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‘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 Eastern 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.

Martha says, ‘Nonsense. We’ve had to take two trains, a couple of buses and a taxi, and we’re exhausted. If you could show us to our room and bring a pot of Earl Grey, please?’

I’m a bit taken aback by her imperious manner but I say, ‘I’ll have to check if your room is ready. But if not, you’re welcome to wait in our lounge. It’s quite comfortable and I can bring you tea there.’

‘That won’t do at all, I’m afraid,’ says Martha or Bertha, both of whom are shaking their heads. ‘We really do need a nap.’

I scurry upstairs, find Oksana halfway through cleaning Room 5, the bedroom designated for the sisters.

Downstairs I run. ‘It won’t be long,’ I tell the sisters who have not gone into the lounge but are standing firmly by their rucksacks.

Martha says, ‘We’ll have another room then. One that is ready now. I’m sure you have another twin bedroom.’

‘We do, Room 3, but that’s reserved for someone else. Every room in the house is booked.’

They are already hoisting up their rucksacks and climbing the stairs at the end of the hallway. Bertha says, ‘No problem, then. We’ll take that one and the others can have our room. Ah, Martha, this is it, Room 3.’ I hear the door opening.

‘Don’t forget the tea, please,’ Martha calls down. ‘And you can bring our keys up then.’

I shout up, as sweetly and politely as I can, ‘There’s tea in the room, Earl Grey as well as English Breakfast, and everything else you might need.’

A silence descends from the stairs. Then, frostily, ‘That will have to do, then. But please can you bring us some fresh milk. We loathe that longlife stuff.’

Milk! The four-pinter that was in the fridge when we arrived smelled slightly off, so I threw it out. Ben is bringing fresh milk, and later we’ll stock up for breakfast tomorrow, but where is he? If he and the children are having fun on the beach, they won’t hurry back; there is no need. The first guests are not due to arrive until three at the earliest and I told them there was no hurry for the fish and chips.

Oksana saves the day. She’s trotting down the stairs carrying the Hoover, tidying it away in the cupboard, taking off the cute apron with little birds on it she’d been wearing, indicating that her work was finished. I rush to her and an elaborate display of sign language begins. I pull her to the kitchen, show her the empty space where milk should be, go to the recycling bin for plastics and take out the empty milk carton, sniff it, make a face. She looks perplexed then smiles sweetly, points to herself and says something that I’m sure is, me too. My face drops. She thinks I don’t like milk and is agreeing with me. I try again. I’m doing an elaborate pantomime of taking a carton of milk from the fridge, opening it, smelling it, and making an even more distasteful face as I pour it down the sink. .

Then I look out past Oksana and there is Bertha – or is it Martha? – staring at me. I put on my cheery B&B owner smile and say, ‘Oksana is from Eastern Europe and I’m afraid I don’t speak her language.’ I don’t say that I still haven’t a clue what her language is. I plunge on, ‘I’m trying to ask her to go to buy some fresh milk. I’m afraid we’re out.’ My mouth turns downwards, hoping to convey to Martha – or Bertha – how sorry I am for this oversight. It’s amazing how in the wrong I feel, for they’re the ones who arrived too early, who refuse to drink the perfectly adequate longlife milk we provide in all the bedrooms, and who took over another room without so much as enquiring whether it was all right with me.

The woman – either Martha or Bertha – walks briskly up to me, snatches the empty milk carton from my hand, shows it to Oksana, and says something to her which I don’t quite catch. Oksana smiles and replies, a look of relief on her face. They exchange quite a few words before my formidable guest turns to me and says, ‘The girl is from Ukraine. I don’t know the language but I do know a bit of Polish, which I tried on her. Luckily she lives in Western Ukraine near the Polish border and speaks that language, too. She’ll be happy to pick up some milk for you and wants to know if there is anything else she can get while she’s at the shop. I’d suggest giving her some cash to purchase the milk.’