, but having a baby was still a bit of a novelty, so we were happy enough with things as they were.

Saying that, our love life had been rather curtailed lately. I’m sure babies have some sort of alarm system which alerts them when Mummy and Mummy were going to be doing naughties together and time their “incredibly urgent must be dealt with now” wail exactly at the moment where passion is at its highest–normally involving melted chocolate, loofahs or the thing that we keep in our bedside table drawer that eats a lot of batteries.

At that moment, the smell of fish and chips wafted up to us, making my mouth water and crave haddock and chips. I glanced at Abby and I reckoned she was of one mind with me.

‘Looking forward to the opening of the gallery?’ she asked stepping daintily around a large pile of doggy doo. I wish people would use bags.

‘Yes, it’s a bit daunting, but I am looking forward to it. My sister Dawn and the family promised to be there and Mummy Dotty was pleased when I asked her to cut the ribbon,’

‘I think it was a bit much when she suggested bashing a bottle of Bolly up against the door. It isn’t a ship after all.’

‘That’s Dotty all over!’

We strolled on until we reached Rachel’s seat, upon which we sat. It was one of my favourite places and I loved looking out past the small harbour with the colourful boats bobbing in the gentle swell, to the open sea beyond.

‘I wonder if we’ll have a harsh winter,’ I queried.

‘Well, we don’t normally get it very cold but it does get wet and windy. It’s quite something to see the huge waves crashing against the rocks when there’s a storm.’

‘The quay and shops are safe?’

‘Yes, we’re lucky really because we have the harbour defences between the quay and the worst of it. About seventy years ago, there was a real wild one which swept away a lot of the old wooden buildings. Anyway, shall we go back now? I think I need some fish and chips to fortify me and anyway the cats need feeding.

~ §~

After looking after the needs of our feline friends, we went back out again and sat on the harbour wall eating our cod and chips, (haddock was off).

As we sat there, a boat came into the harbour; it wasn’t just any boat, it was one of those large white jobs, all sleek and the sort of thing you see at Monte Carlo and Cannes. It had a flag on a pole at the back end and I didn’t recognise it. The boat wasn’t absolutely ginormous, but it was certainly big enough for a minor millionaire, I would say. The sun was getting lower and I had to squint a bit to see who was driving it. There was a man in a peaked hat on what I believe is called the flying bridge and he was steering the pointy end with an assurance that made me think that he’d done it before. He parked it sort of in the middle, well away from the dirty old fishing boats and two other sailor-type persons dropped anchor.

‘Cor, that’s nice,’ Abby exclaimed.

‘Mmm, fancy swanning around in that thing. I bet it costs a bomb to run.’

‘Yeah, I’d expect that the drinks bill for a week is more than our food bill for a year.’

We tittered at that and noticed that the seapersons had gone inside. No fish and chips for them, probably caviar and nibbles followed by iced sherbet and plenty of bubbly to wash it down.

‘Hello, girls,’

‘Oh Hi, Katie,’ we replied in perfect stereo.

‘Oooh chips, can I have one?’ she said sitting down and grabbing a handful from each of us.

‘Leave us some then!’ I protested–in vain.

‘You’ll get fat if you eat too many. I’m doing you a service here.’

We chomped in silence for a few moments and then my phone chirped.

It was text from–of all people–Mr Potts the maniacal, octogenarian mechanic.

Car will be done by day after tomorrow if the paint comes in from supplier, Potts

‘Ooh, ooh, ooh!’ I said jumping up and down and dropping a chip that was caught in mid-drop by a swooping seagull before you could say “wicket keeper”.

‘Good news, love?’ Abby asked, being used to my slightly over the top reaction to things.

‘My likkle ikkle car is ready–nearly.’

‘You are spending too much time around babies,’ said Katie with her mouth half-full and pinching another chip while she had the opportunity.

I sat down panting like a doggie and stuck my tongue out at her in a ladylike fashion.

‘Well, I have missed my car and the bone shaker we have as a loan car is only held together by bits of string and rubber bands. It will be lovely to see my car all shiny and with no nasty rude remarks scrawled on her bonnet. That reminds me, Abby. Have you heard from the insurers about poor old Dolly?

Dolly had been her aged, now defunct, 2CV. The fact that I was responsible for her conversion into a “Citrá¶en pressée” was something that made me rather sad.

‘They say that they will pay out her market value less the excess which means I owe them fifty pounds.’

‘Ho ho, very funny. What about sentimental value?’

‘The lady on the end of the phone snorted at that. I wasn’t joking but she seemed to think I was.’

‘Well don’t worry, something will turn up.’

‘Mmm.’

What she didn’t know was that I had ordered her a new car. Sssh, don’t tell now–it’s a secret!

Katie was looking at the yacht, boat or whatever it was called, out in the harbour.

‘Mmm, I fancy some of that,’ she said. ‘I think it’s built by Sunseeker–set you back about  £3,000,000.’

‘What, you like boats?’ said Abby.

‘Yes, but I fancy that man in the sailor hat much more. I do love a sailor. I have a thing about men in uniform.’

‘Even traffic wardens?’ I asked innocently, knowing full well that the parking tickets that she has received could paper the walls of a large villa.

‘Wash your mouth out. It’s not my fault that they stick yellow lines everywhere. How is a girl supposed to shop when she can’t park?’

‘They’re things called “car parks”, dear. You go into them, park, pay your pieces of eight, go shopping and then come back and drive off.’

‘I’m not simple you know. I do know how it works only I haven’t got time to faff around trying to park in those places and then go shopping. Anyway back to the boat. Do you think that the captain has a girl in every port?’

‘Definitely,’ said Abby, ‘he probably has had his port in every girl too.’

‘Abby, wash your mouth out, baby present.’

‘Sorry, Sam,’

‘You’re probably right,’ sighed Katie, ‘I’m only a poor solicitor, destined to handle everyone else’s marriage breakdown other than my own.’

‘Jumping the gun there a bit aren’t you?’ I said, ‘you’re not even married yet and you’re talking about divorce.’

‘It pays to plan,’ she replied mysteriously.

~ §~

We finished our meal and then as Heather was getting restless, we wended our way home again after saying goodbye to Katie who was going for her binoculars so that she could take a closer peak at our new temporary residents.

It had been a nice day, but we had work to do on the morrow; life and as they say, goes on. As we trundled up the hill, I glanced back down at the quay and harbour beyond, wondering why a boat like that would deign to visit our little cove. ‘Probably stopping off en route to the West Indies or at least the Isle of White,’ I thought.

~ §~

We stopped off at my cottage first and I picked up the post to read when we got back to our other residence. We spent roughly half our time at each place and were very reluctant to let either go. We had the best of both worlds with the two cottages and it was nice to be able to alternate. Anyway, my studio was at my cottage and I wanted to keep the place if only for that and the splendid views.

Back at Jellicle Cottage, we fed and watered Heather and the cats and then settled down for the evening.

The nights were drawing in now and there was a distinct nip in the air once the sun went down. The little sitting room fire was blazing away nicely as we slipped into our satin nighties and sat down to watch a DVD–Steel Magnolias with a couple of boxes of tissues, some Maltesers and a bottle of Chá¢teau Pis de Chat to keep us company.

We had just got to the bit where Truvy says, ‘Honey, time marches on and eventually you realize it is marchin' across your face.’ When there was a knock on the door.

I looked at Abby and she looked at me. It was nine o’clock now and quite dark. Maybe it was a double glazing salesman or someone selling brushes. They–like the evil dead–would walk the streets at nightfall, trying to find victims to be fleeced. Mind you it could be someone innocent.

We both stood up, put on our robes and made our way into the hall and the front door.

‘Who is it?’ Abby shouted.

‘Katie,’ came the reply.

Abby unbolted the top, middle and bottom bolt of Fort Knox, turned the key in the lock, unfastened the chain and opened the door.

Katie was standing there and behind her was a man with a distinctive nautical air about him. I could tell because he was wearing a navel type cap with an anchor in the middle of n oak-leaf wreath and scrambled egg all over the peak. It looked like Katie had scored, after all.

‘May we come in; it’s freezing out here–’

We showed our visitors into the lounge, Katie knew the way of course, but you have to do things properly, and they sat down on one sofa while Abby and I sat on the other. Wine was taken and then Katie got down to business.

‘Harry here–that’s Captain Harry Carpenter–approached me while I was down on the quay––’

–I snorted, getting an eyeful of disapproval from both Katie and Abby.

‘Sorry.’ I mumbled and sipped some wine to hide my faux pas.

‘As I was saying, Harry asked me if I knew where Samantha Smart lived. I of course did not want to divulge such sensitive information to someone unknown. I had to question him closely as to his motives over a pasty and a pink gin at the Toad and Tart before I was satisfied that he was genuine and not someone who would do you harm. He has shown me certain papers when I had revealed that I was your solicitor and I made the decision to come and see you now rather than wait until tomorrow.’

‘What’s all this about then?’ I asked, eying up Popeye while his new Olive Oil looked on appreciatively.

He was a handsome man, if you liked that kind of thing–which Katie, with her simpering look obviously did. She was hanging on his every word and was the antithesis of the hard headed business woman we knew and loved. I nearly missed his words.

‘Well Ms Smart––’

‘–Samantha, please.’

‘Right, erm well, erm, Samantha. I had no instructions as to what to do, that’s why I wrote to you.’

‘You wrote to me, why?’

‘Well, it’s in the letter.’

‘But I haven’t seen it–’

Then I remembered the post that even now was sitting on the kitchen table waiting to be opened…

‘Anyway, now you’re here, you can tell me what this is all about.’

‘Well, It’s about the Sunseeker––’

‘Sunseeker?’ I queried

‘The boat–in the harbour.’

‘What about the boat in the harbour?’

‘What do you want to do with it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, after Nigel and his daughter died, it became yours.’

‘WHAT!’

‘It’s your boat and I need instructions from you.’

‘Bloody Hell!’ I exclaimed, thinking that my late father-in-law was seeming to have been more and more like the man in the old song, “The very fat man who waters the workers’ beer.” ¹

Here we go again––

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¹

I am the man, the very fat man,
That waters the workers’ beer
I am the man, the very fat man,
That waters the workers’ beer
And what do I care if it makes them ill,
If it makes them terribly queer
I've a car, a yacht, and an aeroplane,
And I waters the workers’ beer.

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To Be Continued…

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines and pulling the story into shape.