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

‘We’ll have to talk to Dad in the morning. He’ll know a plumber. In fact, Mum and Dad need to do a bit of maintenance on the old place.’

‘That’s true.’ Pru looked at Francis. ‘The tap in our en-suite basin is still dripping.’

The following morning, a delegation of Connie and Pru knocked on the door of The Bungalow.

Dorothy opened it in her dressing gown.

‘It’s terribly early. What do you want?’

Connie poked Pru in the back, which Pru took as a signal, correctly, for her to open the conversation.

‘It’s almost ten. Can we come in?’

‘Oh yes.’ Dorothy opened the door wider. ‘I hope you don’t want breakfast.’

‘We’ve had breakfast. We just want to have a chat with you and Daddy.’

‘Oh God. Sounds ominous. Henry!’ she called. ‘The children want to speak to you.’

A muffled, ‘One moment,’ came from his bedroom. They heard movement, then he opened his door and walked out to greet them, tying the belt of his silk dressing gown.

‘Good morning, all. To what do we owe this pleasure? Come into the lounge and sit down. Dorothy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Put some coffee on, would you?’

Dorothy went to the kitchen, grumbling.

Henry sat in his armchair and smoothed his hair with his hands.

‘What’s the matter?’

Connie turned to Pru, who started: ‘Daddy, when did you last have the boiler checked? It’s broken down and there are several taps dripping.’

‘Only to be expected in an old house,’ he replied, smiling.

‘Yes.’ Pru had hit her stride. ‘But it’s nigh on twenty-five years since you and Mummy renovated the old place. Don’t you think it’s about time it had a bit of an overhaul? Maybe some decorating too – it’s looking rather dated.’

Dorothy arrived with coffee and mugs on a tray, which she banged down on the table. ‘Dated? It’s perfect.’

‘Of course, of course,’ soothed Connie. ‘But a lick of paint would brighten it up.’

‘Who for?’ said Henry. ‘The only people who come to the house are you lot. Are you saying we’re not up to your standards?’

Connie blushed. ‘No, Daddy. It’s wonderful and we love coming down. Really, it’s only the hot water that needs looking at.’

Henry sat back in his chair. ‘So get it looked at.’

*

As the girls left The Bungalow, the light drizzle developed into a cloudburst. They ran across the squelching grass and through the French windows of Atlantic House’s kitchen.

Greg and Francis were reading their respective papers.

‘Careful,’ said Greg crossly as Connie shook her dripping cardigan. ‘You’ll get my paper soggy.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Pru, handing her wet sweatshirt to Francis, who carefully draped it on the Aga. ‘You two need to find a plumber. Daddy’s quite happy for us to get the plumbing system overhauled.’

‘Who’s paying?’ asked Greg suspiciously.

‘Well he hasn’t said as much but Daddy, of course! We’re just supervising,’ said Pru, sitting down. ‘Right, Connie. You and I shall spend the day in Truro looking at paint. Maybe some new cushions.’

‘We could do with new loo brushes,’ Francis chipped in.

‘Good idea.’ Pru smiled. ‘Connie, make a list.’

*

Truro was wet and grey. Holidaymakers shuffled about staring into shop windows before sitting in overcrowded cafés with their anoraks gently steaming.

The sisters found a parking spot in Lemon Street and made a dash for Marks and Spencer. They enjoyed their browse round the store and then went on to a very smart interior design shop where they chose several cushions and collected some paint and wallpaper samples. Then they drifted through a couple of boutiques, each buying small holiday essentials that neither husband need know about.

Over a late lunch at Mannings restaurant, their conversation turned to their parents and Atlantic House.

‘The whole place could do with redecorating. It hasn’t been touched since Mum did it up all those years ago.’ Connie took a sip of her Pimm’s.

‘That’s the trouble with older people: they get so stuck in their ways,’ Pru replied through a mouthful of focaccia.

‘Mummy’s still quite with it. She’s not seventy yet. Mind you, Daddy is starting to show his age. Have you noticed how he’s slowed down? And he can’t hear anything.’

Pru sipped her red wine. ‘Yep.’ She tapped at the side of her head. ‘Still all there though. But I’m worried about him driving.’

‘Me too.’

The waitress came with their food and they dived in. Sharing each other’s dishes and enjoying their own company. As the plates were cleared away, and the atmosphere grew warmer, Pru felt it was a good time to bring up the subject of their parents’ will.

‘Now, Connie,’ Pru dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, ‘when Mum and Dad are no longer with us, I want you to know that you can come to Atlantic House, and stay in The Bungalow, whenever you want. It’ll still be your home.’

Connie looked up sharply. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You and Greg and Abi will always be welcome. I don’t want any awkwardness between us.’ Pru beamed at her.

Connie felt cold inside.

‘Has Daddy or Mummy told you they are leaving Atlantic House to you?’

‘No, not in so many words. But I am the elder child – and you have Greg, who’s virtually running the family business. I shan’t be interfering in that.’