Home to Roost (19 page)

Finishing my spiel, I beam at Kate and Leon, feeling like a benevolent schoolteacher, having clearly and kindly explained a difficult subject. But they’re not beaming back. In fact they’re both frowning. Finally Leon says, ‘To each his own viewpoint. Quite honestly, I don’t think messing up a good beach with that stuff does any good to anyone.’

I’m taken aback by this and don’t know how to respond, but it doesn’t matter as the couple are already talking about other things. Soon Leon is making me laugh with an anecdote about some business colleagues in London. They’re both so entertaining, and so personable, but I can’t help feeling uneasy as finally they carry on with their walk and I head homewards. Life in Cornwall hardly seems to be giving them the peace and tranquillity they are searching for. Kate remains determined to have the peacock removed from the Humphreys’ home, and she hasn’t made herself many friends by employing the furniture maker from Bristol. The whole village has seen his very smart, brand-new Renault van, and feel it’s a terrible slight not only on Guy, but on them all.

Still, it is not my problem. I’ve been keeping my head down, trying not to get involved. I’m still optimistically hoping the Wintersons will settle in to village life.

Annie and Pete come over for dinner the first weekend in May, just before they leave for Devon. We’re all trying very hard to make it a festive occasion, but it’s an emotional evening for everyone. Even Pete, thrilled as he is to be taking over the farm, admits to feeling a bit shaky. ‘I’ve never lived outside of Cornwall. Never farmed, either,’ he confesses. ‘I’ve been to agricultural college, worked with farmers all my life, and spent weeks on farms, but not like this. Not with the entire responsibility of running a farm on my shoulders.’

Tonight, over chilled white wine and a prawn risotto, we’re making plans, looking to the future. Annie has found us two one-week rentals for our house and wants us to spend both weeks on Dartmoor at the farm. Ben and I agree to stay for one of the weeks but no longer. ‘We don’t want to overstay our welcome,’ I tell the couple. ‘You know the old saying about fish and houseguests – after a few days they start to go off. We call it our Three-Day-Fish rule!’

Annie makes a face, ‘You’re not houseguests, you’re our family practically. We’ve known each other for ever.’

‘Let’s see how it goes, OK? We’ll stay for a bit, and if we can help on the farm, we’ll extend our stay. But we’ve got our tents, our camping gear, so we won’t be homeless when our house is rented.’

The evening goes on longer than usual, as if the four of us are all reluctant to call it a night, knowing that this is the end of a short but rich period in our lives. But we’ll have more evenings I’m sure, just as Annie and I will have our girlie days out. We’ll be older, though probably no wiser, and the venue could be anywhere, but that’s not important. What matters is our friendship, which will endure, as Annie says, even on deepest darkest Dartmoor.

‘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 horns 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.