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

Connie, realising she had used the last clean duster and was running low on bleach and wood polish, gathered up her handbag and car keys and walked out to the drive. She called to the boys, who had by this time made their way round to the stretch of guttering at the far end of the house.

‘Right, boys. I shan’t be long. By the time I get back I want to see all those gutters clear and empty. OK?’

‘Jawohl, mein littlen Battenburg cake,’ said Greg, with a pantomime salute.

Connie looked unamused. ‘It frightens me to say it, but you are in charge till I get back. Keep an eye on Merlin, too. I heard him opening the door to the loft.’

‘No problem, my love. Everything will be fine. Toodle-oo.’ And he waved Connie off.

‘Right, old man. Look out below!’ Greg tossed down two great handfuls of foul-smelling detritus that had been clogging up the guttering.

Francis, steadfast at his post holding the ladder, barely had time to duck before the murky mess landed at his feet.

‘Careful, Greg. You nearly got me.’

‘Hmm? What?’ Another avalanche of brackish dead leaves was tipped out on to the lawn.

‘How am I going to get this off the grass?’ Francis called up. ‘Should I fetch an old sheet or something for you to throw it on to?’

‘No, no, we’ll rake it up later,’ said Greg dismissively. ‘Hang on, there’s a couple of tiles loose here.’

Francis looked up and got a face full of slate chippings.

‘Stop! I’ve got something in my eye,’ he yelled, blinking painfully. But Greg wasn’t listening.

‘I’ll climb up the roof a bit and check how much of a problem it is,’ he shouted down.

Francis, unable to see through his blurred and teary eye, felt the weight of Greg leave the top rung and guessed that he had climbed on to the roof.

‘Careful, Greg. You don’t know whether the beams are strong enough.’

‘I’m fine, old man. Just a little bit furth—’

Francis heard rather than saw his brother-in-law fall, knees first, through the roof.

‘Aaargh … God help me … my arm … arrgh.’

Francis let go of the ladder and, half-blind, ran indoors and up towards the attic.

*

Merlin, who had been making up some hours lolling against a roof truss with a comfy pile of old dust sheets under his bum, was snoozing with the Daily Mirror.

The sudden noise gave him a fright and he leapt up, banging his head on a wooden crossbar. Once the dust had cleared, through the shaft of sunlight pouring through the new hole in the roof, he saw Greg, lying prone on the rafters and swearing.

‘’Ello there, boy,’ he chuckled. ‘Nice of you to drop in.’

‘Help me up, you idiot. I think I’ve broken my arm.’

Merlin lifted Greg easily and hooked his arm under Greg’s shoulder. ‘D’ye reckon you can make the loft ladder?’

Wincing, Greg replied through gritted teeth, ‘I’ll give it a try.’

‘Hellooo?’ Francis was on the landing below. ‘Greg. Can you hear me?’

‘’E can hear you, all right. It’s ’is arm that’s hurt, not his ears.’

Slowly Merlin eased Greg through the loft hatch and on to the ladder.

When the three of them finally made it to the kitchen, Merlin assessed the damage. Greg’s arm was looking misshapen and his face had gone very pale with a tinge of green.

‘Does that hurt?’ Merlin asked, trying to straighten the arm out.

‘Aaaarrrggghhh! What the hell do you think?’ shrieked Greg.

‘Stop screamin’ like a girl and sit quiet a minute while I look at Francis’s eye.’

Francis’s eye could barely open and was all raw and red.

‘I’m not going to touch that,’ shuddered Merlin. ‘Might make it worse. I’d better get you both down the hospital. Your eye could do with washing out and you’ll need an X-ray on that arm, G.’

‘Is there a Bupa clinic nearby?’ moaned Greg.

‘Nope. But we’ve got very good vets in Cornwall.’

*

‘I cannot for the life of me understand how you managed to make such a mess of everything.’

Connie had no sympathy for the two wounded soldiers sitting in the drawing room on the coverless sofas.

‘I mean, look at the pair of you. One with an arm in plaster, the other with an eye patch. Together you could go to a fancy-dress party as Nelson!’

Greg smiled ruefully. ‘That’s rather good, old girl.’

‘It’s not a joke, it’s a bloody disaster,’ huffed Pru. ‘A disgrace. You were supposed to be clearing the gutter – instead you go and make a bloody great hole in the roof.’

Greg was defensive: ‘I was trying to help you and your family. And look where it got me: an NHS casualty department with a brutish male nurse and an arm broken in two places. And not so much as a thank you!’

‘Thank you for what?’ Pru rounded on him. ‘Thank you for half-blinding my husband? You should have left the roof to the professionals. Surely you could have found the phone number for a roofer in the parish magazine?’ Greg felt the arrow of her sarcasm fully pierce his ego.

Francis spoke, ‘Pru, be fair, it wasn’t Greg’s fault. We were trying to help.’

‘And you’ve been left with a severe laceration to the cornea. You have been very lucky, Francis. Very lucky indeed.’ Pru swept her hands through her short dark hair and looked at Connie, who was trying to figure out how to work the carpet-shampoo machine.

‘There’s nothing else for it, Connie. You and I will have to take the maintenance work while the men look after the children and the cooking.’

*