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  ‘Mine, too. Positively radiating,’ I say, as arm in arm we head back to the car and our respective homes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Roosting Rooks and Piercing Peacocks

  I CAN HEAR the screeching as I walk down through the village towards the Humphreys’ house. ‘Goodness, Tessa, what’s that?’ Kate Winterson has come rushing down the road after me, looking a bit panicky.

  Another raucous noise, even louder than the first screech, nearly drowns out my reply. Kate cries, ‘What did you say?’ She’s stopped walking towards the sound, clearly terrified.

  ‘It’s only the peacock,’ I shout. ‘Emmanuel, remember? I told you about him a week or so ago, belongs to Edna and Hector at Poet’s Tenement. You’ve heard him before.’

  ‘Oh, God! The peacock? Are you sure? The nasty creature is sounding louder every day. I thought it was human. Someone being attacked.’

  ‘This is rural Cornwall, not London,’ I say cheerily, trying to get that anxious look off her pale face.

  She looks doubtful. ‘Isn’t some kind of panther supposed to be stalking the countryside?’

  ‘That’s Dartmoor. Or Exmoor. Take your pick. Maybe even Bodmin has rumours of those things, I’m not sure. But even if they exist, Kate, we’re nowhere near any of those places. And if they do exist, they certainly do not attack humans.’

  She still looks uneasy, but she’s now walking down the road with me instead of stopping in the middle and refusing to go on.

  ‘You still haven’t met the Humphreys, have you?’ I ask. ‘Lovely couple. C’mon, I’m going there now. I’ll introduce you to them.’ I smile. ‘And to Emmanuel.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I want to meet. Sounds like a dozen peacocks over there.’

  ‘Only two. Emmanuel and the peahen. The Duchess, she’s called. But it’s only Emmanuel who makes that noise.’

  We’ve walked through the churchyard where the magnolias are out, full and white and pink. Everything is fresh and sweet smelling. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ I say, but before I finish, Emmanuel shrieks again, sounding louder as we get nearer. ‘He’s quite mature, I believe, in full feather. He’s magnificent when he fans out his tail. All that iridescent blue and green, stunning.’

  ‘I know what a peacock looks like,’ she says, snapping at me. This isn’t like Kate. She might be a bit nervy and over-anxious, but never snappy. ‘I hope the ridiculous bird doesn’t carry on like that all spring and summer.’

  I try to answer but another cry from Emmanuel drowns me out. Kate moans, ‘Who in God’s name can live with that?’ She puts her hands over her ears.

  ‘Well, I guess we all do. I admit when Emmanuel and the Duchess were first let out, his cries were a bit jarring. But you get used to it. We have, anyway.’

  ‘Does he let up, then?’

  ‘Uh, I’m not sure. Though I’m certain he will once he gets used to living in a new place. You’ll hardly notice his cries soon, trust me. We don’t any more. It’s just part of living in a rural area, like the noise of tractors, or lambs bleating for their mums.’

  She looks doubtful and I can’t blame her. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the peacock’s cries are completely unpredictable. At least Emmanuel’s are. Like geese, he squawks when someone walks into the Humphreys’ garden, carrying on until they reach the door. ‘Better than our old brass door knocker, Tessa,’ Hector told me proudly a few days ago. ‘We know when anyone is there. It’s wonderful!’

  Not so wonderful for the rest of the village perhaps, though I didn’t say so. But the Humphreys are so well liked, and have lived at Poet’s Tenement for ever, or so it seems, that everyone is putting up with the bird’s shrieks. And it’s true what I said to Kate, that you do get used to the sound after a time. Besides, Edna told me that he’ll calm down when he gets used to being outside. ‘It’s the joy of spring in his veins, Tessa,’ she beamed at me through her thick specs. ‘It’s the newness of everything. Once summer sets in he’ll be quiet as a mouse, I’m sure of it.’

  I have my doubts, but what do I know about peacocks?

  I ask Kate again, ‘D’you want to come to meet Edna and Hector?’ She has walked me as far as their house, where the clematis, scrambling all over it, is out in bloom. Some of the upstairs windows are covered over with fronds of leaves and flowers. Doug tried to remove it once when he was doing his weekly gardening for the couple, but neither of them would let him. ‘Better than curtains, maid,’ Hector had said. ‘Lot less bother.’

  Kate definitely does not want to meet them. ‘Maybe some other time,’ she says evasively. ‘I don’t want to face that creature with the feathers,’ she shudders.

  ‘Kate,’ I protest, ‘Emmanuel doesn’t bite, nor does his Duchess. She’s ever so quiet, by the way. He’s loud and bossy, but he doesn’t go for people. I think the Italian man got them from a zoo. They weren’t caged or anything, but wandered around the public paths and the picnic tables. They’re used to people.’

  But Kate isn’t convinced, and we say goodbye, planning to meet one evening the next week, the four of us. I hope by then she’ll have got used to the peacock’s cry.

  Edna and Hector are in their front garden, both dressed in baggy cotton trousers and some kind of striped kaftan on top. One of them has purple and yellow stripes going horizontally, the other has red and pink vertical ones. Both look faded and are patched in places. I’m no longer surprised at the bizarreness of their clothes, all the bits and pieces they’ve picked up over the years. Emmanuel greets me with his usual cry and then ignores me while Edna feeds him morsels of cheese. ‘I’ve tried so hard to wean him from cheese,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I’m not sure dairy food is that good for him. But the children at the zoo fed him their cheese sandwiches; he’s quite addicted to it.’

  ‘And the Duchess?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s more partial to ice cream, I’m afraid. We do treat her to a scoop of Cornish vanilla now and again, since it’s got warmer. She’s such a sweet thing.’

  When the peafowl realise there is no food left, they strut away to the back garden. Emmanuel is mercifully quiet. But now there is another noise. Some rooks are having a conversation in the holm oak. We watch them for a few moments then I ask, ‘Have you had someone look at the tree?’

  They are both silent for a few moments until Edna says, ‘We contacted the tree surgeon you told us about. One of your customers, I believe. William Woods.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  She beams. ‘Such a lovely boy. I asked him if he had an older relative called Sydney with the same surname. It turns out to be his grandfather. Dear Sydney, such a nice young man, he was. But William said he’s become somewhat reclusive.’

  As usual, it’s a small world in these parts. We go back to the topic of the oak. I say, ‘William, or Woody as everyone calls him, is fantastic. He knows everything about trees.’ I’d met him and his girlfriend, Holly, last year, after they finished training at a college in Devon, when they moved into a caravan on a half-acre of land on one of my routes. Woody is Cornish born, another young man who can’t afford to buy property in his home county, with house prices still sky high despite their falling dramatically in other parts of the country. The caravan belongs to his grandfather, the same Sydney that Edna mentioned, as does the land and a small tumbledown cottage. Woody and Holly shouldn’t be there; the caravan is supposed to be a holiday let only, but so far no one knows they’re living there permanently. That is, most people know, but no one tells the authorities. Too many people are just about getting by these days, not only in Cornwall but everywhere. Here at least, most keep silent about what others are doing, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone or infringe on anyone else’s rights. Anyway, neither Woody nor Holly want it to be permanent, but so far they don’t seem to have any other option.

  ‘So what did Woody say?’ I persist. ‘He came over, then? Saw the tree?’

  To my surprise, Hector’s reply is gruff. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, maid.’r />
  That’s so not like Hector, to be abrupt like that. He’s already turned his back from me and is walking around the tree, looking up at its branches, feeling the trunk.

  Edna says, ‘We phoned this Woody, and he came out to take a look at the tree. We hoped he’d tell us the tree had some kind of curable disease, but we knew in our hearts it was worse than that. He said it looked poorly, “staggy headed”, he called it. Some of the branches have died, and look at the leaves.’

  I stare up at the tree and see that many of the leaves are looking slightly droopy. ‘So what was the verdict?’

  ‘He confirmed what we knew all along. Our wonderful tree is dying.’

  Edna’s eyes fill with tears. We don’t speak for a moment then I say, ‘Could the hard winter be to blame?’

  She takes out a bright blue hankie, takes off her owl-like glasses and wipes her eyes. Putting the spectacles back on she says, ‘Holm oaks don’t like frost, so the winter didn’t help. But it’s old age. This tree is ancient, you know.’ She gives a rueful smile. ‘Like Hector and me.’

  It’s the first time I’ve heard either of them make any reference to their age. As long as I’ve known them, they’ve not seemed to make any concession to it either, carrying on in much the same way they did when they were younger, according to the locals. They don’t travel now as they used to, that’s the only difference. They still read copious amounts, newspapers and books, quite hefty ones on history, politics, nature, and a few novels in between. I’ve seen them lying open on the kitchen table, heard Edna and Hector discussing passages. They also play chess every evening. And of course their daily walk in the garden for a good half hour, rain or shine, keeps them physically fit. Not to mention the tai chi that Hector tried to demonstrate not long ago in their kitchen.

  So I’m quite thrown to hear Edna calling herself and Hector ancient, even though of course it’s true. But then she pulls back her fragile shoulders, looks me straight in the eyes through her thick glasses, and says firmly, ‘But of course we have weathered the winter cold and frosts far better than our poor old oak.’

  Hector has made a full circle of the tree and has come around to stand in front of us. His face, wrinkled and pale like a scrunched up sheet of white paper, looks sad. ‘I shall miss that tree. But I don’t believe it is dying. Or rather, of course it is, we are all dying in a manner of speaking, but like me, I believe the tree has at least a bit of time left.’ He takes a deep breath and adds, ‘I’ve always believed that one is never so old that one cannot hope for another day. So we shall see.’

  I look up at the tree again. It’s massive, the branches heavy with dark green leaves. For the first time I notice just how close it is to the Humphreys’ house. If it fell, it would crash right through the roof.

  The thought gives me the shivers. I say, ‘But – what does Woody think? Isn’t it dangerous, leaving the tree and just waiting for it to die? What if it keels over and lands on Poet’s Tenement?’

  Edna says, ‘Nonsense. It won’t happen that quickly.’

  Hector agrees. ‘Anyway, even if there was that chance, we couldn’t have it taken down. We wouldn’t dream of disturbing the rooks.’

  As if they understand this, the birds start crying out to each other again. From behind the house, Emmanuel, who has been quiet for a change, adds his voice to the din. When it quiets down Edna says, ‘Hector is right. The rooks have lived here for years.

  Hector nods. ‘I can’t remember when there wasn’t a rookery in this tree. It’s one of my earliest memories. As long as the rooks are here, the tree stays.’

  His wife’s head is bobbing up and down in agreement. ‘Hector is right,’ she says solemnly. ‘We can’t let the rooks down. This tree is their home, just as Poet’s Tenement is ours.’

  As she finishes speaking, Hector takes her hand. The two stand there holding hands tightly, looking at me almost defiantly, as if I were about to uproot the old tree right there and then. ‘But,’ I begin, before hesitating, not quite knowing how to go on. ‘You said a month or so ago, that the rooks knew something was up. They were getting restless, you said.’

  ‘So I did, maid,’ Hector says. ‘And so they were. They knew their old tree wasn’t quite right. But Edna and I, we’ve talked to them, reassured them that as long as we’re here in Poet’s Tenement, their home in the oak is secure.’

  I can’t say anything to this. It’s their life, their house, their tree. And, I could add, their rooks, if wildlife can be owned. Certainly this rookery has been part of Poet’s Tenement for generations. I take my leave of the Humphreys, promising to drop some eggs off to them before I make my way home.

  As I throw some bread to my hens, Pavarotti, my cockerel, crows loudly with the joys of spring. I throw him a fat crust and mutter, ‘Fine, it’s a gorgeous day, I agree, but pipe down a bit, please? The peacock is making enough noise for one village these days; don’t add to it.’

  I see Woody the next day. As I drive along the dirt track towards the caravan, I see him digging at the edge of the field. I want a word with him, so I stop the van, grab his post, and walk up to him. It’s actually addressed to his father’s house, as officially no one lives in the caravan, but I’m happy to deliver there.

  ‘Thanks, Tessa,’ he says as he takes a couple of letters, glancing at them. His face falls. ‘Nothing interesting, though. I got ten quid in premium bonds and I keep hoping, but my number never comes up.’

  ‘Maybe next month, right?’

  ‘Yeah, right. Mebbe. Pigs might fly, too,’ he shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘That looks like hard work, what you’re doing.’

  ‘Making an allotment. Trying to anyway. Not easy when there’s nothing to begin with but a grass field.’

  I see that he’s already edged out a good-sized plot with the shovel and is now digging up the turf. He follows my look and says, ‘This is only the start. Next is getting out the fork, breaking up the turf and earth, picking out the weeds. I want to have it done so Holly can get some veg in. We thought we could start a bit of a business, see? Eventually sell the veg and stuff up on the road, for all the folk that come down here renting cottages and all.’

  ‘Great idea.’ I try to sound more enthusiastic than I feel. I don’t tell him about all the others I’ve met who have the same idea. Starting market gardens, selling eggs, goat’s milk, and what have you. Still, why can’t they all make it work? More people are having ‘stay-cations’ as the newspapers have coined it, staying in England what with air travel unpredictable with volcano dust, strikes and terrorist scares, not to mention the high prices abroad now. The joy of staying in England for a holiday is becoming more and more appealing, and as usual, Cornwall is the first choice of many.

  Woody talks about his new project for a while and then I get a chance to ask him about the Humphreys’ tree. ‘Yeah, I went out there, had a look. Funny old couple, aren’t they? Kinda old-fashioned but with-it at the same time, if you know what I mean. They had on the oddest clothes, too. But they were friendly-like, I couldn’t help liking ’em.’

  ‘Good, I like them, too. So what’s up with the tree?’

  ‘Oh, it definitely should come down. No telling how long it’ll last, could be a few years, could come down next winter. The hard frost didn’t help, lasted too long. Holm oaks don’t like bitter winds or below freezing temperatures much, that’s why it’s lived so long here, right near the coast. We don’t usually get’em like we did this year and the end of last. Mental, that was. I never saw so much ice and snow.’

  ‘Woody, did you tell the Humphreys what you just told me? That the tree is dangerous now?’

  He looks almost offended at this, as if I’ve injured his professional pride. ‘Of course I did. I told them it should come down immediately, actually. Which is true. You know we get these fierce summer storms sometimes. One of those could take that tree right down onto their house. I told’em sure enough.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What’s the matter?�
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  ‘I was hoping you could convince them that the tree would have to come down, but it sounds like you’ve already tried. They told me they were worried about the rooks.’

  Woody nods. ‘Yeah, they talked about the rooks to me, too. Said the birds were nesting now and they wouldn’t hear of taking down the tree when they were laying eggs and all that. I hear what they’re saying, but it’s still a safety issue. Summer storms, as I said.’ He rolls his eyes towards the heavens as if a wrathful wind sent by God himself was about to blow down on us. ‘But it’s up to them, I told’em. If they want to wait till the chicks fly outta the nest to take down that tree, that’s up to them. I told’em to give me a ring when they’re ready. Can’t do more’n that, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I agree. ‘You’ve done all you can. Well, fingers crossed we have a calm spring and summer.’

  By the time I get back to the postal van, Woody is digging away. I silently wish him luck on his new project. I drive up the potted lane to the old farmhouse where Sydney lives. He’s outside, waiting for me like he often does, winter or summer. Despite having his grandson and Holly in the caravan, I know he gets lonely, living a Spartan existence in his bachelor household. His wife died decades ago and his daughter married a Welshman, moved to Cardiff, and as far as I know, Sydney has no relatives other than Woody in Cornwall. There are no near neighbours either, and no one to chat to over the garden fence. I know Woody and Holly keep an eye on him – he’s in his eighties and has problems with his heart – but they’re young, and busy struggling to make a living.

  Sydney smiles eagerly when he sees me. He’s a nice-looking man with a head of thick snow-white hair, a pleasant wrinkled face, and a tall broad body in pretty good shape for his age. As usual he’s dressed immaculately in a checked cotton shirt, the kind you buy in stores that sells goods to farmers, and a plain blue tie. Sometimes the colour of the shirt or tie varies, but that’s about all.