Winter wishes, p.1
Winter Wishes, page 1
part #3 of Polwenna Bay Series
Winter Wishes
by
Ruth Saberton
Copyright
All characters, organisations and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this book are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and / or legal right to publish all materials in this book.
Copyright © 2015 Ruth Saberton
Cover illustration copyright © Carrie May
Editor: Jane Griffiths
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Also by Ruth Saberton
Escape for the Summer
Escape for Christmas
Dead Romantic
Hobb’s Cottage
Weight Till Christmas
Katy Carter Wants a Hero
Ellie Andrews Has Second Thoughts
Amber Scott is Starting Over
The Wedding Countdown
Runaway Summer: Polwenna Bay 1
A Time for Living: Polwenna Bay 2
Writing as Jessica Fox
The One That Got Away
Eastern Promise
Hard to Get
Unlucky in Love
Always the Bride
Writing as Holly Cavendish
Looking for Fireworks
Writing as Georgie Carter
The Perfect Christmas
A note from Ruth
Welcome to Polwenna Bay! Watch fishing boats dance in the harbour, hear waves breaking on the beach and explore the pretty village where new friends wait and there’s love to be found, warmer than the summer sunshine!
I’ve loved meeting and writing about all the characters in the Cornish fishing village of Polwenna Bay and escaping into their stories, romances and adventures. I really hope that you’ll enjoy them too and share in their laughter, loves and tears. I have lived in Cornwall for twenty years and it’s a place very dear to me, and one I miss whenever I am far away. Writing about Polwenna Bay has been a joy and when I type I can almost hear the seagulls calling and smell the pasties…
Polwenna Bay is a magical place full of big-hearted families, colourful characters, handsome heroes, feisty heroines, myths, legends and beautiful locations. I’m really looking forward to sharing all the excitement and stories with you all as the series unfolds.
Enjoy the book!
x Ruth x
Chapter 1
The Reverend Jules Mathieson was exhausted. A violent gale had howled through the village all night, keeping her up until the small hours. She’d barely had an hour’s sleep before the alarm had roused her for an early-morning prayer group meeting. Feeling like something that had been dug up from the churchyard, and no doubt looking like it too, Jules had led the session. Next, she’d dashed over to Polwenna Bay Primary School for an assembly. After that, she’d manned a bric-a-brac stall at the WI fundraiser – an experience that had made her understand just how Harry Styles must feel when mobbed by fans. When that was over with, she’d gone back to the vicarage to trawl through St Wenn’s depressing accounts for the umpteenth time.
And she’d been worried that life in a rural Cornish parish would be dull? These days Jules counted herself lucky if she had so much as five minutes to herself; her mornings and afternoons flew by in a blur. By night she was usually out cold within seconds of her head hitting the pillow, and before she knew it the alarm was ripping her from sleep and hurling her into another day, just as busy as its predecessor. Jules couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired.
It was probably better this way, Jules decided. At least when she was flat out working, there was no time to dwell on the dull ache in her heart or to miss those special conversations that had once flowed as easily as the River Wenn. Nor was there time to daydream about what could have been…
She wasn’t going to allow herself to do that, Jules told herself sharply. Instead she was going to focus on all the wonderful things in her life and enjoy the autumnal beauty all around her. If she was becoming increasingly melancholic as the nights drew in, then Jules was determined to shake it off somehow. Perhaps she was suffering from seasonal affective disorder, or something of the sort. After all, it wasn’t as though anything had actually happened between her and Danny—
Oh Lord, here she went again, starting to think about things she’d promised herself would remain out of bounds. Danny Tremaine was just a friend – and that was all he could ever be. He was married and, whatever he said about the marriage being over, that bond was a sacrament all the same. Apart from anything else, he’d never been able to give Jules a valid reason for the marriage breakdown, and she knew that Danny’s wife still hoped they would manage to make it work. It was Jules’s duty as their priest to help them mend their marriage, regardless of how she felt about Danny. Stepping away from him had been the right thing to do, no matter how painful it was for them both.
Nothing had happened between them and nothing ever would. Fact, as Danny’s son Morgan might say.
It wasn’t easy in a small fishing village to avoid somebody, though – especially not one of the Tremaines. They were the foremost and oldest family in Polwenna Bay, and were pretty much involved in all areas of village life. Still, Jules was working on it. She was professional and polite whenever she saw Danny, which was most days; even if the hurt on his face sliced her heart as sharply as the fishermen’s knives gutted their catch, Jules was getting good at hiding it. Instead of their walks together over the cliffs or long chatty hours drinking coffee in the harbour tearoom, she’d changed her route to the wooded valleys behind the village and thrown herself into her work. Her waistbands were certainly looser as a result of taking a detour every day, and the bishop was delighted with the increased activity in the church Jules devoted so much of her time to. She supposed she had to accept her broken heart and Danny’s reproachful looks as collateral damage, for the greater good. The future of his marriage was up to him and his wife now; Jules would have no bearing on any choice Danny might make. At least her conscience was clear, even if her heart felt as though it would never mend.
Why hadn’t anyone told her that being a vicar would be this challenging? Would she have continued with her vocation if she’d known that it would come at the cost of losing the man she was in love with? She would have been answerable to God either way, of course, but the situation seemed so much more complicated because of her calling. It was a conundrum Jules wrestled with daily and was praying very hard about. She’d never realised until now how tough it could be to do the right thing.
Her friends in Polwenna Bay had spotted that Jules was unhappy and, although they had no idea why this was so, they were keen to cheer her up. Jules was touched by their extra efforts to fundraise for St Wenn’s – the church’s finances being an obvious cause of vicarly woe. Even Sheila Keverne, Jules’s very difficult verger, had mellowed and now dropped by for a cup of tea on a regular basis. The Pollards had mowed the vicarage lawn for free, Kursa Penwarren had offered a discount hair-colouring session at the salon, and Chris the Cod had taken to dishing up vast portions of fish and chips whenever Jules called in for supper. Jules was starting to feel a bit like Polwenna Bay’s care in the community project; besides, she was concerned for her crowning glory (given that Kursa’s hairstyling skills were notorious), not to mention her rocketing cholesterol levels. She knew she had to get a grip and keep her game face on.
This afternoon Alice and Issie Tremaine had called at the vicarage, convinced that fresh air and exercise were the answer. Jules, who’d previously had great faith in the restorative powers of the jam-filled doughnut rather than the five-mile hike, had found herself being bundled into her coat and frogmarched out into the autumnal sunshine. Her protests about having to write a sermon or prepare for the Parochial Church Council meeting had been ignored. This didn’t surprise Jules in the least. Individually, each Tremaine family member was a force of nature; when they got together they were unstoppable. Canute had probably had more luck telling the tide to back off than Jules would ever have trying to say no to a Tremaine.
Now, as she followed her friends through the woodland, she smothered a yawn and tried to feel grateful she was so busy. Even though the storm had blown itself out hours ago and the day was now as warm and as golden as the pasties in Patsy Penhalligan’s bakery shop, all Jules really wanted to do was burrow under her duvet for an hour or two. Stomping through the countryside might be good for her figure, but her eyelids were becoming so heavy that she was considering snapping a couple of twigs from out of the hedgerow to prop them open.
“You’re even slower than me today, my love,” remarked Alice Tremaine, who’d paused and was waiting for Jules to catch her and Issie up. Jules didn’t feel too shamed by this, however. Alice might be in her late seventies, but a lifetime spent walking the cliffs and steep lanes as well as running around after her brood of grandchildren had kept her fitter than most people half her age.
“I’m exhausted. My kitchen roof was leaking terribly last night and I was up for ages trying to catch the drips in saucepans,” Jules explained.
“Can’t you get the Pollards to patch it?” Alice suggested. The wily father-and-son builder tea
“They’ve given me a quote but it’s pretty substantial. It would take quite a big chunk of our funds and I’d far rather we spent those on the church than the vicarage,” Jules sighed. She’d pored over the books for at least an hour that morning trying to comprehend the accounts, before giving up. She could pay for some emergency repairs, but she feared it would be a false economy: she’d be better off waiting until the full job could be paid for. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough money for that, though. Or at least, she supposed there wasn’t. Right now the books didn’t make sense. First an extra ten thousand pounds had appeared in the church’s funds and then there had been several deposits of a thousand pounds each, made over the past two months. Neither Jules nor her treasurer, Dr Penwarren, could account for any of this. Handy as the extra cash would be, until she knew for certain that the money really did belong to St Wenn’s and wasn’t some banking anomaly, Jules didn’t feel right about spending any of it.
“Do you want me to shag Little Rog and get him to do the repairs for free? He’s been trying to chat me up ever since the Polwenna Bay calendar. I draw the line at Big Rog though, Jules, even for you,” Issie joked.
At least, Jules hoped she was joking; you were never totally sure with Issie Tremaine. A law unto herself, whirlwind Issie partied hard, drank even harder and broke hearts right, left and centre. Half the young men in the village were in love with her and the other half were trying their best to get over her. It wasn’t difficult to see why. Issie shared the Tremaines’ blessed gene pool and had the same hyacinth-blue eyes, high cheekbones and golden hair that reminded Jules so painfully of Issie’s brother, Danny. Today, with her blonde braids caught up with a green ribbon on the crown of her head, and dressed in a flowing claret-coloured velvet coat and purple wellies, Issie looked like a modern-day pisky – and she was equally capable of causing havoc. The Pollards might be a sly pair, and they certainly weren’t averse to making an extra pound or two where they could, but they didn’t deserve an encounter with hurricane Issie. Besides, Jules was still trying to live down the Polwenna Bay naked calendar. In fairness it had raised a lot of money for St Wenn’s, but the bishop had been less than impressed with the whole idea; he’d given Jules a stern warning about inappropriate ways of raising funds. Pimping out her parishioners in order to get the roof fixed would probably result in excommunication!
“Err, I’m joking!” Issie said, catching Jules’s worried expression. “You obviously have a really great opinion of me. Little Rog? As if! In his dreams!”
Alice caught Jules’s eye. “We’re never quite sure with you, young lady. Let’s be honest, you’re not always the best behaved. Or the most sensible. I worry about you.”
Issie tossed her head and snorted. “Please! I’m twenty-two, not two, Granny. Anyway, you’re only saying all this because I’m a girl. It’s actually quite sexist. You wouldn’t bother if it were Nick. Or Zak.”
Issie’s brothers were just as golden and gorgeous as she was – and if village gossip was to be believed, they got through girls like Jules was getting through chips these days.
“Oh, I’m equally worried about them, believe me,” said Alice grimly.
“And then there’s Dad,” Issie continued, squeezing between her grandmother and Jules and threading arms with them both. “He’s as bad. I caught him on Skype on his laptop, talking to some woman in America. She must have been about my age. He slammed the lid down when he saw me. It was hilarious.”
Alice’s face clouded and she suddenly looked every one of her seventy-nine years. Jules’s heart went out to her: she knew just how much Alice fretted about her son.
Jimmy was as charming and attractive as his brood but had never really grown up. Despite having been widowed in his early forties, he remained the Peter Pan of Polwenna Bay. He spent money as though it was going out of fashion and was inclined to pass his time propping up the bar in The Ship, pulling holidaymakers and generally squandering his talents as well as his cash. He liked to gamble, smoked too much and told stories taller than the Empire State Building. Still, he was so much fun and so good-natured that people tended to forgive him anything. Jules found Jimmy entertaining but she could certainly understand how he drove the more responsible members of his family to distraction.
“Dad was like a naughty kid,” Issie said, skipping in front of them now. “Oh, come on, Granny: it’s funny,” she insisted, when Alice didn’t comment. “You look just like Jake when you scowl. Dad doesn’t mean any harm.”
Alice exhaled and Jules squeezed her arm in solidarity. They’d had some long talks about Alice’s fears that her son would gamble away the boatyard, and Danny had told her enough stories about his unreliable father to convince Jules that this was a very real possibility.
“He never means any harm, my love, but that doesn’t seem to stop him causing it,” was all she said.
Issie bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Granny. I was just messing about. I was going to say that it must run in the family, that was all. Like Black Jack Jago.”
Alice laughed. “Oh, Issie! Whatever next? That’s just a story.”
“No! It’s true! You know it is! You’ve got the necklace to prove it, haven’t you? The one made from Spanish treasure.”
Jules looked from grandmother to granddaughter, feeling more at sea than the Polwenna fishing fleet.
“What’s all this? Who’s Black Jack Jago? Something to do with Betty Jago from the village shop?”
The older woman nodded. “Somewhere along the line, I should think. This is Polwenna, Jules: we’re all related somehow. Jack Jago was my great, great, great grandfather on my mother’s side, as well a notorious Polwenna Bay smuggler and wrecker and, by all accounts, an all-round bad egg. I’ll tell you all about him, but you really should take it with a giant pinch of sea salt. Come on, it’s getting late, so let’s keep walking and I’ll tell you the tale.”
Although it was only three in the afternoon, the winter light was beginning to fade and wisps of sea mist were wrapping themselves around the trees like scarves. As Jules’s wellies sploshed through the puddles she looked up at the canopy of leaves high above, the exact colours of toffee and treacle and caramel, and imagined that she was inside a giant jar of confectionery. It really was a magical setting, so still and ancient, and as Alice spoke Jules could easily picture another time. She visualised the smugglers’ ponies, and could almost hear the muffled sounds of their hooves on the dank woodland floor as they were led through the cover of the trees and down to the beach below, where galleons waited to unload lace and brandy and tobacco.
“Black Jack Jago wasn’t content with smuggling,” Alice said. “He was greedy, and his heart was as black as those dark nights when he and his henchmen would set out with a lantern and lure ships onto the rocks. Once the ships had foundered, he and his men would wait for the cargo to wash up on the shore and spirit it away – after they’d finished with any survivors, that is.”
Jules’s mouth fell open. “You mean that really happened? People seriously wrecked ships on purpose? And murdered anyone who swam to shore?” She’d heard the tales, of course, and drunk the odd pint of Wreckers Ale in the pub, but she’d always imagined it was just folklore.
“Oh, it’s true all right. Not one of the most glorious episodes in Polwenna’s past, but it certainly happened. Times were hard and people were desperate. The locals believed that anything washing up on the beach was theirs by rights. You look at the beams in Seaspray next time you’re up – they’re made from teak that washed up in the bay in the nineteenth century.”
“Some people still think that,” Issie pointed out.
Her grandmother nodded. “Very true, my love. It’s in some people’s blood, I think. Do you know, Jules, not so long ago a ship went down at Whitsand Bay and there was lots of timber washed up. Everyone was down there helping themselves and tying planks to their cars and vans.”
Jules had a sudden insight into human nature, and was a little alarmed by just how easy it was to imagine many of her parishioners up on the cliffs, armed with lanterns.
