Home to Roost

by Tessa Hainsworth

  ‘Is she eating?’ This has been our worry all along.

  ‘Oh, between Clara and Melanie and me, we make sure. And the other villagers, too. We have a rota, bringing in food for her. And she still gets her Meals on Wheels.’

  ‘But does she eat it?’

  ‘We always sit with her, make sure she eats at least enough to keep going.’ She finishes washing up some plates, pours tea into several cups. ‘That’s the hard part, making her eat.’

  I help her bring the tea out to the sitting room. Melanie says, ‘I’d better get back to the shop, relieve Tufty.’ I’ve also got to get on, so I walk out with her. Clara comes with us, leaving Delia with Ginger who says she’ll sit there a while, to make sure Delia drinks some tea and eats something. ‘Will you change her bed, or should I come back?’ I hear Melanie say quietly to Ginger who answers, ‘That’s OK, I’ll do it, you did it yesterday, and Clara the day before. My turn. I’ll wash the sheets, too.’

  Just as we are going, Delia tries to leave the house, hysterically repeating that she must find her father. The village women calm her soon enough but it is a worrying sight.

  Outside, Melanie goes off to the shop and I stand talking to Clara who asks, ‘What d’you think, Tessa? What we were wondering really was, is there anything to be done? You know, like medication, or something.’

  ‘She needs special care, Clara,’ I try to soften it but I’m horrified at what I saw and heard. Delia is definitely far worse than she was even a few weeks ago.

  Clara says, ‘What do you mean, special care?’

  ‘The social services. You need to call them. They’ll know what to do.’

  Her face hardens into stubbornness. I’ve seen her like this before, when someone has been cruel to a cat. Fierce and determined. ‘Can’t do that, Tessa. We look after her. Me and the others. We be doing it since her husband died. First t’was our mums bringing her food, helping her out when her husband first died and she didn’t go out no more, then us’n took over. She don’t need care, she got us.’ Her speech has gone into dialect, the first time I’ve ever heard Clara talk with a Cornish twang. Though I’ve noticed this with some of the other locals, how they can lapse back and forth, I’ve never heard Clara doing it before. It’s as if she’s closing in, keeping out outsiders, especially social services.

  This kind of protectiveness is something I’ve often witnessed, the way the locals band together to look after their own. ‘Clara, I’m sure you and the others know what you’re doing, and I know you look after her, but if you ring the social services, they might give you some advice, some help, too, if need be.’

  She’s shaking her head, not looking at me, as she says, ‘They’ll take her away. Put her in a smelly home somewhere. It’ll kill ’er. She needs her own home.’

  I leave it there. It’s very admirable, what they are doing, but I’m afraid Delia will only get worse. They can’t be there all the time. And all of them, Clara, Ginger, Melanie, have jobs, lives, of their own. They’ll never be able to look after her twenty-four hours a day.

  I can’t linger any more but carry on with my deliveries, hoping against reason that I’m wrong, that this is a blip, that Delia doesn’t have dementia as I fear and that she’ll return to her old self before long.

  After Poldowe I’m in my van again and off to Trescatho, an isolated village on a road leading nowhere. It’s high on a woody hill overlooking the sea, and in the past few years this sleepy village has been converted to a ghost town with a handful of permanent incomers, and a heap of second homeowners.

  Two of the permanent residents are the Armstrongs, who moved in a couple of years ago and have settled perfectly, endearing themselves to the locals in other villages by their good-natured spirits and love of all things Cornish. I deliver to them last, as they’re pleasant to chat to and I welcome the cold drink they have waiting for me in this hot spell. Before I get there, I’m stopped by someone called Donald Wilkins and his wife, Maddie. They’ve bought one of the old thatched houses in the area as their ‘summer cottage’ and have been trying to get it repaired, and in places newly thatched. They’re both in the garden, sniffing the air like a couple of terriers, trying to get a whiff of the sea a couple of kilometres away. At the very end of the long garden is a cedar tree, quite an old one, and I can see Woody on a ladder, sawing through one of the branches.

  He breaks off when he sees me, coming down the ladder to say hello. Donald and Maddie frown a little at this, and I can tell they don’t like him chatting when they’re paying him by the hour. I feel like saying, ‘Money isn’t everything, you two,’ but I refrain. Woody is a hard worker, always conscientious, and the Wilkins will get their money’s worth of work. They obviously know this, for they don’t say a word and even force a smile as he greets me and goes off to his van to grab his rollies, for a smoke and a chat.

  While he’s gone Donald says, ‘Well, at least he shows up when he says.’

  ‘And does the work,’ Maddie admits.

  ‘They all do, in the end. The locals. Sometimes it’s in their own good time, but they get there in the end.’

  ‘Hah, do they?’ Maddie is indignant. ‘We’re still waiting for our thatcher.’

  ‘He’s the best in the West Country, we were told,’ Donald goes on with the story. ‘So we phoned him two years ago. He came, looked at the thatch, said he’d take on the job, and then we didn’t see him for a year.’

  ‘We would have got someone else but everyone warned us not to, that this chap was the very best.’

  I say, ‘But he came in the end, didn’t he? I’m sure I saw him here in spring.’

  Donald looks grim. ‘Oh, he came all right. He got all his equipment, got the new thatch, his ladders, scaffolding and whatnot. Up he climbed and within minutes he was down again, packing up his stuff.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’d found some birds nesting in the thatch. Sparrows. He said he couldn’t disturb them, and would be back when they’d flown. Can you believe it?’

  I can, but I don’t say anything. Maddie says, ‘I asked him why there isn’t netting covering the thatch here, like there is in Surrey. To keep the birds out.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  They look at each other, a hopeless look, as if they’ll never understand the way of the world down here.

  ‘He said, “We don’t be holding with that kind’a thing in these parts.”’

  I start to laugh, but when I notice neither of them is even smiling, I try to look solemn. Luckily Woody has joined us, a rolled cigarette lit between his fingers. He plops down on the warm grass and stretches out, propping his head up with his hand, elbow on the ground. ‘So how’re things, Tessa?’

  ‘OK. We’re off next week, to St Petroc, to do our B&B stint.’

  ‘That’ll be a right laugh.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  He takes a long drag on his rollie. The smoke floats in the direction of the Wilkins, hovering nearby, and drives them away back into the house. I wonder if they’re at the window, timing Woody’s break. ‘Holly’s loving the shop job,’ he says on an exhalation. ‘It’s great for her to be getting out, seeing people. She was getting lonely in the caravan, gardening on her own all day. No one but my old granddad up the road to keep her company.’

  ‘How is Sydney anyway?’

  He grins. ‘Never see’im these days. He’s over’t Nell’s quite a bit.’

  ‘It’s that serious?’

  ‘Don’t know about that. All I know is, the two are together more’n they be apart.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Me? I’m glad as hell. Me and Holly been worried about the old man, all alone, fussing over the two of us in the caravan like we was babies. Hardly notices us now. First the cats to take his mind off of us, now Nell. ’Tis great, we love it.’

  When I leave and toddle off to the Armstrongs’ house, I feel quite cheery about Nell and Sydney. And, I have to admit, about the thatcher who refuses to wor
k where birds are nesting.

  Mr Armstrong and his wife are keen bird lovers, and I find them both putting seed in a bird feeder. ‘Ah, hello,’ they call out. ‘You’ve just missed the cirl bunting. She was here again earlier this morning, on our bird table.’

  The couple have kept me informed about cirl buntings over the last few weeks, for they are passionate about the birds. ‘They used to be common in southern England and Wales,’ Mr Armstrong told me. ‘They were known as the village bunting, a hundred years ago. They’re from the same family as our yellowhammers.’

  Mrs Armstrong sighed. ‘And then like so many of our beloved birds, they started to decline.’

  ‘And actually became one of England’s rarest farmland birds.’

  ‘What was the reason?’ I asked

  The Armstrongs looked mournful. ‘Changing farm methods. Fewer small fields, fewer mixed farms.’

  ‘So when did they start to come back?

  ‘About seven or eight years ago. There were still cirl buntings breeding in Devon, which was the only place they could be found, then the RSPB took some birds from nests there, and released them in Cornwall.’ The Armstrongs both smile. They obviously love telling this story. ‘The location of the birds was a secret. Or supposed to be. The locals around here say there was some consternation when the bird experts returned to the sites and found the cirl buntings gone. But then they heard of sightings in some of the gardens in the area. The little birds were feeding on bird tables all around the coast of Cornwall.’

  Because the birds are still uncommon, those whose gardens the birds visit have been sworn to secrecy, and in fact, some receive hefty sums of money to reimburse them for the time, care, and food they expend keeping an eye on the birds. Mr Armstrong says now, ‘Do you know that the bird is breeding again in Cornwall? But we must be vigilant. The bird was nearly lost to us once and could be again if we’re not careful.’

  Mrs Armstrong is nodding her grey head up and down in agreement, ‘This summer is proving to be the best breeding year so far. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  I agree that it is, and we have a delightful chat about bird life before I finally tear myself away and carry on delivering the post.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  All in a Day’s Work

  THE BALMY WEATHER holds all week, and it’s another perfect day as we wait for our house tenants so we can take off for St Petroc. They arrive early morning, having left before the sun came up, a sensible thing to do. ‘Even so, the traffic was heavy,’ murmurs Theresa. Bernard, her husband, agrees, but adds, ‘It would have been worse if we left later. It’s madness on the A30 from Exeter onwards. And it’s only Friday! Think what’ll it will be like tomorrow.’

  A number of hotels and rental cottages are offering Friday to Friday now, to ease the pressure of that frantic holiday run to Cornwall on Saturday mornings, but unfortunately that seems to mean Fridays are getting just as bad.

  We’re standing outside the kitchen door. ‘Where are the children?’ I ask.

  ‘Just coming. With Tiny and Topsy.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our dogs.’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Um, yes. We did ask if pets were allowed.’

  Ben looks at me questioningly. ‘I guess I did agree they were,’ I say. I don’t add that I was so thrilled at having tenants who didn’t want everything to be perfect that I’d have agreed to space aliens if that clinched the deal. Though I have to admit, I don’t like the idea of other people’s dogs in our house. I’m fond of dogs, obviously, but because we’ve got Jake, we know how much sand a dog can carry into the house, and how much mud, wet grass, and soggy dog hairs after a dip in the sea. Also we don’t allow Jake upstairs – will the tenants be as thoughtful?

  But the die is cast; the place is rented. At least our tenants’ dogs must be little ones, with daft names like Tiny and Topsy. As I think this, their two noisy boys charge up to us, with a couple of monster Great Danes in tow. Theresa says, ‘Sorry about their names. The boys’ choice. They were so cute when they were little pups.’

  Little? They must have been the size of a grown fox. These two are like ponies. Not the little Dartmoor ones, either.

  The minute we pile into our old car, I forget about our house. Theresa and Bernard are nice people, friends of Annie’s, and so excited and happy about staying in our place that I can’t begrudge them their monster dogs. And she did understand about not allowing them upstairs, thank goodness. Unfortunately our own dog, Jake, isn’t with us; no pets are allowed in The Blue Seashell and though I’m sure the owners would have made an exception for us, we were worried he’d be too much of a hassle in a crowded seaside town with us too busy to do much with him. So when Daphne and Joe offered to look after him for the week, we were relieved.

  When we arrive, the fishing village of St Petroc is positively glowing in the sunlight. It juts out on a kind of stubby peninsula, so it is surrounded on three sides by the sea. This gives it a stunning light, magical and elusive, as the many artists who have tried to paint here can testify. We follow the traffic through the main street, along the harbour, and into one of the car parks, where the owners of The Blue Seashell have a resident’s permit. That’s a relief, for the place is heaving, and every car park seems to be filled.

  It’s a short walk along a narrow cobbled lane to the B&B. It’s a delightful place, tucked into this tiny lane, with pots of geraniums blooming outside. Ben came down for a day when we first agreed to fill in for the week, and at least knows some of the basics, like where the linen is kept, what’s offered for breakfast, which are laundry days, and a host of other vital details. The rest we’ll find out for ourselves as we go along.

  The tide is out, and the beach we pass is crowded with umbrellas, wind breakers, and hordes of sunbathers. The surfers and body boarders are out in the sea, though the only waves out there are slow lazy ones, like this day which is hot, languid, and airless, with a thin white haze out on the horizon. Passing the harbour, we stop to look at the fishing boats moored in the sand; there’s no water here at all now. Children and sea birds potter around the thin rivulets of seawater running in places between the beached boats. Watching them from above are scantily dressed holiday makers seated on benches, eating pasties, ice creams, and fish and chips, eyed all the while by the gulls. The pub at the harbour is bursting, the tables outside filled with mostly young people drinking cold lager and cider.

  The quiet of The Blue Seagull is refreshing after the hubbub of the town. Dominic’s dad left about an hour before we set out, off to Heathrow with his sister to catch the plane to Canada. His wife is in the care of a close relative who will take her to hospital for the operation and look after her until her husband returns, and Dominic will be taking a day or two off work to see his mum, to make sure she’s all right. Everyone was effusive with gratitude that we’ve taken over at the last minute like this. We replied truthfully that it’s us who are grateful; it’s saved us from a week of camping out and given us a tidy bonus as well.

  We have the keys and a list of the guests who are arriving later, from three o’clock onwards. Last night’s guests have gone and it’s a complete new batch coming tonight. There are eight bedrooms, which may not sound many but will be quite enough, we have been told, for the two of us. ‘More than enough,’ was the gloomy prediction of one of my customers, an ex-farmer driven by financial worries to run a B&B. ‘’Twill be a hard job, maid,’ he warned. I deliver to quite a few farms and homes now turned into guest accommodation, and the owners all sounded quite discouraging when they heard what I was doing. I was regaled for hours with dire horror stories of unspeakable guests, but most admitted these were a minority. So I force myself to forget about the warnings and determine to enjoy the week at The Blue Seagull.

  While Ben takes Will and Amy out to look at the beaches, I go up to talk to the cleaner who is at work in the bedrooms. Did I say talk? I find her in one of the rooms, Hoovering under the bed. The only problem is that she’s E
astern European and I assume she’s newly arrived as she doesn’t seem to speak a word of English.

  ‘Uh, Polish?’ I say.

  She shakes her head and says something I don’t understand. I resort to sign language and Tarzan-like communication, pointing to myself and saying, ‘Tessa.’

  She does the same, ‘Oksana.’

  ‘Glad to meet you,’ I say, relieved that we’re communicating.

  She says nothing, just bobs her head a few times in a friendly manner. She looks young, no more than eighteen or so, blond and fresh faced and very pretty. She must be a hard worker, too, for this room looks spotless and she’s still working on it.

  I leave her to it and start checking the other rooms, making sure there are plenty of sachets of tea and coffee, a kettle that works, longlife milk cartons, as well as a few biscuits. Tiny shampoo bottles in the bathrooms, check; soap, check, clean towels folded neatly on the beds, check. Oh, everything is in order, what a doddle this B&B is going to be, I smile to myself. There’s really nothing to do until 3 p.m. when we have to be here for a couple of hours to welcome the new guests.

  There’s a buzzing at the front door. I assume it’s Ben and the children. It’s now one o’clock so hopefully they’ve come back with the fish and chips we promised ourselves for the first day. I open the door and find myself face to face with two formidable-looking women wearing track suits and hiking boots. ‘We’re booked in for five days,’ the tallest one announces. They look alike, with greying hair pulled back in careless ponytails, and angular bodies and faces. They must be the two sisters from East Anglia that we’re expecting later, staying in one of the twin rooms. ‘I am Bertha and this is Martha,’ the shorter one, who is about 5 foot 10 inches, announces.

  They pick up their huge rucksacks and stride past me, as I’m saying, with what I hope is a welcoming smile, ‘Actually, check-in time isn’t until 3 p.m. The rooms aren’t quite ready yet, but you’re welcome to leave your belongings here until then.’ I could have saved my breath, for they are already inside, their rucksacks cluttering up the entire passageway.