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by Tessa Hainsworth

  I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m conscious, however, of feeling a great sense of relief. Luckily she doesn’t notice my hesitation; she’s so caught up in her own thoughts and plans. ‘Cornwall’s not the place we thought it would be,’ she muses, more to herself than to me. ‘It’s been a huge disappointment. It’s best if we cut our losses and go back now.’

  I mutter something or other that seems to satisfy her and off she goes, worried now about this new stylist who will be messing about with her London haircut. I go to the door to see her off and step outside. The stormy days have cleared and settled into a cooler August that’s full of light. The trees are heavy with dark green leaves that sparkle as the sunbeams weave in and out of the laden branches. The air smells fresh and clean. Above me, a couple of seagulls swoop and cry, reminding me that we’re less than a mile from the sea. Though it’s holiday time and the coast, the beaches, will be packed, here in Treverny, our little pocket of Cornwall, it’s as still and peaceful as it has been for centuries. I think about Kate, wanting to tell her that it’s not Cornwall that disappoints, but whatever it is in her and Leon that can’t relate to it, can’t appreciate the unique character of the place. But then that’s fine. We all come from different places, need different things, different backgrounds to live our lives fully.

  With Jake bounding along after me, I walk across to our ancient stone church, wander around the churchyard for a few moments, then continue down the lane and across to the village green with its pond, admiring the dense August foliage everywhere, the weeping willow gracefully skimming its heavy branches over the water. I walk slowly back, relishing the way time slows as I slow, not rushing, just walking for the sake of walking, rather than getting somewhere fast.

  I’m nearly home when I hear it. A horrendous screech, grating and loud. It’s Emmanuel, of course, reminding me and everyone in Treverny that life isn’t perfect wherever you go, that there is disharmony always lurking somewhere in the background and it’s up to us to learn to live with it.

  In the end, I suppose that’s what drove Kate and Leon away, expecting some earthly paradise and not finding it. They obviously hadn’t found it in London, either, otherwise why would they have moved in the first place? But maybe now, when they go back, they’ll appreciate life there, having endured living away from their beloved city. I hope so. I wish them well.

  Emmanuel shrieks again. One of the locals passes by, rolls his eyes at me as the peacock cries. ‘That bugger be a bit of a pain, my handsome, don’t-ee make a row!’ He shakes his head ruefully, then grins, shrugs his shoulders in an easy, resigned kind of way. And that’s the difference, between the villagers of Treverny and the Wintersons. The locals may not all like the peacock, they may be just as bothered by the cries, but they’ll live with it, let it wash over them. The Humphreys, Edna and Hector, are part of the village, too, and if they need a peacock around them in their twilight years, so be it. The village has a big enough heart to accommodate the occasional screeching.

  Before we vacate our house again to the second lot of tenants, I give it a good clean, checking everything is in place. The last people had left it perfectly, even Hoovering up the many dog hairs that must have accumulated during their stay. The next couple have no pets but have a three-year-old boy and twin girls of a year and a half. We’ve had to go out and buy a cot, which we’ll need when we rent next summer anyway, and borrow a nearly-new second one from some friends. The same with high chairs. Ben even fitted a stair guard on the top and bottom stairs. All this has added to the expense of doing up the house, but at least it will be paid for by the money we’ll earn for the week.

  Susie and I meet up again before I leave for my second week’s holiday. She’ll be taking over my round, so I want to fill her in on some of the little peculiarities of my customers that she doesn’t know about, like the new couple from Up Country in Creek who have a nasty dog that hates postwomen. This time we’re sitting outside on the harbour, at the tiny café/bakery there. We’d never have got a table – St Geraint is heaving – but we both know the owners who brought us out a rickety little folding table and two chairs where we are sitting now, sharing a large pot of tea and great hunks of chocolate cake.

  We eat heartily, not talking but contentedly enjoying every mouthful. Some of the people we know from the town stop by for a few moments for a chat. One of them, Harry, pulls up a chair for a time before going on his way. Like me, Harry is a Londoner now happily settled in Cornwall, living with his partner Charlie, the son of a Cornish fisherman and a successful artist. I’ve not seen much of Harry lately – we were quite close when I first moved down, sharing our experiences as we adjusted to our new lives. But friendship is relaxed and easy here; we know our mates are well and happy; they know we are; we all know we’ll get together by and by, catch up. No stress, no angst – it’ll happen.

  I do have a little chuckle to myself when Harry says, as he gets up to go, ‘I’m off to see that nice woman who knits those fantastic gloves; she’s called Angela, isn’t she? I saw some at the post office, and they’ll be great for our new gallery/shop, the one Charlie is opening here in St Geraint. We want to stock a wide variety of things made by local craftspeople, and those gloves would go down a treat.’

  When he’s gone, Susie and I settle back in the precarious wooden chairs to watch the gulls following a fishing boat out at sea, hoping to snatch some treats. Quite a few yachts are on the water on this slightly hazy day. The pier is crammed with holiday makers exclaiming loudly about the boats, the seabirds, the beautiful day. ‘’Tis noisier than Piccadilly Circus,’ Susie mutters, then laughs. ‘Not that I got a clue ’bout that. It’s me auntie, she used to say that. She went up to London once, hated it, said ’twas smelly and dirty. But the worst was the noise. ’Twas awful, she said.’

  Before we part, we talk about Delia. Susie tells me she’s in a nursing home not far away from Poldowe, where Ginger, Clara, and the other villagers can visit. ‘’Tis not a bad place,’ Susie says. ‘I had one or two of my customers go there. ’Tis the best place for her, Tessa.’

  ‘Her house is up for sale,’ Susie looks at me, rolls her eyes. ‘That’s another local gone, another second homer in Poldowe. ’Twill be another ghost town in winter soon, like t’others.’

  There’s not much I can say to this. Susie is right. And I think some of Clara and Ginger’s determination to keep Delia in her home as long as possible was in part their fight against this, their battle to keep their village alive all year around.

  Susie wishes me a good holiday, says she’ll keep an eye on my customers, and off I go, home to pack and make sure everything is in tip-top shape for the week’s rental. Thinking about seeing Annie and Pete at last, and for a whole week, makes me take a tiny, leaping skip as I go up our still uneven path (that’s a job for next spring). A voice calls up to me from the lane, ‘Steady on, maid, you be falling on your face if you be carrying on like that.’

  ‘Oh hi, Doug, thanks for the warning,’ I call out merrily to him.

  He wants to talk; he’s already halfway up the path. ‘Listen, my handsome, get a load’a that,’ he says in a loud whisper. Not that there is anyone around to hear. Doug grabs my elbow, points at the Wintersons’ house. There, outside the gate, is a For Sale sign.

  I don’t spoil Doug’s delight in being the bearer of grim news – he’s convinced Ben and I are soulmates with Leon and Kate because we all come from London – so I pretend surprise. ‘Oh my! Well, fancy that!’

  ‘You’ll be missing them two, now won’t you, maid. Your sort of people.’

  At that moment, Kate drives up, gets out of her car, gives us a quick wave and smile. She’s dressed in gorgeous designer casuals; I recognise the cut of those culottes, those sandals to die for. Her hair is swept up in a new sophisticated style and I get a quiet satisfaction at seeing what a great job the Truro hairdresser has done.

  Doug and I watch her then turn back to each other. I start to grin. ‘Now Doug, tell me honestly
, do you really think that Kate is anything like me?’ I throw open my arms, indicating my faded red shorts, my muddy knees (I was helping Jake find a ball earlier at the edge of a creek), my ancient baggy T-shirt. My hair is in desperate need of a cut, not to mention a good brush; it’s totally unmanageable these summer days but I don’t mind. Right now I’ve put it up in a rough ponytail but it’s sticking out all over the place.

  Doug tries to keep solemn, but then can’t help smiling back. He’s actually chuckling when he finally says, ‘No, maid, I gotta admit, you and her, like chalk and cheese.’ I get the giggles, too, and we’re both laughing our heads off when Kate comes out again. She glances at us as if we’re both totally crazy and rushes off in her car with only the slightest of waves in acknowledgement of our presence.

  When Doug and I finally calm down, he says, ‘Y’know, maid, if anything, I’d say you be looking more like one of us, instead of her.’

  It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said to me.

  The shop at Morranport is heaving as I fight my way in to pick up the post. Holly is serving holiday makers who are mostly buying beach equipment and postcards, and Nell is behind the counter weighing a large package one of the locals is posting, an elderly man who lives in the village. The transaction with the package is finished, but Nell and the man are still laughing and chatting.

  Holly, having finished with the customers – the shop is thinning out now – says to me, ‘Look at Nell. At her age, can’t stop flirting with every man that comes in.’

  I look at Holly in surprise, for she sounds upset about this. I say, ‘But that’s just Nell, you know that. She’s always the same. I think it’s great, the men love it, it keeps Nell young, and it’s not harming anyone.’

  Holly sighs. She’s so young and fresh-looking, her baubles and beads so bright and colourful, yet she looks mournful and troubled. ‘Holly, what’s up?’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t blame Nell. I know the flirting is all in fun and she doesn’t mean anything by it. I just hate to see Sydney hurt.’

  ‘Why should he be? Nell seems to have taken quite a fancy to him.’

  Holly looks around to make sure Nell is out of earshot. ‘Not any more. She’s dumped him.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know that. Last I heard, they were still seeing loads of each other.’

  ‘That was the trouble, according to Nell. Sydney wanted to be with her all the time. She told him yesterday he was crowding her and she needed a break. The poor man is devastated.’

  More customers come in and Holly goes off to deal with them. I go behind the post office counter to the tiny cubbyhole that is the office. Nell, her gentleman friend gone, says without preamble, ‘So you be talking to Holly, I see. And I suppose you be thinking that Nell is a hard old biddy, breaking off with poor dear Sydney.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, Nell. But I have to admit I was wondering what went wrong. You seemed to be quite a couple, you two.’

  ‘Hah.’ Nell plonks down on one of the two folding chairs squeezed into the small space and motions me to sit on the other, first making sure that Holly is coping all right with the customers. ‘That be the problem, maid. Everyone thought the same. All me old mates stopped having me around on me own. “Bring Sydney,” they all said. Well, me handsome, I didn’t always want to bring Sydney, and now I suppose you be saying I be a selfish old cow?’

  She’s glaring at me as if I’ve already said it, but I know Nell well enough to ignore her glaring and much of what she says. I say truthfully, ‘You know I think you’re as soft as a pussy cat, Nell. You don’t have a selfish bone in your body. You’re all talk, and I and everyone else knows it.’

  She snorts. Despite the frown on her face she’s looking good, healthy and tanned, a red cotton T-shirt on over jeans, her great bosom heaving with indignation as she says, ‘Folk don’t think that now, maid. They be saying I gave old Sydney the heave-ho and broke his old heart.’

  ‘Well, you did. But it can’t be helped. I’m sure you had your reasons.’

  The frown is replaced by a sudden look of sadness. ‘Y’know something, maid, I be a widow over twenty years. Before that I lived with me mum and dad, so I never did have a home, a life, of me own. I loved m’husband, we was close, never having no kids. So when he passed over, I didn’t want nobody else. Still don’t, not all the time. Sydney, he does. He won’t settle for seeing me now and again. And me, I be needing my space. So ’tis best we don’t see each other at all.’

  Nell gets up abruptly, signally the conversation is over. ‘Now me handsome, I reckon you be saying that Nell be getting lazy in her old age, sitting round when there’s work to be done, am I right?’

  She doesn’t expect an answer but goes out to the next customer. As I leave the post office, Holly says, in a whisper, ‘Can you have a talk with Sydney if you see him today? He’s taking this very badly.’

  I deliver some post to Woody at the caravan first, who asks me straight away if I’ve heard how Nell has broken his grandfather’s heart. Oh dear, surely it can’t be that bad? At this rate Nell really will be made out to be a cruel, hard woman, but I can totally sympathise with her. I’ve seen the way Sydney has followed her around, seen the way Nell has begun to pull back over the last few weeks.

  ‘Woody, I think it’s for the best. Nell doesn’t want a full-on relationship.’

  ‘How full-on can you be at eighty-something?’ Woody rolls his eyes.

  ‘That’s not for us to decide. It’s up to them.’

  He sighs, ‘I know. Talk to the old man, would’ya?’

  Sure enough, Sydney is waiting for me. He’s pretending to be stroking one of the cats sunning itself on the garden bench, but as soon as my van drives up he’s coming up the path to meet me.

  We talk awkwardly about the cats, the fine weather, Woody and Holly, everything but what is on his mind. He looks and sounds ten years older, and hasn’t smiled once. Several times I can tell he wants to bring up Nell but doesn’t know how, so I finally decide to help. Bluntness is called for here. ‘Sydney, I hear you and Nell have split up.’

  For a moment, as I listen to my words, I think how ludicrous this is. These are two octogenarians who should be able to sort out their own lives, without the grandchildren and the local postie giving advice and doling out therapy. They’re not teenagers, for goodness’ sake.

  Then I see Sydney’s face. It’s the saddest, loneliest face I’ve ever seen. And I remember that if they were teenagers, they’d have so many more years of looking for, and finding, someone to share their hearts and their homes and their lives with. For Sydney, Nell was probably his last chance, his last hope.

  As if reading my thoughts, Sydney’s eyes fill with tears. He tries to hide them and I give him his dignity, let him take out a handkerchief, pretend he has something in his eyes. When he’s got himself under control he says, ‘She’s a wonderful woman, Nell. I’ll miss her.’

  ‘And you’re a wonderful man. I’m sure she’ll miss you, too. But maybe you can still be friends? See each other now and again? I’m sure Nell would like that very much.’

  He shakes his head, blinking back tears again. ‘I couldn’t. The thing is, I want too much. More than she does. Won’t do, won’t do at all. Best we don’t see each other.’

  I tell him I’m sure he knows what’s best and we leave it there, talk again about the cats. As I leave he’s stroking the one on the bench, while the other appears from behind a bush and walks me towards my van. ‘Look after him,’ I whisper. ‘He’ll need it.’ When I drive off I see that Sydney is sitting on the garden bench with both cats curled next to him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Farming Life

  THE DRIVE UP Country to Dartmoor is bizarre. It’s Friday afternoon and we seem to be swimming against the tide – all the traffic is streaming down the A30 into Cornwall, not out of it.

  We waited for the new tenants to arrive so that we could welcome them, show them where everything is. Like the others,
they seemed very nice, very thrilled to be living in our home for a week. It’s great to have people staying who have been vetted by good friends, though I know it won’t be like that when we’re with the rental agency. But this is a perfect way to ease into this letting business.

  We leave the A30 at Okehampton, stop at the Waitrose there to buy treats for Annie and Pete. It’s totally heaving, mostly with visitors. I can almost pick out the locals, looking resigned at this annual taking-over of their town. It’s the same look I see on the faces of the locals at St Geraint and Morranport. We grab some bits and pieces and leave quickly.

  Once on Dartmoor, we get hopelessly lost. The tiny lanes are signposted to villages that aren’t there, or if they are, we can’t find them. To make things more difficult, a fine summer’s mist has come down, damp and clingy. Every time the road turns sharply we seem to find ourselves on open moorland and we can’t see a thing, the visibility is so bad.

  I try to phone Annie when it looks as if we’re going around in circles, but there’s no phone signal where we are. Finally Ben pulls over in an empty layby next to some gorse bushes where we get out, let Jake run about, try to get our bearings. The moor is eerie in this drifting mist, but beautiful. The gorse is bright yellow, like stars peeping out in a foggy sky, and I can see heather, too, already turning purple and blue. The great granite slabs of Dartmoor loom out like giants in the white wispy film of mist, adding to the air of mystery and magic.

  As we get back into the car Ben says, ‘I can’t imagine Annie living in a place like this.’

  ‘Nor can I. But then I couldn’t imagine her living in Cornwall, either. Until she met Pete.’

  And then suddenly we’re there. An ancient wooden sign tacked onto a beech tree states: Coombedown Farm. God knows how, but we’ve found it. As soon as we pull up, Annie is there, whooping with greetings, laughter and hugs. ‘At last! I’ve been so excited. Oh, I can’t believe you’re here, really here! Let me look at you, all of you. Goodness, how grown up you two look, let me hug you again. And you, Tessa, and Ben, you look terrific. Yes, Jake, I see you, too! Now come in, all of you. Pete’s down in the field with the cattle, I’ll give him a shout.’