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  I hand Clara the newspaper from the shop she’s asked me to bring daily since the temperatures dropped below freezing, along with a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, and some cat food. ‘Thanks so much, Tessa.’ She takes the supplies gratefully. I look at her carefully, noting how pale she is. As she takes the groceries from me I see that her nails are bitten down to the quick. The poor woman really is a mess.

  ‘Can you come on in for a minute?’ she says. ‘I’ve got a big favour to ask.’

  She shuts the door behind us and I follow her into the kitchen, where three sleek black and white cats mill around our ankles. They set up a yowl as Clara pours dry cat food into their bowls. I know there are at least another three cats, probably more, somewhere around the house: half-grown kittens, elderly toms, strays of all sizes and shapes that Clara has rescued from homelessness. She runs the Cats Protection Service in our area, something she started from nothing when she moved back here and discovered there was a need for a cat rescue organisation in the community.

  She’s cooing over the eating cats, which ignore her as they munch away. ‘Oh, little pusskins, how hungry you were! You must thank the nice postie for bringing us food while the weather is so bad. Tessa, a cup of tea? Do say yes; it’s so lonely these days when I can’t get out.’

  I refuse tea but sit down for a few minutes, watching her with the cats. Her whole body language has changed and she seems far less uptight. Even her face has softened, the grim frightened look gone. I say gently, ‘Clara, actually you can get out. It’s a beautiful day today, look out of the window.’

  ‘I have, I know, but the temperature hasn’t gone above freezing. There’s still ice everywhere.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s sand on the footpath, over the ice. Why don’t you give it a try? I’ll go with you if you like.’

  She looks as if I’ve thrown boiling water over her head. Her face is a picture of shock and dismay, as if her best friend has just betrayed her. But I know I’m not the first person who has tried to get her out during the last few weeks, especially on days like today when it’s actually stopped snowing and the wind has dropped. Working from home as a freelance bookkeeper to supplement the small income she gets from her ex-husband, theoretically she never has to go out, especially as customers come to her. She has a friend who runs the Cat Protection Service with her who drives a van to collect the stray cats and take them to volunteers who keep them until they’re found new homes, but he’s getting concerned. ‘You’ve got to get her out of that house, Tessa,’ Guy said to me recently when I met him in St Geraint. ‘She’s always tended towards agoraphobia, and now with the snow and ice, she’s got an excuse to stay in. If she doesn’t get out soon, I’m worried she never will.’

  I told him I’d try. I like Clara, and get on well with her. We’ve had a coffee together a few times when we’ve run into each other in St Geraint, and I always stop for a chat when I deliver the post. She always seemed to have her anxieties under control, seemed quite together and independent, until this crazy weather began.

  The cats are yowling, despite having consumed their food. Clara says, ‘I can’t believe it, I’m out of tinned food.’ She’s rummaging around the cupboard under the kitchen sink as she talks. ‘Tessa, the cats will be frantic. And it’s not good for them to eat only dried food. Look, it’s a huge favour I know, but d’you mind popping to the shop to get some tins? I’m so sorry to ask, I really am.’

  She does look crestfallen. She’s never asked me any favours before this winter. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it were for myself, but for the cats …’ She trails off. I look at her woebegone face, creased with nerves. She’s always been a bit nervous and hesitant, but basically a pleasant, ordinary woman seemingly in control of her life. Now, she seems a total mess, physically as well as mentally. Her curly brown hair, usually cut short and frisky, has grown long and straggly over the last two months; she looks years older, too, probably because she’s lost weight, become scrawny and ill at ease in her body.

  I feel so sorry for her that I’m about to say yes, when I remember Guy’s words, remember Melanie’s worry. Ginger, another woman living in the village and a friend of Clara’s as well, had also told me that she’d tried several times to get her out of the house, even for a few moments, but Clara wouldn’t budge. Guy is right, she might never, if this keeps up.

  So to be kind, I force myself be cruel. ‘Clara, I can’t. I’m late already delivering this last lot of post.’ I feel like a heel. She looks like I’ve slapped her across the face. Her cheeks redden and tears begin to roll down her cheeks. I’m about to go to her, to give her a hug, tell her I’ve changed my mind, when one of the black and white cats starts to mew in a most pathetic tone. It’s the largest of the three in the kitchen, and it looks up at Clara with wide, unblinking eyes. I’m a bit suspicious of this. A moment ago the cats were all yowling with fury as they weren’t getting their favourite food, but now they’re turning piteous. The other two cats take up the mewing sound, and before I can say a word, a couple of ginger kittens and a fluffy white cat come in to join the din. It’s a cats’ chorus of piteous whines and deep tragic yowls, the whole range of catty catcalls. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it a conspiracy. I’m half expecting Clara to start whining, too, but instead she says, accusingly, ‘You see? They’re starving.’

  I stare at the cats. They ignore me as they wind around Clara’s ankles, still keeping up their vocal offensive. They are without a doubt the healthiest cats I’ve ever seen. Their fur is sleek and glossy, their eyes clear, and they’re certainly well fed.

  By now Clara is on the floor, soothing them, telling them they’ll soon be getting some proper food. ‘Our nice postie will be bringing it in just a moment, don’t you worry.’ I surprise myself by standing firm. ‘No, Clara, I’m not doing it. If they, or you, were really starving, I would. But none of you are.’

  Now two more cats come into the kitchen. How many does she have? I know they are supposed to be here temporarily, but like everything else, the Cat Protection Service is feeling the effects of the economic downturn. It runs as a charity, and donations are not as huge as they used to be, though they still do all right. Apparently more people leave money in their wills to cat charities than to anything else. But there’s another knock-on effect of the recession – people are getting rid of their pets because of the high cost of feeding them. Although it’s not as bad as it is for dogs, cats are also a problem. I’m sure Clara never used to keep so many for so long before they found a home.

  I say a determined goodbye and start walking to the door. But I can’t leave. Clara is crying, the cats are yowling. What to do? Both Ginger’s and Guy’s pleas to do what I could to get her out are ringing in my ears. ‘She’ll listen to you, Tessa,’ both of them had said at different times. ‘She’s too stubborn with us; we’ve known her too long.’

  One of the cats, the oldest I think, for he’s been with Clara longer than the others, is cradled in her arms. It’s a fluffy black cat with blobs of white all over his face. He’s called Splodge, and she obviously adores him. As she buries her tearful face in his fur, I have an idea. I say softly, ‘Poor Splodge, he’ll be missing his tin of sardines tonight. But you’ve got other food.’

  ‘You don’t understand! He can’t eat the other stuff. It upsets his tummy.’ She looks hopefully at me again, thinking I’m changing my mind.

  ‘Poor Splodge.’ I tickle the cat under his chin, making him purr madly. He doesn’t know that he can’t get round me, not now. Gently I take him from Clara’s arms and put him down on the floor. ‘C’mon, Clara, get your jacket on. You can’t let Splodge starve. If you’re keeping the cats, you’ve got to look after them, not rely on others to do it for ever. This winter could go on a long time.’

  Before she can react I’ve got her quilted jacket down from its peg in the hallway. Clara stares at me. ‘It’s up to you,’ I say. ‘I’ll go with you to the shop, you can hold onto my arm, and we can get the cat food together.’

/>   She’s already shaking her head, refusing to come near the door. ‘Fine,’ I say, ‘I’m off, then.’

  There’s a moment when I think she’s going to call my bluff. The cats have followed us into the hallway and are mewing pathetically. I stare at them defiantly and hold firm. At last Clara takes her jacket, slowly putting it on. I open the door and pull her outside, shutting the door firmly behind us. ‘Don’t want the cats to get out,’ I murmur, but my main concern is her bolting back inside.

  A kind neighbour has cleaned the lingering snow from her steps and path, and the ice here is gone. ‘Take my arm,’ I say. ‘I’ll walk with you to the shop, like I promised.’

  ‘And back?’ She’s clinging to me like a drowning woman in deep water.

  I pretend not to hear. Slowly we go down her steps and path. The day is still splendid, and I start raving about it, hoping to distract her from the wide patches of ice on both the footpath and road on the way to the shop. ‘Look how blue the sky is! It could be summer, the light is so bright. I love the sheep in that field behind the church, don’t you? Their black faces and feet look so stark against the frozen snow. They seem happy enough though, munching through that load of hay the farmer’s brought.’

  But Clara won’t look; she keeps staring at the ground as if it is about to swallow her up. ‘I can’t,’ she stammers. Her face is chalk white. She won’t take another step, and now says she can’t go back either. What have I done? She’s truly frightened. She needs a therapist, a doctor, some kind of professional help, not a friendly postie trying to do a good deed.

  We’re halfway to the shop by now and I don’t know what to do. Clara seems pathologically unable to move. Should I ring 999, get help? We’ve been standing here at least five minutes. I start fumbling in my jacket pocket for my mobile phone.

  But then a cheery voice greets us. It’s her neighbour and friend, Ginger. ‘Clara, how great to see you out, and what a good day for it, too. Have you noticed there’s not a breath of wind? Are you off to the shop? C’mon then, I’ll go with you.’

  She takes Clara’s other hand, links it through her arm as mine is linked on the other side. Over Clara’s head she winks at me encouragingly. A moment passes when time seems suspended. No one moves. Ginger and I seem to have silently agreed it would be counter-productive to force Clara to move. She’s now starting to shiver, and I know it’s fear, not cold.

  And then, just as I think, well, now it’s three of us stuck here for ever instead of two, there’s a screech of brakes as a rough old red van stops slightly in front of us. A man in his forties with hair like a brush and a smile as big as a dustbin, bounces out. ‘Guy,’ Clara calls to him. But she doesn’t move. With horror I see her eyes filling with tears, and her shaking is getting worse. Ginger glances at me with a worried look.

  ‘Good to see you out, Clara.’ Guy starts walking towards us but suddenly, seeing the three of us standing there like frozen statues, he gets the gist of what’s going on. Staying by the van, which is about three metres away from us, he calls out, ‘Look here, Clara. Got another stray for you. Poor kitten, nearly feral from sleeping rough, though he’s been at least partly domesticated. I caught him easily enough but he’s scared out of his wits.’

  Guy opens the van door and takes out a large travelling cat basket. Inside the basket, a terrified kitten is huddled in the corner. Guy goes on, ‘He’s shivering, too. Desperate for some food and warmth, poor thing.’

  There is a moment when time seems to stop, nothing seems to happen. No one speaks, and even the birds, which had been chirping happily on this sunny, windless day, are quiet. Then, from inside the basket, comes a plaintive, heart-breaking mewling sound. Within seconds Clara is there, opening the basket, fussing over the cat, cradling it in her arms, and crying her eyes out.

  Ginger whispers to me, ‘She just walked right over the iciest part of the path. Didn’t even notice it.’

  ‘Didn’t slip either. I’m glad she did it, but if she’s going to start getting out and about, she’d better look where she’s going.’

  ‘What a relief!’ Ginger grins at me. She’s another one of my long-standing customers, a middle-aged woman with a warm smile. I grin back and she gives me a high-five. We’re pleased with our little victory. Guy, too, is delighted; he gives us a thumbs up behind Clara’s back. But as we celebrate our little victory over Clara, I slip on the ice and fall flat on my bottom.

  Guy and Clara rush up to me, Clara clutching the kitten, her fear of walking on ice totally forgotten. Ginger is crouching beside me asking if I’m hurt. Luckily I fell on the soft snow at the sloping verge of the footpath, and within moments I’m up and laughing at my mishap. Clara says, ‘You really ought to be more careful on the ice, Tessa.’ We all stare at her but she doesn’t notice, she’s too preoccupied with the kitten. She gives it to Guy, asking him to take it to her house to settle it in. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, just going to the shop to get some cat food. D’you want a pasty? I’m starving,’ she says to him.

  Guy smiles his wide, toothy, endearing smile. ‘Me, too. Yeah, a pasty would be great. Should I put the kettle on?’

  Clara is already at the shop’s door. She hollers back at him, ‘Yes please. I want to hear all about the kitten, where you found it – everything.’

  As Guy jumps back into his van, Ginger and I follow Clara into the shop where she is being greeted warmly by the villagers who are there. All the locals know about her ice phobia and are pleased she’s out and about at last. I say goodbye and tell her I’m off; she’s got Ginger there if she needs help going home, but somehow I doubt if she will. It’s like so many of our fears – if they’re not faced they loom larger and larger until they become monsters in our mind.

  Brushing off her effusive thanks, happy and flushed with the successful end to this story, I go down the shop steps with a merry little spring in my step and nearly slip again on the patch of ice at the bottom. Luckily, with some not very graceful swinging of arms and twisting of body to regain my balance, I manage not to fall a second time. A little cheer ripples through the people gathered at the open door of the shop who saw my near-fall, and my ungainly, though successful, attempt to stay upright.

  Mickey, the young man who works at the boat yard, says, ‘You be lookin’ dreamy, maid. What’s up?’

  ‘Oh nothing much. I was just thinking how that trite old saying might be true after all. You know, about feeling the fear and doing it anyway.’

  Mickey snorts, shakes his head at me. ‘That’s the daftest thing I ever did hear of. Sharks frighten the hell out’a me and let me tell you, if I hear there’s one about and the fear hits me, facing it ’tis the last thing I’d do. I’d run the hell out’a there, or swim I mean, like any sensible person. Anyone tell you anything different, maid, is a bigger fool than any of us.’

  I laugh, tell him he’s got a good point. I love his typical Cornish pragmatism; it keeps me grounded, keeps me from getting too carried away with some of my crazier ideas. ‘You’re right, Mickey, you’re absolutely right,’ I say, leaving him to his repair work in the boat shed.

  ‘So I am, maid, so I am. Time you started to listen to old Mickey here, you’ll learn a thing or two about this place.’

  Now I laugh out loud. He’s young enough to be my son, and we both know it. ‘I’ll remember that,’ I say as a gull, flying above us, plops his guano on my forehead as I look up to watch it swoop over us.

  When he’s stopped guffawing, Mickey says, ‘And there’s another lesson for you, maid. Don’t look up at seagulls.’

  ‘Lesson learned,’ I say ruefully, wiping my forehead with a hankie. Ah well, at least I’ve made Mickey’s day. He’s got another story about the daft postie from Up Country to tell his mates.

  Later that afternoon, I walk slowly and carefully along icy lanes to visit Edna and Hector Humphrey, a couple I’m fond of who are well into their nineties. I sit in their kitchen, drinking some kind of herbal brew Edna has concocted. It’s never the same, and somet
imes the taste is disastrous, but mostly it’s delicious. This one is a winner and I say so. ‘Do you think so, Tessa? I’m glad you like it. I found the dried leaves only last week, hidden in one of those books over there.’ I look over to the piles of books stacked all over the room, on shelves, in open cupboards, on the floor in neat piles – as they are in every room. Edna and Hector live alone in this hugely eccentric house. Hector’s father used to farm here, decades ago, but no one’s touched the land for years, except for me. The couple very kindly offered me a piece of ground near the tumbledown orchard, where I keep my hens, so that I could have an allotment. I tried growing vegetables last year but this year I’m giving it up. I’ve realised I just haven’t got green fingers, and there’s no use going on with it. Though the idea of growing all our own food sounded wonderful, I’ve finally accepted that I can’t do it. Besides, where we live, I can get amazing fresh produce without producing it myself. Plenty of my customers grow more than they can eat, and they’re always offering their surplus to me. This year I’ll take it gratefully, and in return, I’ll give them eggs from my hens, or my homemade chutneys and jams. People are always exchanging things in this way. I love the bartering system that seems to have sprung up spontaneously in this rural area.

  I’m explaining my decision not to carry on with the allotment to Edna and Hector. Their house is at the edge of the village, and it’s a wonderful mixture of styles, some parts are medieval with other bits and pieces added on throughout the centuries. Well, maybe not recently. I don’t think it’s been redecorated for the last fifty years; it’s like stepping back in time when you go inside, with the oak-beamed ceiling smoky from the fires of decades, and what was probably the world’s first wood stove that Edna still uses for cooking.

  Edna says, nodding. ‘Well, my dear, you have to do what you think best. But we’ll miss seeing you pottering around the vegetables.’