‘And if it can survive there, it’ll survive anywhere,’ she adds as we finally say goodnight. We hug each other tightly and then they’re gone.
Though we’ve said our goodbyes, I decide I have to see Pete and Annie off a few days later. I’m working, but I manage to jiggle things about so that I’m delivering to Pete’s village at the time I know they’re leaving. I’ve brought along a mass of flowers – daisies and marigolds from the garden – and a small collection of tiny seashells, ones I’ve found over the past few weeks that I want to give Annie as a reminder of her Cornish roots. After all, she married a Cornishman, didn’t she? She’s one of us now, wherever she ends up.
There are a few other houses scattered around the outskirts of Pete’s village where I deliver first, since I know I’m too early for Annie and Pete. I want to get the timing exactly right. I’ve brought along some rice confetti, too, the same as we had at their wedding, to wish them Godspeed and good luck. I’ve also got a straw basket, tied with a pretty embroidered ribbon, and filled with Cornish clotted cream, scones, and pastries baked only that morning in Morranport. I’m determined they’ll take a piece of Cornwall with them when they leave.
I’ve got a card from Canada for a farmhouse nearby, and I know it’s from the farmer’s son. It is obviously a birthday card as he’s had several this week. He told me proudly that no one could believe he was sixty-five, retirement age, not that he had any intention of retiring. I agreed, and was suitably complimentary, although I’d have sworn the man looked seventy-five and not a day younger. It is a hard life, farming. Looking at my watch, I decide I have time to make one or two more deliveries before heading to Pete’s cottage, if I hurry. I roar into the farmyard and leap out, birthday card in hand, ready to throw it onto the shelf in the open front porch where all the farmer’s post goes. I’m in such a hurry that I forget about Nips, the six-month-old Labrador.
Now, I adore this puppy. She’s gorgeous and golden and sweet, with huge brown doggie eyes that look at you as if she’s just discovered love. I always take the time to play with her, even throwing her the ball I keep in my postbag for friendly playful dogs. But today I don’t have time to play. ‘Down, Nippy Nips,’ I shout, as she leaps up, tries to kiss me. ‘Down, girl.’
She’s well trained, and obediently lets her bottom alight briefly on the ground before leaping up again. Nips is bright and intelligent, but totally manic. She wriggles and waggles, squirms and squeals, and absolutely cannot stay still for a moment. Up she leaps again, and before I can stop her, she’s grabbed the card I’ve been holding, thinking it’s a toy for her to play with. Off she runs with it, tail proudly high and wagging, out into the grassy field by the house.
As I’m screaming at her to come back, running after her, I’m joined by the farmer and his wife. ‘The post,’ I gasp. ‘I’ve got to get it back.’
The three of us leap about trying to head off the dog. Nips is loving the game, dodging us with artful cunning. The farmer is getting more and more furious. All of a sudden he rushes to his Land Rover, parked near the postal van, and comes out brandishing a shotgun. ‘Oh God,’ I cry. ‘Don’t shoot!’ As I shriek, a shot rings out. My knees go weak and I fall to the ground. ‘Nips,’ I cry to the farmer’s wife who is standing nearby. ‘He’s shot Nips!’
She’s looking at me as if I am the crazy one. ‘Don’t be so daft, maid, he be soft as shit over that puppy. Wouldn’t harm a whisker on her face. He done shot in the air. Nips is a gun dog, one shot and she goes right to her master’s side awaiting orders to fetch.’
I look around cautiously and sure enough, there is Nips sitting happily alert at the farmer’s feet, while the man is tearing open his card and smiling widely as he reads it.
I walk shakily back to my van, refusing the cup of tea offered by the farmer’s wife. ‘Pete and Annie are moving to Devon today, and I want to see them go, give them a good send-off.’
The farmer’s wife says, ‘Well now, they be off today? I’ll be darned, I thought ’twas the end of the week.’ She starts to rush towards the house.
Her husband shouts after her, ‘Where you be off to?’
‘T’grab the scones cooling on the kitchen table. Get the Land Rover going while I collect them. Leave that bloody gun behind, you’re not shooting rabbits now.’
I tear off in a hurry; I’ve got one more delivery to make but it’s on the way to Pete and Annie’s and I think I have time, despite the Nips drama. To be sure, I text Annie and find out they’re running a bit late but should be off in about fifteen minutes. Driving up to the next house, an isolated bungalow on the edge of the village, I rush up with a batch of packages, smaller stuff ordered from eBay no doubt. Over the last couple of years, we posties have noticed how many more packages we’re delivering, as Internet shopping gets increasingly popular. These middle-aged parents, and their two teenagers, are great customers of the web, always telling me of the wonderful buys they’ve made. It’s almost like a hobby for them, buying and selling, too. They’ve only got one car between them, which the father drives to his work as a mechanic in a garage near St Geraint, so the Internet has opened all sorts of doors to them. Recently the mother found a stack of LPs in the attic, early ones of ’50s and ’60s pop groups, in brilliant condition. They used to belong to her own parents, and she sold them all on eBay, making a tidy sum.
Everyone’s at home today, and all want to chat, ripping open their packages to show me what they’ve purchased. I say, ‘Sorry, not today, show me next time, OK? I’ve got to get over to Pete and Annie’s to say goodbye.’
‘Oh. Right you be, they’re off Up Country today, if I remember rightly,’ the mother says.
‘Well, yes.’ Everything north of the Tamar is Up Country to the Cornish. ‘Not far, just to Devon.’
The husband rolls his eyes, sucks in his cheeks as if I’ve said they’re off to planet Jupiter. His wife says, ‘Lordie, I was wanting to give them a stack of Cornish Life magazines I got. That Annie has taken so well to our way of life down here, she’s gonna miss us like mad.’
The husband says, ‘I ain’t properly said goodbye to Pete, the time’s gone so quickly, didn’t realise he’d be off so soon. C’mon, let’s see if we can catch’em before they go.’
In moments the whole family are in their car, hurtling down the lane and up the road towards Pete’s house. I’m right behind them, and when we arrive, I see the farmer, his wife, and Nips the Labrador, all crowded around Pete’s pick-up truck. The eBay family rush up to join them, and I see that there are other locals, too, a whole crowd of people seeing Annie and Pete off to their new home.
Annie gives a cry of delight when she sees me. Luckily Pete hasn’t started his old pick-up yet for she leaps out to give me a big hug. Pete gets out as well, and he’s warmly embraced by all his friends and neighbours. Annie is, too, and I can see that in the short time she’s been here, she’s already become a well-loved fixture of the village. Pete was already known and liked, but the trouble was, he was so very much liked that at first the locals were suspicious of Annie, this London girl who’d stolen their boy’s heart. I can tell by their faces how she’s fitted in, how they’ve accepted her.
I get out my basket of goodies, thrust it into their truck. Others are also giving the couple going-away gifts, mostly food: homemade chutneys and jams, fresh farm eggs, early vegetables from local gardens. I get out the confetti, and luckily I brought stacks of it, for everyone to throw some. The couple climb back into the pick-up in a flurry of confetti and well wishes, and I give Annie one last hug. She’s tearful, as I am. ‘I’ll miss you, Tessa. I’ll miss everyone. Cornwall, too.’
‘I’ll miss you. But hey, look how you’ve settled in here. You’ll charm the Devonians as quickly as you charmed the Cornish, and by the time we get up to see you, you’ll be a proper Dartmoor farmer’s wife.’
She smiles, and Pete waves, and off they go, to cheers and good wishes. A few of the local boys follow the pick-up along the quiet road, and car hor
ns honk. Other villagers leave their houses and wave, and by the time the pick-up is out of sight, it’s like a street party.
‘She’s a good maid,’ an older woman says to me. ‘Well worthy of our Pete. He’s a good’un, too.’
A bearded man standing next to her adds, ‘More’s the pity they be gone, now. Ain’t right, they leaving us. They belong here.’
There are staunch murmurs of agreement for this. I nod, blow my nose, and go back to my van, where I sit for some time before finally pulling myself together and getting on with delivering the post.
CHAPTER NINE
Home to Roost
THE DAYS AND weeks fly by and Cornwall is filling up as the holiday season gears up towards full summer. We’ve had some long days of monsoon-type rain which flattened the bluebells and the white flowers of the wild garlic, but now the weather is fine again. I’m walking along the cliff path at Morranport with my friend Daphne, enjoying the heatwave we’re having. It’s still May but it is better than summer, with temperatures in the high twenties. Next week the place will be bustling with visitors as it’s half term and the forecast predicts more of the same.
Today we have it nearly to ourselves, perhaps because we’ve left Morranport at least two miles behind us. It’s also late afternoon, and the second homers and cottage renters are setting up barbecues, feeding the family, deserting the beaches. Later on, when the season really gets going, the place will be buzzing at all hours.
Daphne and Joe have been exceptionally busy with the farm for the last month and more, hard at work after the frozen winter. So we’ve not seen each other as much as usual. We became close friends during our first year in Treverny, when Ben became ill and was hospitalised for a time. Daphne and her husband Joe were fantastic, helped with the children, the dog, even the cooking. Their two children are more or less the same ages as Will and Amy, and they’re all firm friends. Joe and Daphne have a lamb of ours, Patch, that we tried to raise for food, but the children – and I – became so fond of him we couldn’t have him killed. I learned to my cost that neither I nor my family could kill a creature we’d named.
Luckily, their children wanted a pet lamb so Patch is theirs now, cropping the grass contentedly with the other sheep in one of their many fields. Or I should say, the four children share him. Patch has become quite fat, cheerfully waddling towards any human he sees, hoping for titbits. He’ll never know how lucky he is, how close he came to being lamb chops.
As Daphne and I walk along, watching the flat tranquil sea, the gulls sitting like ducks lazing on the water, we catch up with each other’s news. After a time Daphne says, ‘Your new neighbours. I’m not sure about them.’
‘Kate and Leon? They’re OK,’ I hesitate, not knowing how to go on, for I see the sceptical look in Daphne’s eyes.
‘I don’t know, Tessa. I met her in the village shop a while ago, tried to chat with her, and she pushed this petition at me. I couldn’t believe it when I read it. You won’t either.’
‘About the Humphreys’ peacock, Emmanuel, isn’t it?’
‘You know about it? You haven’t signed it, have you? I didn’t bother to read the names. Well, to be honest, there were hardly any. Maybe two or three, and I could see at a glance that they were all people renting around here.’
‘Of course I didn’t sign it. You know me better than that.’
Daphne looks at me almost accusingly. ‘You and Ben have been friendly with them, haven’t you? I know you said you’ve been over there to dinner a few times, and they’ve come to you. Why didn’t you advise Kate against doing such a stupid thing?’
I’m a bit taken aback by her tone. ‘Daphne, come on, this is me you’re talking to. Of course I tried to talk her out of it. It didn’t work, as you can see. She says it really causes her stress, that noise.’
Daphne shakes her head. ‘If the noise of a bird causes her stress, she shouldn’t have moved to the country. Next thing she’ll be complaining about the noise of the sea.’
I try to stick up for my new friend, but it’s hard, as I agree with Daphne. All of us who live here have put up with incomers who complain about the smell of dung, the darkness of the village streets, or the sound of tractors running day and night, as happens sometimes when a couple of good days come after a spell of bad weather. Who can blame the farmers for working all day and night when they can? They’ve been doing it for centuries. It’s the same old story – some people want to start a new life in a rural community but they also want to change that life to be more like their old one in the city.
I didn’t think that the Wintersons were going to be like that, but lately every time I see them, there seems to be something bothering them. Daphne is now talking about the way they’ve brought in a craftsman from Up Country to make their shelves, when there are perfectly good ones, if not better, locally. ‘As for that concreted front garden …’ she can’t go on; she merely shakes her head.
I say half-heartedly, ‘You’ve got to admit it looks quite stylish. Those tiles, the garden furniture – all very elegant.’
‘Don’t give me that, Tessa. You dislike it as much as all us villagers do. Yes it’s stylish and sophisticated and tasteful and all that, but it doesn’t belong in Treverny. Or any other village I know of down here.’
I don’t answer – I still keep hoping that Kate and Leon will settle in – but Daphne knows I’m uneasy, so she changes the subject. ‘Look, on the cliffs over there. A couple of guillemots.’
We stop to watch the birds, standing like statues looking out to sea. Their beaks are sharp, very dark, razor-like. As we walk on we spot gannets, recognisable by their white body and black wing tips, and the way they dive from great heights into the sea. We pause again, admiring their graceful high swooping dives.
And then, about a half mile further on, Daphne cries, ‘There, look! In the cove, there! Seals, masses of them.’
It’s one of the great joys of spring and summer, when the day is warm and the seals come out to bask on the rocky islands near the sand. I’ve seen them here before, many times, but it always fills me with delight. There are at least a dozen of them, lazily washed up on the tide and clinging to the rocks, holding on as the water recedes, giving them a perfect spot to sunbathe. Once they make their way up onto the rocks, it’s a wonderful sight to see them flapping about making themselves comfortable, juggling others with their flippers to make room. Now, they’re motionless, dozing, their skins glistening, not quite dry yet. There are hours of daylight left so I guess they’ll stay put until the next tide and let the water float them back out to sea again.
The seals we have here are the Atlantic Grey Seals, and I’ve seen them in more than one place around the Cornish coast. There is something very human about the way they empty their lungs before plunging into the sea to find food, for like us, they can’t breathe underwater. Although unlike us, they can hold their breath for about eight minutes, and up to thirteen if they are resting rather than hunting. We stand and watch them for some time, not in a hurry, just enjoying the sun, the seals, and each other’s company.
For the rest of the walk, Daphne and I forget about peacocks and petitions, about incomers and locals, and their occasional frictions, and just enjoy the sea life around us. The plant life, too along the verges, the white flowers of garlic mustard crop up everywhere and fill the air with their pungent garlicky scent that mingles delightfully with the sea air. A colony of herring gulls has made its home in the cliff tops, and the gulls are calling loudly to each other as they search the sea for food.
On the walk back Daphne says, ‘This has been so good. Joe and I have been so busy on the farm lately I’ve forgotten what it’s like to take a couple of hours off and just walk by the sea. Thanks for suggesting it, Tessa. I needed that.’
‘Well, with Joe suddenly deciding to take time off and do a barbecue this evening, I thought it’d be a great time to let the men get on with it and we’d have a chance to catch up.’
‘Good that Ben’s th
ere helping him, though,’ Daphne smiles. ‘Joe likes to concentrate on the spare ribs when he barbecues. At least Ben can keep an eye on the kids, make sure they don’t get up to something outlandish.’
We quicken our steps, hungry now, and looking forward to a beer or cider, a glass of wine, some food. We get into Daphne’s car, parked at Morranport, and head home. As we drive through Treverny on the way to the farm, we pass the Wintersons’ house. Kate and Leon are sitting on their smart terrace drinking what look like gin and tonics. We wave as we pass, as they do. I’m hoping that maybe Daphne will stop, invite them to her place for a drink or even food; I know Joe always cooks enough for ten when he barbecues. Maybe if Daphne could see them relaxed, at ease, she’d warm to them more.
She doesn’t even slow down. And I have to say, I can’t blame her. Daphne’s a kind woman but she grew up around here; she, and others like her, do not take to criticism of the way they’ve lived for generations.
I try to push all uneasy thoughts about my neighbours out of my head as we reach the farm, and the shouts of happy children greet us as we join the others. That night we stay late, watching the moon and stars come out, and then some bats gliding from under the eaves of the barn where they have their home. From somewhere in a meadow comes the cry of an owl, then another. It’s so warm that we stay in shorts and T-shirts, even when we stroll through the fields to the place on the farm where you can see the sea, there’s not a breeze on the higher hillside. We watch the black night water glittering in the moonlight, hear the owl hooting again.
It’s much later when Ben and I walk home through the silent village arm in arm, Amy and Will running happily ahead with Jake, who is such a frequent visitor to the farm now that he’s learned not to chase sheep.
‘I’m sleepy,’ I murmur as we stumble into the dark house, turn on some lights, shoo the children upstairs. ‘Great evening, but good to be home.’
And it is. Not just home for tonight, but home for good, here in this village, in this part of Cornwall. I feel a sense of belonging so strong that it almost overwhelms me. In bed, I lie awake long after Ben has gone to sleep, watching high clouds move across a full moon, hearing owls again, imagining bats and other night creatures, flying and scurrying about the countryside. Even when I drift off at last, the sounds linger on in my dreams.
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