Home to Roost (17 page)

Just the other day I met a very grand elderly lady at Joanna’s house, who was obviously a great friend of hers. Joanna called me in to introduce us, as if I were a dear friend instead of the local postie. The two women were drinking tea from delicate china cups, gazing at the sea from Joanna’s magnificent terrace. You might have thought they were sitting at Buckingham Palace, they were so tidy and refined, sharing some kind of fancy biscuits laid out in an orderly manner on an exquisite antique plate.

‘Do have tea with us, Tessa,’ Joanna invited me that day, as she often does. ‘Or would you rather have coffee, since it’s not exactly tea time yet? Lillian and I don’t drink coffee, I’m afraid, but I can quickly make some for you. It’s no trouble.’

Lillian, looking remarkably like Joanna, with the same type of neatly permed hair, same court shoes, added, ‘After seventy, coffee tends to disagree with one. I never touch it now.’

I refused a drink and biscuit but I sat for a moment to talk to Joanna and Lillian, as Joanna wanted to hear all about my house-renting escapades. She feels quite elated that I’ve taken the idea from her. ‘Very sensible,’ Lillian said as I told them about the various repairs we are slowly making to the place. ‘Especially as you say your husband is doing most of the handiwork himself.’

‘Yes, except for electricity and things like that – the central heating, for instance.’

‘Central heating?’ Lillian looked as though I’d told them we’re putting in a dungeon in the basement. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Well, it does get chilly sometimes in August, as the estate agent said. We’ve got to have it to be able to rent.’

‘That’s true,’ Joanna confirmed. ‘I had to install it here. Never use it myself.’

Lillian looked thoroughly disapproving. ‘Of course not. You’ve got a perfectly sensible wood-burning stove, as I have,’ she turned back to me. ‘Central heating is quite unnecessary in Cornwall.’

‘Perhaps. The point is, whatever we prefer ourselves, we need central heating to be accepted by the rental company.’

Lillian sighed theatrically, turning to Joanna, ‘You see now, why I could never rent like you and others of my friends do?’

Joanna nodded and said to me, ‘Lillian has a beautiful house. Very large, very grand.’

‘But without central heating. Good heavens, no one expects to be warm in winter, do they, Joanna?’ Her friend shook her head in agreement. Lillian went on, ‘In winter, even a winter like the one we have just experienced, we heat one room. To do more is an incredible waste of money. One room is enough for any family, in the winter. At night, we scuttle upstairs as fast as we can and undress under the covers. Hasn’t done us any harm, has it, Joanna?’

Joanna shook her head again, in total agreement with her friend. Lillian looked me in the eye and said, kindly, ‘Be careful, young lady, and think of what you’re doing, before you start heating your bedroom. No good will come of it.’

I promised solemnly that I would give the matter grave consideration. As I left the two of them, Joanna called out after me, ‘My dear, I suggest that if you really feel the cold in winter, get an electric blanket. It’s a luxury I admit, but I finally bought one for my nine-year-old grandson to use when he stays. I’m afraid his parents have coddled him. He complained his fingers and toes would freeze in the night when he stayed with us over the last Christmas holidays. Silly boy. But I indulged him. After all, he’s my only grandson. A bit of spoiling is allowed.’

Later, I tell Annie about this conversation when I meet her in St Geraint for lunch. I haven’t seen so much of her since she told me her news, as she and Pete have been dodging back and forth to Devon, staying with Pete’s uncle, learning the ropes of his farm for the takeover in May. She seems to be looking forward to it now, perhaps caught up by Pete’s enthusiasm, and I’m happy for them both.

Annie is amazed as I tell her about Joanna and Lillian. ‘Honestly, these old-timers, put us to shame. I froze in Pete’s cottage during the winter, even though we have a wood burner in the sitting room, an Aga in the kitchen, and an electric fire in the bedroom. I would have killed for central heating.’

I laugh and say, teasingly, ‘Hah, City Mouse, still the same. Used to your luxurious city life.’

‘When it comes to freezing winters, too right. Give me the centrally heated city. Anyway, don’t go all righteous on me. I know you can’t wait to get that central heating in. How are plans going, by the way, for the house rental?’

‘Not that great. There’s so much to do to the house, not to mention all the new things we have to buy. It seems such a waste of money, spending it on matching crockery and replacing a perfectly good, if old, washing machine. It’s painful, when usually every penny we spend has to be for something we really need,’ I shake my head. ‘To be honest, even taking out a bank loan, we still won’t be able to get everything ready for renting this summer. It’s such a disappointment.’

‘What a shame.’

We’re sitting outside a new café that opened at the beginning of the month, right at the edge of the water, not far from the boat yard. Annie’s been gazing out to sea with a slight frown, which I know means she’s thinking furiously. ‘Annie, what’s up?’

She looks at me again, saying excitedly, ‘Look, you want to rent out your house this summer but you’re not ready to get involved with a rental agency, right?’

‘Well, sort of right. We’re ready but the house isn’t. No agency will take us until the place is up to scratch. And we’ve got no money to do that.’

‘Tessa, I know at least half a dozen people in London, friends from my old BBC days, who love coming to Cornwall for holidays and would love renting your house.’

‘Without central heating? Or a new washing machine?’

‘Just the way it is, mismatched crockery and all.’

‘But – how do I find these people?’

‘Easy, I will. I still email old friends there, and phone them, and they visit, you know. The thing is, Tessa, you can’t charge what the estate agent would charge for the matching crockery and smart barbecue and all that frippery.’

I’m getting as excited as she is now. ‘Of course I wouldn’t charge as much, if they take the house as it is. Oh Annie, even if it’s just for a week or so, it’d be brilliant. And a great way to get used to strangers using our house.’

Annie’s eyes are gleaming with plans. ‘The great thing is, they won’t be strangers. Well, maybe to you, but I’d only tell the people I know and like about your house. Lots of them know all about it already, from all the times I came to visit you before I met Pete and moved down here.’

A discouraging thought hits me. ‘Annie, remember that the estate agency said our house wasn’t up to par for renting. I don’t want your friends disappointed.’

She’s already got out her mobile phone and is trying to contact someone who said he wants to holiday in Cornwall this year. He doesn’t answer, so she leaves a quick message and gets back to me. ‘But that’s the point, Tessa. The kind of people I’ll put your way are the kind that don’t want some sterile holiday house with everything perfect. They’d prefer to stay in a real Cornish home, like yours. It’s a lovely place, it’s warm and cosy – they’ll love it.’ She grins mischievously. ‘And they’ll love it even more when they know they’re getting it loads cheaper than it would cost from an agency. And Tessa, you and Ben won’t have to pay agency fees.’

I’m so uplifted by this that I practically dance all the way back to my car. Annie adds, as we say goodbye, ‘I’m only doing this for selfish reasons, you know. If you rent your house, you can spend that time with us up on deepest darkest Dartmoor.’

‘Only if we can help.’

‘I’m sure there will be loads of things to do. The house is sprawling and pretty ramshackle, but there’s plenty of room and there’s a good feel about the place. I’m actually beginning to look forward to going there, much as I’ll miss Cornwall, and you and Ben and the family.’

‘I’m so glad, Annie. How’s Pete, anyway? Still as excited about the move?’

‘Oh, even more so, since he’s been up at the farm on weekends.’ She gets that dreamy expression I’ve seen before. ‘Oh Tessa, he’s so fantastic. He’s a darling, he really is.’

‘So you’ve said. Many, many times.’

‘I know. But Tessa, he really is the best husband. You know what he did yesterday?’ I try not to let my eyes glaze over as Annie tells me another wonderful thing that St Pete did, something really quite ordinary – bringing her some flowers – but to Annie, a heavenly act comparable only to the trumpet call of angels. I smile tolerantly, and listen. She’s a newlywed after all. Anyway, I feel the same about Ben, and we’ve been married ages. But the real difference between me and a newlywed is, I don’t have to talk about it all the time.

That evening Ben comes home late, after the children have eaten and gone to bed. He’s had some work lately doing voice-overs, and had to go to Bristol early this morning for the job. Luckily he’d met Leon at the train station in Truro, coming back from one of his stints in London, and Leon drove him home. Ben says, ‘Of course Leon was in first class, but I spotted him before he left the station. It meant you didn’t have to come pick me up.’

He opens a bottle of wine he’s brought home, a celebration for the finished job, while I put the flowers he’s brought me into a chunky white vase. They are gorgeous red tulips. ‘A woman came along the train in Exeter selling them,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve never seen that before, don’t know if it’s legal or whether she was thrown out at the next station. But I got some for you anyway.’

They’re beautiful. ‘You are wonderful,’ I say. ‘Like the trumpeting of angels in heaven.’ I give him a hug, kiss him soundly.

‘You’ve been around Annie too much,’ he teases me. ‘That sounds like the kind of things she says about Pete.’

‘How’d you guess? Well, let’s hope she’s still saying them when they’ve been married as long as we have.’

We drink the wine, reminisce about Annie and Pete’s wedding in Cornwall last year, then go on reminiscing about our own. It’s late when we get to bed and I’ll be groggy all day at work, but
c’est la vie
. That’s the nice thing about being a postie, I can take things slowly if I need to. As long as the post gets there on the day it should, at more or less the time it should, I’m all right.

It’s the more or less that I love. It’s what makes living here so wonderfully relaxing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A Mermaid’s Ear and Other Wonders

I’M IN POLDOWE
a week or so later, delivering to the main street of the village, when a van screeches to a stop next to me and Guy jumps out. ‘Tessa, hey, all right then?’

‘Fine, Guy, how about you?’

‘I’m good. Uh, you got any post for Clara? I thought I could pop it down to her. Save you a trip, y’know.’

‘Are you on your way there, then?’

‘Well, um, yeah. Or no. That is, I’ve not picked up any cats lately. Not been any about, things have been slow on that front. So I haven’t seen her, y’know? Not in the last week or so.’

‘Guy, you don’t need the excuse of cats to call on her, do you? I thought you were friends?’

He blushes, looks down, mumbles something I can’t hear. Oh dear, he’s in a bad way. ‘Guy, what’s up? I can’t understand what you’re saying.’

He speaks up, and a garble of words rush out. ‘Well, that’s the thing. We were. Friends, y’know. I used to drop in on her all the time, even without cats. Just to chat, y’know?’

‘Yes, I do know, Guy. I used to see you two at her place, when I dropped in the post. So what’s wrong? Aren’t you friends any more?’

He’s blushing and twitching and staring at his feet again. Goodness, he really is in a state. To save him from more misery I say gently, ‘Here, Guy, here’s a leaflet about eye tests or something you can give her, that’s all the post today. But it’s something.’

He takes the junk mail with such joy that I think he’s going to swoop me up and swing me round. He gibbers some kind of thank you and starts heading towards Clara’s house but instead turns in a rush, scaring some sparrows pecking on a grassy lawn nearby. ‘Tessa, you’ve been such a great friend to us, to me and Clara. I got to tell you, you’ll think I’m bonkers though.’

‘Not at all,’ I say in my kindest, most understanding voice. ‘Tell me everything,’ I say, even though this isn’t exactly the right spot for a chummy conversation, on the main street of a small village with the locals walking about, eager to start a friendly chat. As we’ve been speaking, a couple have already greeted us on the way to the shop and it won’t be long before someone joins us, I’m sure.

Guy obviously feels the same way for he grabs my arm and pulls me across the road to the church, mumbling something about getting a bit of privacy. Just in time, too, for out of the corner of my eye I can see Ginger lurking in front of her house, glancing surreptitiously at us. More than one of the windows of the nearby houses have curtains twitching, too. Not that I blame them. Guy is so noticeable with his wild bushy hair and wide smile that you can’t help but look twice when he passes. And for the last ten minutes he’s been twitching and tapping his feet and looking totally agitated as we’ve been standing and talking.