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  Much later, Ben comes in with Leon. It’s dark by then and I’ve got a chicken casserole in the oven. Will and Amy are home from school and lounging about watching a favourite half hour of television. I ask Kate and Leon to stay for a meal, and they accept gratefully. Luckily there is plenty there for everyone after I’ve thrown in some more veg and taken some homemade bread rolls out of the freezer and popped them into the oven as well. Ben and some of the locals have managed to clear the traffic jam, get the van driver to steer down a helpful neighbour’s wider drive to get closer to Treetops, and all the furniture has at last been unloaded. Though the removal men did the bulk of the work, of course, Ben and some of the other villagers helped with the smaller items until finally it was all done. ‘I can’t believe they did that,’ Leon says as he settles down at our kitchen table. ‘It would never happen in London. All those men, who don’t know me at all, have never seen me before, pitching in and giving a hand.’

  He and Kate shake their heads in amazement. Ben says, ‘That’s one of the best things about village life in Cornwall. People always seem to give a hand if you’re in trouble.’

  Leon nods. ‘Well, we were certainly in a mess. No one seemed to know what to do until you came along, Ben. Thanks for that. Now how about sharing this with us?’ He holds up the bottle of champagne he brought in from his car. I nearly yelp. It’s a very fine champagne, and extraordinarily expensive. Kate says, ‘We were going to have a romantic evening in our new Cornish home, but this is much better, meeting our new neighbours properly.’

  Though we protest, they insist on sharing not only that bottle but a second one, and we end up having a very merry evening. Luckily I’ve got a day off tomorrow so don’t need to set my alarm for four in the morning. We talk for ages, have some good laughs, and Ben and I listen as Kate and Leon talk of their dream of living in Cornwall coming true. ‘We’re sick of the city, of the rat race. Always work, trying to get ahead, or someone else will get your job. No time for each other, or for more children. But that will all change now. We want the good life, the simple life.’

  They sound so much like Ben and me talking when we were discussing our move to Cornwall that we smile at each other. Leon sees our fleeting smiles and says, ‘You two look so happy here. You’re living the dream we want to live now.’

  He looks so hopeful, and so full of confidence, that Ben and I raise our glasses to him and wish him luck. He nods in acknowledgement. He’s a nice-looking man, dark-haired, dark-eyed. Like Kate, he’s obviously straight from the city with his expensive new casual clothes, his haircut which certainly wasn’t styled by a rural barber. His ankle boots are more suited for city streets than our lanes and footpaths, that’s for sure, but the couple have only just arrived; no doubt we looked quite citified when we got here, too. It’ll be fun watching them change, become countrified, just as we did.

  When we go to the front door to see them off, I give Kate an impulsive hug, saying, ‘It’s so good to have you next door. Treetops has been a rental cottage for so long that it’s a real joy to know you’re here permanently.’

  Outside, to our surprise, a light snow has fallen; the ground is white, sparkling in the moonlight for the clouds have cleared. The trees in front of the house creak as their bare branches rub together in the wind. Their silhouettes are starkly beautiful. Across the road the old stone church keeps vigil over this village as it has done for centuries. On its sloping porch roof, glistening snowflakes settle and ice over. The bell tower gleams in the moonlight. I decide I love Cornwall just as much in winter as I do in the other seasons.

  Kate and Leon, arms around each other, thank us again for dinner. Kate says, ‘And now to our new home to face the cold. Luckily we’ve brought some electric radiators down with us for tonight. I can’t wait to get our central heating in.’

  I nearly said that they wouldn’t need central heating, with that huge new wood burner they had installed when they bought the house. It’ll heat the water and at least a couple of other rooms with the back boiler, so what else do they need? But I’ve learned not to give advice unless it’s asked for. When I first came here I sometimes tried to organise people and events too much, for that was my job in London, and I prided myself on doing it well. But I learned that in the country, people quite rightly like to do things their own way, and changes have to come slowly, grow organically.

  Ben and I, arms wrapped around each other, watch them walk down our path and along the road towards their own house, slipping and sliding on the ice in their city boots. But they’re giggling and clutching each other. ‘Goodness, they seem so young,’ I say.

  ‘Younger than us by about ten years, maybe a bit more. But not so young that they don’t know what they’re doing.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ We close the door and go back into the warmth of the house. ‘We didn’t know what we were doing did we, looking back. When we first came here.’

  ‘Maybe not. But we learned quickly enough, like they will, too. C’mon, let’s go to bed, it’s late. You might not have to get up early but I do; I’ve got an early call.’ Ben is an actor, and though it’s been a struggle for him to find acting jobs in Cornwall, he’s managed to get some voice-over work here and there, which is what he’s doing tomorrow. He’s just been offered another small part in a Doc Martin series that’s filming in Port Isaac, but that won’t start till spring. It’s great when he gets acting jobs for, like me, he’s had to turn his hand to all sorts of work since moving down here. Most of us do. We struggle with several part-time jobs as full-time employment is hard to find, with too many qualified people for each job.

  I’m still thinking of the Wintersons as I get ready for bed. ‘You know,’ I say to Ben, ‘I think we’re still learning. About Cornwall. About this life. I think we’ll be learning new things about the countryside for ever.’

  But Ben’s asleep. Before I join him, I’m wondering what other new and wonderful things I’ll learn as this year develops. Whatever they’ll be, I know for sure they will be interesting. Life here has certainly always been that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Slippery Slope

  ICE AND SNOW has returned with a vengeance to Cornwall, and none of us can stop talking about it. It’s just so unusual, to have so much for such a long period. Those few fine days in mid-January fooled us into believing that the wayward weather had finished once and for all, but we were wrong.

  It is now the first week of February and the temperature hasn’t been above freezing for days. We haven’t had any more snow since the couple of inches that fell that night the Wintersons moved in, but neither has it melted. A thin coating of ice still covers many ponds and puddles, and some of the roads are treacherously slippery.

  So I’ve been extra careful, delivering the post. Extra careful, too, in dressing properly, snug jumpers underneath my thick outerwear, thermal gloves, woolly hat. I even bought a pair of those funny ice grips that fit over boots or shoes to keep you from slipping on the ice. My round takes extra time, not only because I walk and drive much more slowly than normal, but also because I, and the other postmen and -women, are concerned about the folk who might be stuck in their homes because of the weather, especially the elderly and the isolated. I’ve delivered steaming hot pots of soup from one customer to another a mile or so away, and medicine prescriptions from the pharmacy to those kept inside because of the snow.

  Despite the icy mornings, the extreme cold, the precarious roads, I feel exhilarated. In the past week the wind has dropped and at least during the day, it feels warmer than the temperature says, for the sun has come out and although it’s not strong enough to even begin to melt the ice, the blue of the sky belies the freezing air. But there’s no sign of dawn yet this early morning as I pick up the Royal Mail van and prepare for my round. The sky is rampant with stars, and there’s not a sound but the soft lapping of waves on the sandy shore near the boat yard. All the little shops and cafés that line the long main street are dark, except for a few low-key s
ecurity lights. The street runs parallel to the sea, and at this early hour, the water seems to reflect the town, totally dark except for a lone light on the horizon from some faraway freighter. I stand still for a few moments, watching my breath steam out into the icy air. When I look up, I see a falling star shoot down into the sea.

  The main roads are fine now but many of the narrow country lanes remain icy. I go dead slow up a long, steep hill and it’s a good thing I do, for a tractor carrying a load of hay is chuntering down. I back up carefully to the nearest layby. When the tractor passes, the driver, a farmer I deliver to, stops. ‘Still not gritted this bit yet,’ he mutters. ‘Good job you be going slow, maid.’

  ‘It’s the only way to go on these roads,’ I reply.

  ‘Hah, tell that to some of the second homers who were here holiday time. ’Twas ice and snow then, but did that stop some of them zooming around as if they’d be late for the New Year if they’d slowed a bit? No way.’

  I commiserate, saying I noticed it, too, on my rounds. There were too many drivers who assumed that just because the main roads were cleared and gritted, every road in Cornwall would be the same. They had no idea that there are far too many for the snow ploughs and gritters to get to every single tiny lane. ‘But at least the holiday homers are gone now,’ I say. ‘We’ll have the roads mostly to ourselves till half term.’

  ‘A good thing, too. Look, maid, I’ll take the post seeing as I’ll be on my way home soon as I take this hay to the sheep. Save you going down our long drive.’

  As I thank him he adds, ‘I’ll take the post up to me old matey at the farm above as well, if you like.’

  Seeing me hesitate, he says, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t just put it somewhere without checking that he’s all right. The missus has been keeping an eye on him, too. I know you do as well, all this ice and snow about.’

  I’m relieved at this, for it’ll save me some time and a drive up two pot-holed farm lanes, part of which are still covered in snow. I’m glad that the neighbours are keeping an eye on each other in this weather.

  Later, I’m in the village of Poldowe, where I leave the van by the church and walk up and down the main street to deliver this part of the post on foot. Though the footpath there is mostly cleared of snow, and sand has been put on the worst icy bits, it’s very patchy and I walk carefully. I pass several of my customers walking to the local shop, a farmer called Jim who tells me his bad hip is better now, and a young woman, Mary, who has just split up from her boyfriend but has already found another. Men and women of all ages have armed themselves with walking sticks after a flurry of falls and broken bones when the ice and snow first came. Many are clutching on to each other to keep from slipping. Everyone seems cheery enough, though, because the storms and gales have stopped and the sky is a clear blue panorama. In the distance beyond the town, the sea glitters. Everything is doubly bright with the sun reflecting the snow, and I’ve dug out my old sunglasses from the glove compartment of the van where I left them last summer. No matter what van I’m in, I always manage to leave a pair of sunglasses behind. It’s a good thing I can only afford the cheap kind so I don’t worry about it; I know they’ll turn up eventually.

  I stop at the shop for some provisions for my next lot of customers who live slightly further out. Although for a long time now I’ve delivered odds and ends for some of them, especially the old and isolated ones, this winter has seen my errands double and even triple. This is fine with me; I learned very early on that in Cornwall, a postie is not just a deliverer of mail but a social worker, therapist, errand woman/man, newspaper deliverer, and an array of other things. I like this part of the job enormously for not only do I feel I’m doing a bit of good, I’ve also met some interesting people whose conversation and company I’ve enjoyed.

  Today the tiny shop is crowded. The fact that the fierce east wind, which brought much of the snow and blizzard-like conditions, has gone, and the sun is actually out, have brought droves of people venturing out for the first time in several days. I greet Melanie, the shopkeeper, and listen to the talk around me as I pick up supplies. ‘I do believe you can’t beat the hardwoods, oak especially, for burning. Gives more heat than anything, lasts longer, too. Mind, it must be dry.’ Three locals, two men and a woman, are standing around having a lively discussion about wood. This is a conversation that’s been repeated in every village shop I’ve been in, as well as amongst friends and neighbours whenever a couple of us get together. Everyone is obsessed with keeping warm this winter. It’s understandable, as in this part of the world we’ve been lucky to live in a pocket of relatively mild weather, so trying to cope with this new phenomenon of extended below-freezing temperatures is on everyone’s mind.

  ‘To be sure the oak needs be dry and seasoned. All summer, outdoors.’ The first man who spoke is still musing about firewood.

  ‘All summer?’ the woman snorts. ‘You must be joking. A year, is what I reckon. Oak needs a year of drying to be right.’

  As they start arguing this fine point, the second says. ‘Me. Well, I got a load of softwood. Pine, larch. Burns like nobody’s business. Good heat, too.’

  The other two pounce on this. ‘Might be as you say, but pine fouls up your chimney sure enough. All that resin.’

  He nods, acknowledging this. ‘I just ordered a load of ash. Freshly chopped, but that don’t matter. Burns all right, just cut.’

  The faces of the other two light up. ‘Ah, ash! Like my dad used to say, Ash green, fit for a queen! ’Tis the only wood I know you can burn green. Beech, oak, larch – they all be needing seasoning.’

  Melanie, handing me my change, gives me a wink. ‘They go on about wood every time they come in. Mind you, I’m all ears. It’s not been easy, keeping warm this winter. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there be more to come.’

  ‘You’re not the only one thinking like that,’ I say, looking around the shop. ‘Looks like people are stocking up for the next batch of snow.’

  ‘So they are. Folk don’t like leaving their homes in this, and not just the old ones either. A couple of the younger ones have broken a wrist and an ankle on the ice.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘And Clara.’ Melanie rolls her eyes. She’s a motherly woman of indeterminate age, with salt and pepper hair pinned back helter skelter with several hairgrips. She and her husband Tufty – his real name is Bill but no one calls him that – both wear colourful fingerless gloves when serving in the shop, winter and summer. Tufty, who is serving someone while Melanie chats with me, is wearing a deep blue pair with a bright neon green stripe around the knuckles and thumb, while his wife’s gloves are crimson with a fluorescent yellow stripe in the same place. They have quite a collection of these gloves, all knitted with wonderfully vivid yarns with the same two edgings of a bright neon colour on each pair. Tufty’s mother knits them for the couple. She’s a quiet, placid woman living on her own in a tiny, tumbledown cottage behind the village at St Geraint, a cottage that despite its state of disrepair will be worth a fortune when she finally has to sell. Unfortunately none of her children will be able to afford to buy it, so that will be another house gone to second homers.

  We go back to talk of Clara. ‘Is she still refusing to go out?’ I ask. ‘She’s not ill, is she? I only saw her the other day.’

  ‘No, she’s not physically ill. But she won’t go out. Hasn’t been outside since this freezing weather began.’

  This is not the first time we’ve discussed Clara, as the villagers are getting concerned about her. Tufty comes over and joins us, saying, ‘I just don’t understand that woman. She’s not old, not frail, but she won’t even take a peep out of her house.’

  Melanie nods. ‘She doesn’t even call in on Delia, but that’s no problem, she knows the rest of us look in on her every day, and I’ve told Clara she’s done enough anyway. She always takes over seeing to Delia during holiday times, when the shop is extra busy.’

  Delia is an elderly woman living in the village, wh
o has hardly left her little terraced house since her husband died nearly a decade ago. As she has no family, the locals have taken over her care, bringing her meals, keeping an eye on her. Melanie goes on, ‘It’s Clara I’m worried about. I hope she’s not going to get like Delia, not wanting to go out. Let’s face it, Delia was seventy when she became housebound, and Clara’s thirty-odd years younger.’

  ‘I’ve got some post for Clara. I’ll see how she’s doing.’

  ‘Well, try to get her out of that house. It’s not healthy, stopping in the way she’s been doing.’

  I promise Melanie I’ll do my best and leave the shop. Clara’s house is at the edge of the village, a small bungalow next to a field. When I arrive she’s waiting at the door, looking out over the footpath in front of the house with dismay. ‘Tessa, oh, look it’s not melting at all. It’s still icy. Another day gone.’

  Clara, from what I’ve gathered from the others, is pathologically terrified of snow and ice. Many years ago, on a trip to Canada to visit her husband’s relatives, she was involved in a bad car crash. Her husband, a reckless driver anyway (so the villagers say), skidded on a patch of ice and careered off the road down a sharp incline, hitting a tree. Miraculously, the two survived, though Clara came home badly bruised and shaken from the accident. The terror of hurtling off the road in a snowstorm has never left her, and she still has nightmares about it. Now, she not only refuses to drive on ice but to walk on it as well, for unfortunately that same holiday, she slipped on a patch of wet snow and ended up with a broken elbow and numerous stitches on her face. She still has the scar on her cheek, though it’s very faint.

  Her obsessive avoidance of frozen weather was manageable when she moved back to her native Cornwall after her husband left and they divorced. Here on the south coast the winters are unusually mild, but this year has been traumatic for Clara and I worry that if she doesn’t get out soon she’ll have a breakdown, for her anxieties are definitely getting worse.