Home to Roost Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Tessa Hainsworth

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One: New Year, New Beginnings

  Chapter Two: A Slippery Slope

  Chapter Three: Chivalry Lives On

  Chapter Four: Doors Opening and Closing

  Chapter Five: A Home is Not a Rental House

  Chapter Six: Roosting Rooks and Piercing Peacocks

  Chapter Seven: The Trumpeting of Angels …

  Chapter Eight: A Mermaid’s Ear and Other Wonders

  Chapter Nine: Home to Roost

  Chapter Ten: Lost in the Storm

  Chapter Eleven: Summer Days

  Chapter Twelve: All in a Day’s Work

  Chapter Thirteen: Letting Go

  Chapter Fourteen: Farming Life

  Chapter Fifteen: Harvest Moon

  Copyright

  About the Book

  After two wonderful but turbulent years, Tessa Hainsworth is no longer the outsider from London and is finally becoming accepted into her tight knit Cornish village community.

  But everyday life is not like the holiday posters. Incomers have to tread carefully – if they don’t, the village soon lets them know and Tessa finds herself torn between old friends and new. Making ends meet is still a constant struggle and like many in the county she decides to rent out her home to summer holidaymakers – and helping run a B&B – with hilarious results.

  Tessa finds that her job as postwoman involves being an amateur health-and-safety inspector, a shoulder to cry on and a matchmaker, but there’s always time for a sandwich in the sun and a bit of beachcombing in her lunch-break.

  About the Author

  Tessa Hainsworth worked as a marketing manager at The Body Shop. She now lives in Cornwall with her husband and two children.

  Also by Tessa Hainsworth

  Up with the Larks

  Seagulls in the Attic

  The best journeys are filled with inner smiles!

  Richard, Tom, Georgie, my wonderful family and friends – you constantly enrich my life! Thank you. Extra special thanks to the incredible Karen Hayes, Jane Turnbull and the Preface team.

  This is also for Chris and Gabrielle, with love.

  Prologue

  Mid-January, and it seems as if the exceptional frost, the ice and snow usually so foreign to Cornwall, has gone for good. Today is a perfect winter’s day, cold but still, so still that even here at the edge of the sea there isn’t a breath of wind. The water is like a smooth carpet, the grey and black of the last weeks transformed to a deep blue-green.

  It is late morning, and I’m still working, walking from the tiny post office in the seaside town of Morranport to deliver my last batch of post. My Royal Mail winter uniform seems heavy in this gift of a day, as I watch the oystercatchers scurrying along the shoreline. With their black feathers on top and the white plumage underneath, they remind me of commuters in London, hurrying to work with hasty, stressful steps. Their shadows, running along beside them, add to this image and I laugh out loud, once again not believing my luck that I’m no longer part of that scene. Even though I, too, am working, I’m certainly not scurrying but walking slowly, savouring the sea air, pausing to look at an interesting rock formation, or a flock of seabirds.

  This is my third year in Cornwall, and I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else. I knew from the day we arrived that this was home now, and every day, every month, and every year, this feeling intensifies.

  It’s so warm I open the jacket of my uniform. This beautiful day, this sudden winter’s prize, gives me a surge of energy and I jump over the low wall to walk along the pebbles and damp sand. The oystercatchers are ahead of me now, their skinny red legs flashing as they paddle in and out of the sea. I should be tired; I was up at four as usual to get ready for my round and it’s been an especially long morning, not over yet, either. My customers, who have been locked inside their houses during the last icy winter weeks, have come out with the sun, delighted, like me, with the spring-like day. Of course, they all want to talk, even more so than usual, which is fine with me. I’ve grown fond of many of them, and some have even become good friends. Mostly I just listen, my head bobbing up and down, nodding as they talk, just like the oystercatchers pecking on the wet shore.

  Above me, the herring gulls are shrieking as they fly over the sea and sand. The sound is wonderfully familiar, somehow rooting me to this amazing coastal area I now call home. I take deep breaths, enjoying the relative warmth of the air after the bitter cold of the past weeks. I feel so full of energy that I start doing some Jumping Jacks right there and then, feeling my winter muscles stretch, my lungs fill with clean sea air.

  Suddenly I stop. Ahead of me, a cormorant dives into the sea with such grace it nearly takes my breath away. There is hardly a ripple in the water. I stare, wondering where and when it will come up. Finally, after what seems ages, it surfaces, far from where it dived. The bird stays floating serenely on the water for some time, while I stand serenely watching. London, my old life there as a high-flying career woman, seems a million years away.

  Then I turn, hop over the wall onto the footpath, and get on with my round. As I walk, the sun glitters on the sea with such promise that I know the New Year is going to be fantastic. My first two in Cornwall have been magical, so why not the third?

  I take a few deep breaths, hoist my bag over my shoulder, and set off to finish delivering the day’s post.

  CHAPTER ONE

  New Year, New Beginnings

  AS I LEAVE our house with Jake, the family spaniel, preparing to walk to our tiny village shop, my eyes widen in surprise. There, on the narrow road between our house and the front lawn of the church, is a traffic jam. Hardly any cars drive along that road, for Treverny isn’t on a main road to anywhere big or touristy. Yet right there in front of me is a whole line of cars, trying to get up the road but not moving an inch. I can tell by the grim looks on the faces of the drivers that they’ve been there for some time.

  Jake barks madly at this unexpected phenomenon. He’s not used to traffic either, though he should be as we brought him with us when we moved from London. But like all of us – Ben my husband, our two children Will and Amy, now nine and seven, and me, of course – Jake has become countrified. Not for him the city pavements, the roar of cars and motorbikes, lorries and ambulances, day and night. Not for him the neon brightness and high rises and not enough trees to wee on. The adaptation from town dog to rural hound has been swift and complete, as it has for all of us.

  I walk up to a cluster of villagers perched on the grass verge of the green next to the church. I notice that it really is green, too, the snow finally nearly all gone. This creeping of colour back into the landscape after the unseasonal snow and ice makes me heady, feeling as if spring is here when it’s only January. The trees on the green, by the pond, are still nothing but trunks and branches but you can almost feel them getting ready to burst into bud and leaf. I keep telling myself it’s too early, but after all, spring does come early here in Cornwall.

  I see Daphne standing with the other villagers, watching the cars. She and her husband Joe have a farm outside the village. Their children and ours have become firm friends, just as we have. ‘What’s up?’ I say, indicating the cars.

  Daphne rolls her eyes. ‘It’s that thing. Look.’ She points up the road. There, blocking traffic from both ways, is the biggest removal van I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Goodness, that’s crazy, bringing such a huge vehicle down through the village. It’s almost wider than the road. And look how long it is!’

  The other locals standing around join in our conversati
on. ‘It’s been there for half an hour.’

  ‘’Tis daft. The thing can’t go forward, can’t go backward. It be stuck now, I do believe.’

  ‘Fancy sending a great van like that down here.’

  ‘Must be one of them lunatics from Up Country.’

  Everyone is nodding his or her head sagely as these words are bandied about, especially the remark about coming from ‘Up Country’. To the Cornish, anyone from the other side of the Tamar River is Up Country, and suspect.

  One of the locals is up ahead chatting to the driver of the removal van. When he finishes, he heads towards our little group. ‘Doug,’ several people call to him, ‘what’s going on? Where’s that thing heading for, d’ya know?’

  Doug’s face is smugly smiley, delighted to be the bearer of a bit of gossip. He’s a middle-aged bachelor, still living with his mother who must be a good cook as he’s got a belly as plump and round as his face. Doug works here and there doing gardening jobs as well as being a part-time farm worker on Daphne and Joe’s farm.

  ‘Oh, ’tis very interesting, very in-ter-est-ing,’ Doug says, dragging out each syllable to keep up the suspense. ‘Especially for this maid here.’ He gives me a nudge. My heart sinks. Doug is harmless, a decent sort, but he does like to wind me up, and has done so since I first arrived. He thinks, quite rightly I’m sure, that I’m a naïve city girl who hasn’t a clue about the countryside, and he gets a buzz out of trying to prove it sometimes.

  Everyone looks at me. ‘OK, Doug, I’ll bite. Why would I be especially interested in that removal van?’

  Doug grins widely. His face would be like a full moon, especially now that he’s starting to lose his hair, if it weren’t so ruddy. ‘Now wouldn’t you like to know, my handsome.’ He winks and nudges me again. He’s thoroughly enjoying this.

  Though I’m dying of curiosity – this is rural life after all, and we tend to get excited about little things like huge removal vans blocking our narrow, windy roads – I know Doug, know that the more I want to know, the more he’ll hold back. So I pretend disinterest and say, ‘I’d better be on my way; it’s getting quite cold standing here.’ This part is true. In one of those sudden temperature shifts that happen in Cornwall, the mild weather I’d been wallowing in just a few minutes ago seems to have disappeared. Clouds have obscured the sun and it feels several degrees colder. The branches on the skeletal trees alongside the road and on the green no longer look as if they are ready to bud but seem to be drawing in against this new onslaught of winter. I’m so lost in staring at the beech tree next to me, admiring its shape and the pattern of its branches, that I jump when Doug shouts in my ear, ‘Tessa, maid, didya hear what I said? Lordie, you do be a dozy maid sometimes!’

  I shift my focus from the trees to Doug. When he’s got my attention he goes on. ‘That van, ’tis sent by your new neighbours. The ones moving here from London. Mebbe you know each other, eh? Being as how you’re from the same place.’

  This isn’t the first time that Doug has assumed I know everyone who lives in London. I guess it’s because he knows absolutely everyone who lives not only in Treverny, but in half of Cornwall, or so he makes out. I say, ‘I’ve met them once, when they bought the house. Kate and Leon Winterson.’

  Doug puts on his best sombre look, purses his lips, nods knowingly. ‘Nice is as nice does,’ he announces enigmatically. Since he’s always making enigmatic pronouncements, no one takes much notice of this.

  Daphne, who is stamping her feet with the cold by now, says, ‘Are you saying, Doug, that the van is going to Treetops?’

  ‘Exactly that, my lover,’ Doug replies. ‘Treetops, that empty house right next door to Tessa here. That’s why he be havin’ such trouble; ’tis such a narrow road, and the drive to the house is near impossible to get up, it be that rutted and slidey. It be stuck right where it is now. Ain’t making them car drivers happy, let me tell you.’

  That fact is pretty obvious. Several of the car drivers are out and talking with the driver. They’re mostly locals on their way home from picking up children from school, or from shopping, or work. They’re used to country ways, waiting around patiently for a tractor to go up a hill, or sheep and cattle to be moved from field to field, but this monster of a removal van is a bit much, you can tell by the looks on their faces.

  From further up the road behind the van, behind the six or seven cars stuck there waiting to get by, I see a sleek black Land Rover pull up. That’s not a local farmer, I know; the vehicle is too new, too trendy. This Land Rover looks far too posh to get Cornish mud or dung or straw all over it. The doors open and two people get out. I recognise them as our new neighbours, Kate and Leon Winterson.

  While Leon goes to talk to the driver of the van, his wife Kate comes running up to me. ‘Oh, you’re our new neighbour, uh, Teresa isn’t it?’

  ‘Tessa. Welcome to Treverny.’

  ‘Yes, welcome,’ Daphne says. The others standing around nod once or twice. They are a wonderful lot, the villagers, but it takes them time to get to know and trust the people who move into their village from Up Country. You can’t blame them; in the past, they’ve seen so many people come and go as Cornwall has become more and more desirable over the years, as a summer holiday destination, as a place for a second home, and for some, a dream, an idyllic paradise in which to start a new life. The locals have been witnessing this for years, so they will wait, watch, bide their time, and judge the new couple, as they do all the incomers, by their actions over the months or even years, until they make up their minds. I know from experience: the first year we were here, I didn’t feel accepted for months and months. It wasn’t until Ben got ill and the villagers all rallied around that I realised we were at last welcomed wholeheartedly into the life and soul of the community.

  And so it will take the Wintersons some time, but I hope it will turn out well for them. I’m sure it will; when Ben and I met them, they both seemed delighted to be here, and eager to start settling in. Right now, though, they are not off to a good start.

  ‘Oh Tessa, I’m so relieved to see you,’ Kate says. ‘We just got here; we were following the van but had to stop for petrol, said we’d meet the removal men at the house. It seems a terrible muddle! What’s the matter with the driver? Can’t he drive properly?’

  Doug, who is enjoying all this immensely, says, ‘Well now, maid, I reckon the problem be not with the driver, but the fact of that big vehicle you got there. Far too big for these roads. You should of thought of that before you hired ’im, my handsome.’

  Poor Kate is so flustered by these words that she doesn’t know what to say. By now a cold wind has come up and with it, an icy rain, so the villagers reluctantly start to disperse, back to their warm homes. Daphne says goodbye and goes off as well, leaving me, Doug, and Kate standing there shivering. Kate looks lost and frozen. She’s an attractive woman but right now her face is twisted with anxiety. She’s so wound up she can hardly stand still, but keeps tapping one foot then the other. I can’t help noticing her gorgeous knee high boots which look elegant but not snow and rain proof. Her thin wool trousers, tucked inside the boots, are far too fine to withstand the wind now whipping around the village. ‘C’mon, Kate,’ I say. ‘Come on into my house, have a warm drink. Let the men sort it out.’

  Doug snorts. ‘Hah, there be only that lot from Up Country, they be no use.’ He points to Leon Winterson talking heatedly to the two removal men. ‘I’d best go give’em a bit of advice.’ He swaggers up to them. Oh dear, I think, well-intentioned as he is, he’ll only make it worse. Doug always does, somehow.

  Luckily, at that point Ben comes out of the house where he’d been at the computer, juggling our finances, trying to make ends meet as we’ve done ever since coming to Cornwall – it’s been a constant struggle, but a small price to pay for living the life we’ve chosen. ‘What’s going on?’ Ben asks while Jake leaps about in excitement, hoping Ben’s arrival signals another walk today. He’s already had one, straight after I got hom
e from my morning postie round. We went to Penwarren Beach, not far from the village. The breeze was getting up and the sea choppy, but it was still fantastic. We had the beach to ourselves so we ran together as if we were trying to outrun the wind. Well, OK, I exaggerate; I’m not exactly a runner, but all that ozone gave me so much energy I ran for a few minutes anyway.

  After Ben and Kate greet each other briefly, Ben takes over. He orders us into the house to warm up – Kate is turning blue with cold in her flimsy winter coat, long and sylish, but with only two large buttons to keep out the cold. That’s no good for a Cornish winter, not even the short kind of mild ones we usually have in this part of Cornwall. She says, ‘I can’t go in and leave poor Leon.’ She looks along the road at the van. Leon and Doug, the removal men, and several of the car drivers are all talking and pointing and getting hot under the collar, or so it seems from here.

  Ben says, ‘I’ll see what I can do to help. I’m sure we can manoeuvre the cars around to get them past, and somehow get the van at least a bit closer to the house.’

  Kate looks so relieved that for a mad minute I think she’s going to throw her arms around Ben and give him a big hug and kiss. But he’s run up to the other men and I take her into the house to put the kettle on. Jake, following me, gives me his hangdog look, designed to pull on my heartstrings. But I stare him down. ‘You had an extra long walk on the beach this morning,’ I tell him sternly as I bring out mugs and milk for the tea. ‘So don’t try giving me a guilt trip.’

  Kate is looking at me strangely. ‘D’you always talk to your dog?’ she asks.

  The question surprises me; I hadn’t thought about it before. ‘I guess I do. Why, don’t you?’

  ‘We’ve never had a dog. Oh, but we can have one now. Since I was a child, living in the city, I’ve always wanted pets. A rabbit, and a guinea pig, and maybe a hen, or even a goat …’ She looks rapturous and I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not as easy as all that, having tried some of these things. But she’ll learn, just like I did.