Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch

‘Nothing, my love.’

‘Good. I think we’re going to do this journey in record time.’

Francis paled. ‘Great.’

Jeremy’s voice came from the back. ‘Are we stopping to eat?’

‘No,’ said Pru.

Francis rustled around in the cool box at his feet. ‘Would you like me to feed you a bite-sized sushi, Pru?’

Pru didn’t take her eyes from the bumper of the Porsche in front of her. ‘I’m driving.’

‘Righty-ho.’

One hundred and fifteen, one hundred and seventeen …

‘I’ll have one.’ Jeremy’s hand came over the back of his father’s seat. ‘Is there anything to drink?’

His mother cut in. ‘Don’t give him anything to drink. I told you I am not stopping. I want to get to Atlantic House before my idiot sister and her husband stake a claim on our room. When I inherit the house, as eldest child, we shan’t ever have this ridiculous argument again.’

To emphasise her point she rammed her foot on the accelerator.

That was when they heard the wail of a police siren.

*

‘Look – some silly fool has been caught by the cops.’ Greg pointed with delight at the car pulled over on the hard shoulder, an unmarked police car behind it with its blue lights twinkling cheerily across the back window.

‘Oh my God!’ cried Connie. ‘It’s Pru and Francis!’

Abigail reached for her mobile phone and texted her cousin:

Hi! Just passed you. What room do you want? I’ll make sure you get it. Love Abi xx

Connie could now relax. The police would hold Pru up for at least half an hour. Served her right.

‘Anybody want a crisp or a prawn sandwich? They’re next to you in the M and S bag, Abi love.’

As the small picnic was shared out between them, the atmosphere in the car lightened.

Greg upped his speed to just under eighty, Connie sang along to her Michael Bublé CD and Abi had a little snooze. By early afternoon they were in Cornwall.

Another eighty miles and Connie called out, ‘Get your pointy fingers ready!’ This was a family tradition. The first person to spot the sea and point was the winner.

‘I’m sharpening mine!’ said Abi, miming a sharpening movement. Connie laughed. Abi had completed the family ritual.

Up a small hill, past an old coaching pub, and there, at the crest of the road, they saw ahead of them the sparkling Atlantic. All three of them pointed their sharp fingers at the sea and shouted in unison: ‘I see the sea!’

Within minutes they had turned on to the familiar lane, through Lower Barton, on to Higher Barton and along the narrowing and sandy lane that led to Treviscum Bay.

Holidaymakers were carrying surfboards and shepherding children and dogs down to the beach. The tide was low and a warm afternoon sun had made a welcome appearance. Greg drove slowly past them all and then turned right into the tamarisk-lined driveway of Atlantic House. Parking in the shade of a handsome blue hydrangea he pulled on the handbrake and switched the engine off. ‘We’re here.’ He smiled at Connie.

She leaned over and kissed him. Pulling away, she said with a laugh, ‘Quick, let’s nab the main bedroom.’

As they got out of the car and stretched, an attractive older woman with implausibly chestnut hair, red lipstick and tight white jeans, topped off with a jaunty blue-and-white striped T-shirt, came walking round the side of the house. She stood with her arms open wide and a beaming smile.

‘There you are!’

‘Mummy!’ Connie ran to her mother and hugged her.

‘Hello, Dolly!’ said Greg, who knew that his mother-in-law hated this abbreviation of her name. She ignored him and his pathetically tedious joke.

‘Connie, darling! Welcome. Daddy and I have been on tenterhooks all day.’ She kissed her younger daughter.

‘Where is Daddy?’

‘At home, watching the wretched cricket highlights,’ Dorothy replied, turning to Abigail. ‘Abi darling.’ They embraced for a moment, then Dorothy stood back and appraised her granddaughter’s figure. ‘So pretty despite the puppy fat. Never mind – I’ll get that off you. I’ll tell Poppa he’s not to let you eat any of his chocolates.’

‘Mummy—’ started Connie, about to chastise her mother for picking on Abi’s weight, but she was cut off by Dorothy.

‘Come on, Connie, I want to hear all your news. Let’s put the kettle on. Greg – bring in the bags, will you?’

Dorothy swept Connie into the house, leaving Greg and a wounded Abigail to carry the luggage. Abigail kept her head down to hide the hot tears she could feel pricking her eyes. Greg put his arm round her. ‘Abi, she’s a silly, jealous old woman. Forget it. There’s nothing wrong with you. If anything, I reckon you need fattening up – and I shall make it my business to take you out for a cream tea every day.’

‘Thanks, Daddy,’ said Abigail, managing a smile.

*

Pru, still on the Okehampton bypass but driving at only ninety miles an hour now, was seething.

‘These jumped-up nobodies in their little blue uniforms, doing no good to anyone. Why aren’t they out catching criminals instead of hassling innocent motorists? It’s appalling. I shall get on to the solicitor and demand an apology from the chief constable. They’re not getting away with this.’

Francis kept quiet, merely nodding when he felt it appropriate to do so.

On and on she went. Past the sign to Jamaica Inn and St Breward, through Bodmin, Wadebridge and Padstow, until finally they arrived at Atlantic House.

As soon as he saw that Greg and Connie had got there before them, Francis knew what was coming.

‘Mummy, how well you look!’ Pru limped slowly round to the front of the car and towards her mother, who was standing on the doorstep with a mug of tea in her hand.

‘Prudence! Connie and I have been waiting ages. How long did the police stop you for? Connie saw you.’

Connie came to the front door too. ‘Yes. Poor things. We saw you, but there was nothing we could do to help so we just pushed on. We made good time actually.’

Pru smiled through gritted teeth. ‘How super!’

Dorothy stepped aside and ushered Pru in. ‘So, apart from the speeding ticket, how are you? Why are you limping?’