Authors: Tessa Hainsworth
‘Those two neighbours of yours have complained about it. Loudly. To Joe, to every one of the bell ringers, and to the vicar himself. Kate and Leon actually wrote him a letter, saying that the noise of the practice every Monday night was disturbing the whole village.’ She takes a deep breath, to calm herself. ‘Which is a load of rubbish. They’ve been practising once a week for years and no one’s ever complained.’
For once I can’t defend the couple. They chose a house right opposite the church, for goodness’ sake, they weren’t forced to buy it. ‘So – what’s the vicar said? Anything?’
‘He came around to see Joe and the other bell ringers, most apologetic. He doesn’t know quite what to do. He hates conflict. He did hesitatingly suggest that perhaps they practise once a fortnight, but as Joe and the others pointed out, that’s not nearly enough practice for them. Also, how does he know that’ll satisfy the Wintersons? They want it stopped altogether.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Hah. Finally. You’re not sticking up for them! You’re on our side at last.’
I sigh. I’m just about to say I’m not on anyone’s side – there shouldn’t be any sides as we’re all a community, all part of one village. Then I realise that unfortunately there is conflict, and although I’ve not exactly sat on the fence, neither have I admitted loudly and clearly that my sympathies are all with the villagers. I
am
one, and on all the issues that have come up since the Wintersons’ arrival, the truth is that I have been solidly on the side of the locals. Kate and Leon have not adapted to life here, and now I have to admit that they are not even trying. All they’ve done is to bring their city ways, their style and manners, and yes, their prejudices, into our little Cornish village, and not met anyone in the community halfway.
Daphne is watching me, waiting to see what I’ll say next. I sigh, ‘OK, I see what you’re getting at. You’re right. Kate and Leon have not been able to adapt. And like you, I’m now beginning to wonder if they ever will.’
Daphne smiles and her shoulders sag in relief. I realise now how tense she’s been. I suppose she was expecting me to argue with her, tell her yet again that she and the others should be more patient with the Wintersons, or worse, blame the locals for Kate and Leon’s discontent. The fact that I haven’t seems to please her enormously. ‘I’m so glad to hear you say that, Tessa. Although you never signed any of their ridiculous petitions, or agreed with some of the things they did, I was still a bit worried that you saw their point of view more than you did ours – being a Londoner and all that yourself.’
I lean across the kitchen table and give her a hug. ‘Daphne, I’m not a Londoner, not any more. You ought to know that. I’m just me, happy to be here, loving it here.’
She hugs me back and we break apart, grin, chink our teacups. ‘To Treverny,’ she says. ‘Home sweet home, for better or for worse.’
‘To Treverny,’ I echo, and we both relax, relieved that the air had been cleared between us. I realise how fond I am of Daphne, what a good friend she is, and Joe, too. Outside, the wind gusts and howls, and the rain beats on over the rooftops, but I’m cosy and happy, and wouldn’t be anywhere else for all the clotted cream in Cornwall.
Just before our second rental begins, and we take the next week of our holiday up on Dartmoor with Annie and Pete, Kate calls to see me. I’ve not seen her other than to wave hello since we returned from St Petroc, which has been a relief because I wasn’t relishing hearing her go on about bell ringing. I was planning to talk to her, to tell her in the nicest possible way, what the villagers were saying. Perhaps if they knew just how they were antagonising everyone, they’d take a good hard look at themselves before it became down and out warfare. I hadn’t a clue how I’d go about it, but I knew I couldn’t go on without saying something.
But Kate surprises me. Once more we are in our kitchen but unlike Daphne, she refuses coffee or tea. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush, Tessa, off to Truro. I have a hair appointment. I wanted to have it done in London when we were there last week but my stylist couldn’t fit me in. I’m not sure of this Truro salon.’
‘Kate, they’re supposed to be quite good. A number of second homers I know actually choose to go there when they’re down here.’
She hardly listens. She’ll never believe anything is as good, let alone better, here in Cornwall than it is in London. I’m about to say something to this effect when she speaks first. ‘I’ve got to dash, but I wanted you and Ben to know first. Leon and I have seen an estate agent; we’re putting the house on the market today. We’re moving back to London.’
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.’