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  ‘I know what it is. I left my favourite earrings behind when we were staying there – they were a present from Pete – and Mum said she’d send them on. They’re both fine. Missing us, I think. It was so good being with them after the wedding, since they couldn’t come.’

  She pours us tea and sits down opposite me. Her once perfectly cut hair hangs messily on her shoulders in a random manner, her lips are chapped with cold, and her nose, like everyone’s nose these freezing days, is red. And she looks terrific, which I tell her. ‘Better than you ever looked in London, Annie. Not as sophisticated maybe, but healthier. Glowing.’

  ‘That’s what Pete says.’ She pauses, looking dreamily into space, as she always does when she thinks of her husband. Well, they are newlyweds after all. They married less than a year ago, here in Cornwall, where Pete, an agricultural merchant, was born and raised. Annie, a city girl through and through, and a researcher for the BBC, met him on one of her visits to us, and it really was love at first sight.

  I pull her back to earth. ‘Well, your nose is glowing anyway. Like Rudolph’s.’ I give her a mischievous grin.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me started!’ She’s already starting to giggle. ‘What a fiasco that was!’

  We were chuckling about the Christmas pantomime in Annie’s village last month. Annie, only recently settled into the village after her wedding, her extended honeymoon, and visit to her parents in New Zealand, volunteered to help. ‘Pete’s been here for ever,’ she told me, ‘and I’m the newcomer, so it’s a great way for me to start fitting in, to become part of the community.’

  Not only did the villagers accept her help, they roped her into taking a role: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. This entailed her wearing huge fake antlers and a contraption on her nose that lit up when she pressed a hidden button.

  The week before the performance in the village hall was funnier than the pantomime itself. Annie, determined to be a good sport, and knowing she was going to be on show as the local boy’s Up Country new wife, threw herself into her role. I spent hours with her, getting her costume just right, helping her learn lines – the script called for talking, singing, and dancing reindeers – and laughing helplessly as she tried to balance the antlers on her head. These were immense. ‘God knows where the villagers got hold of them,’ Annie said. ‘No one knows. Apparently they get dragged out every Christmas; they’ve been in a cupboard in the village hall for ever.’

  They looked it, too. They were attached to a sort of cap which fitted precariously on Annie’s head; luckily there were straps she could secure under her chin. They were heavy, too, made of wood and actually exquisitely carved. She and Pete brought the antlers to my house when she was first given her costume. With Pete’s help, she tied them onto her head and we all ceremoniously drank a toast with a glass of mulled wine to the new Rudolph. Annie started to take a sip and then began sneezing ferociously. The antlers bobbed about totally out of control, knocking down some DVDs from a shelf and nearly poking Pete’s eye out. Somehow he managed to get them off Annie while she continued to shake helplessly with the sneezes.

  When she finally stopped, had blown her nose, mopped up her watery eyes, and taken an antihistamine, she said mournfully, ‘I thought I was over all my allergies. I haven’t taken a pill for them for ages. Oh, they can’t be coming back, surely!’ She looked so forlorn that we all rushed to reassure her. Before she moved here, she suffered from all sorts of allergies, living practically permanently on antihistamines, especially when she visited us in Cornwall. But for months she’d not been plagued by them at all, until this evening.

  Pete looked at her fondly and put his arm around her. He’d been looking closely at the antler headpiece and now said, ‘This cap is made of some kind of burlap, quite old, too, and dusty. Smells terribly musty. It’s the kind of thing that would make anyone sneeze.’

  Annie looked horrified. ‘Oh no! What do I do?’

  ‘You’ll get used to it, I’m sure you will.’

  ‘Air it out a bit. And give it a good clean.’

  ‘And don’t forget to take an antihistamine before you go on stage.’

  The next few days were hilarious. Every time I popped in to see Annie, she was wearing her antlers. Once as I drove up to the village I saw her actually leave the house with them on her head. She went down a few steps before she realised and ran back inside. ‘I can’t believe I did that,’ she said when I called in. ‘But I need to practise wearing the thing; it’s so heavy and awkward. And get used to its smell so it stops making me sneeze.’

  The night of the performance saw the village hall packed. Ben and I were there, with Will and Amy. We arrived early to get a good seat so I went backstage to wish Annie luck, and take a quick photo of her in full reindeer regalia. ‘Annie, you look magnificent,’ I cried, and she really did. She was holding her head high and steady, not an antler wobble in sight and the red light on her nose glowed beautifully. Over her shoulders and covering her body was a kind of furry brown cape or blanket that also covered Rudolph’s back end. This undistinguished role was played by a sweet young village boy who came up to Annie’s shoulders, so that the blanket costume worked perfectly.

  They were both in place, the front and back end of Rudolph, and I was filming a video of them performing some dance steps when there was a sharp cry from the lad at the back and he slumped to the floor, writhing in agony.

  In the pandemonium of the next ten minutes, a doctor was summoned from the growing audience to take a look at the boy’s ankle. It appeared he had sprained it somehow while he was gyrating around, perhaps showing off a bit too ambitiously for the video. It was pronounced not a bad sprain but in no way could he go onstage. The director, who was one of my customers, was stamping his feet in despair, throwing a truly theatrical hissy fit when he spotted me. ‘Tessa! Thank the Good Lord you’re here. You’ll have to fill in.’

  I looked at him in horror. He rolled his eyes impatiently. ‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll make sure your ticket money is refunded,’ he cried, as if that might be the reason I was shaking my head in protest.

  Everyone, including Annie, ignored me while I objected that I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know the play, and they’d have to find someone else familiar with it. But apparently there was simply no spare person who could fill in; everyone had a job to do. ‘Anyway you know lots of the script,’ Annie said. ‘All those times you helped me with my lines, or with the dance steps.’

  So there I was, unceremoniously pushed behind Annie, the furry brown blanket cape over my head. The director cried, ‘Tessa, you’ll have to stoop. Rudolph looks like he has a hump in his back.’

  ‘Is that all the stage direction he’s giving me?’ I muttered to Annie, or rather to Annie’s back.

  ‘Shush, we’re on. Just follow me.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  There was a blare of music and song and suddenly we were onstage. There was a wild round of applause, for the set, the costumes, and the twelve reindeer prancing about, though none as large and splendid as Rudolph as they were only one-person creatures, mostly village children with a small set of plastic antlers on their sweet heads.

  I don’t know how I got through the next hour and a half. There were certainly some dicey moments, like when Amy and Will suddenly recognised my shoes under the blanket and shouted to Ben, ‘Oh no, that’s Mum up there!’ I nearly stuck my head out to shout back, ‘So you’ve only just noticed I’m not sitting beside you?’ I must have spoken aloud because Annie made a strangling noise that I knew, from years of being together in London, was the beginning of a laugh. What made it worse was that it was a particularly silent, sombre moment, when an angel or some such was about to float down, and all us reindeers were supposed to be watching in awe.

  The muffled giggle coming from in front of me started me off, too. Within moments, we were both shaking as we struggled to control our about to become uncontrollable laughter. The furry blanket holding us together trembled and though I coul
dn’t see them, I knew Annie’s antlers were wobbling with the effort of holding in her giggles.

  Finally I exploded. A huge guffaw escaped from my throat like water from a broken dam. Annie lost control at the same moment, but luckily for us both, the angel had descended and the choir roared out a riotously joyful song, drowning out our hysterical laughter, and saving us from shameful humiliation, not to mention the wrath of the director.

  ‘Do you realise?’ Annie said to Pete later when the four of us were alone together. ‘I could have blown it. All my work to fit into your village, ruined in one mad, giggling moment.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ he said, hugging her affectionately. ‘No one but Ben and I noticed that Rudolph had the shakes. Everyone was looking at the angel. Anyway, they love you, for taking part.’

  ‘And I love you,’ Annie said, eyes glistening, while Ben and I gave a mock moan and told them to stop being such soppy newlyweds.

  More snow has fallen during the night but only lightly, and the day is clear. However, my round is treacherous, and there are many places where I have to leave the van and walk a half mile or so to a farmhouse or isolated cottage. I actually don’t mind this. Today is another of those clear, frosty, windless winter days, and I’m getting fitter and fitter with all this exercise.

  And it’s stunning. The frozen trees with their black trunks, the night’s snow still clinging to their bare branches, stand out vividly against the blue sky. On the coast, the sea is a deep blue-black, still but tremulous, as if preparing for the onslaught of the next wintry gale. I pause in one of my seaside villages, stopping to watch a cormorant poised on some rocks leading up to a high cliff. The big black bird with its peculiar hooked beak and large ungainly feet, gazes out to sea like some old-fashioned prophet, majestic and formidable-looking.

  Once again I leave my van at the top of a lane, to deliver to my next customers, a young couple who live down a rutted lane in an old farm cottage they’re renovating. When I first began delivering here, it belonged to an elderly farm worker called Mr Hawker, a shy and reclusive man of whom I grew quite fond during my first year as his postie. When he died, the son of the farmers at nearby Trelak Farm took it over, along with his partner Marilyn. The cottage was almost derelict, but they’re slowly making it into a home.

  Marilyn and Dave were both born and grew up in Cornwall but had to leave after they qualified as physiotherapists as they couldn’t afford a place to live in the county. With all the second homers and tourists, prices to either rent or buy are sky high. But now they’ve got a chance to make a go of it back in Cornwall, and they know how lucky they are.

  Both are at home, stripping off some ancient wallpaper from a back bedroom that looks as if it hasn’t been used in fifty years. They ask me in and I accept their offer of a coffee; I’ve not talked to them for a while. But first I go around to the back where their pet billy goat, named Gruff, of course, has his quarters. I give him the carrot I always bring along for a morning treat and he rewards me with a few joyful leaps in the air after he has nuzzled my hand for his carrot. I play with him for a while, enjoying the stillness of the air, the blue sky. Despite the cold, you can feel the stirring of spring underground. It can’t be far away now.

  As I head back through the garden into the house, I see some bottles poking out through a snowdrift behind the house. Dave, opening the door, says, ‘It’s a great way to chill white wine, especially if you only have a tiny fridge like ours. It’s Marilyn’s birthday tomorrow and we’re having some friends over. Come along as well, Tessa.’

  I decline, with thanks. Marilyn can only be in her mid- to late twenties; it’s another generation and I wouldn’t barge in on their party, but it’s nice of him to ask. I must remember to bring her a card and some kind of little gift tomorrow with the post.

  A sudden burst of laughter and merriment comes from the front of the house, along with squeals from Marilyn. Dave grins. ‘That must be her birthday present just arrived. Let’s go see.’

  I follow him through to the sitting room, marvelling along the way at how much work they’ve done in the short time since they’ve been here. More laughter, squeals, and voices greet us as we go into the room. Marilyn is there with two people I know, Clara the cat woman and Guy the cat man.

  Marilyn sees me and rushes across, holding up a small fluffy kitten. It looks like the stray one Guy brought when Clara took her walk outside on the ice. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’ Marilyn cries. ‘I didn’t know a thing about it until now. Dave has been in touch with the Cat Protection, asking about a kitten. This stray was found not long ago and needs a home. Oh, I’ve been wanting a cat since we moved here! Isn’t he gorgeous? Here, Tessa, you can hold him for a minute if you like.’ She thrusts the kitten at me while she runs to Dave, hugging and thanking him for the surprise. Clara and Guy are beaming with pride, as if I were cuddling their own baby. The ‘baby’ though is not so cuddly. He’s starting to struggle, digging his sharp little claws into my Royal Mail jacket. ‘He’s frightened,’ Clara exclaims, looking at me as if I’m murdering the thing.

  The cat claws my hand. ‘Oh you poor thing,’ Guy cries. He means the kitten, not me.

  Marilyn, Dave, Guy, and Clara all rush to me to take the kitten away from the horrid postie who obviously doesn’t know how to handle cats. I try to tell them that it’s still a feral thing and to be careful, but no one listens. Somehow in the handover, Guy gets a scratched cheek, Clara a claw mark on her neck, and the kitten gets his freedom. Out the door it goes, into the snow and ice. ‘Who left the door open?’ Marilyn cries as we all rush out after it. But no one bothers to answer. No good asking who left the stable door open after the horse bolts, is it?

  There is now a frantic half hour while we search for the kitten. I can’t help marvelling at how Clara seems to have totally overcome her fear of slipping on ice. She’s sliding around some of the worst patches on the lane leading to the house, waving her arms frantically for balance, calling the kitten, making strange meowing noises which I suppose is her cat talk.

  But the kitten is nowhere to be found. Finally we give up, or rather pause to warm up in the house before starting to search again. I say, ‘Look, I hate leaving before your kitten is found, but I really need to get going on my round. The customers will be wondering what’s happened to me.’

  Clara is too distracted and panicked about the kitten to even hear me. ‘The poor creature will freeze to death if we can’t find him.’

  Guy goes to her and puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘There, there. We will, I promise you. Even if it takes all night. You’re not to worry.’

  Clara looks up to him as Guinevere must have done to Lancelot. Her face beams, her eyes shine. Guy’s stoop vanishes, he stands straight and tall, ready to do battle. I watch, fascinated, as he presses his hand on her shoulder. She says, breathless, ‘Oh Guy, thank you. If anyone can find the kitten, you can, I know.’

  Well, well, well, I think. So that’s how it is. Or rather, that’s how it’s beginning, for certainly there were no such vibes between them the other times I’ve seen them together. It’s been all business, finding strays, finding homes for them, raising money for their charity by jumble sales, begging for donations. I watch with amused delight as their eyes meet, lock. Has Clara actually forgotten a cat in the romance of the moment?

  I can’t stop to find out. I’ve got customers waiting for bread, for newspapers, and for bags of kindling for their fires and wood burners. I say my goodbyes to them all and open the door to my van, shouting out that I hope they find the kitten soon.

  And then I squash it. There is a horrific yowl as I sit on the kitten. I leap up, cracking my head on the windscreen, and turn to see the fluffy grey fur ball flattened on the cushion on the driver’s seat. I’d left the window open; he must have jumped on the bonnet for warmth and then climbed into the van. Omigod is he dead? I reach for him with a beating heart but he suddenly leaps up and starts scrambling around the back of the van. I lunge about, trying to c
atch him before he finds the open window again. At least there’s certainly nothing wrong with the creature; the kitten is meowing madly and running about all over the place.

  I finally catch him just as he is about to leap from the window. Luckily I’d put my gloves on for he’s clawing my hands like crazy, no doubt terrified of the hulking postie who not only nearly crushed him to death but also gave him a merry chase around the van.

  Cheers of relief greet me as I walk in with the kitten. Clara takes him and he immediately starts to calm down. She really does have a way with cats for the little mite is actually looking around now, fear abating. Everyone thanks me and then Dave says, ‘Tessa, what did you do to your forehead? You have a huge lump there!’

  I toy with confessing, but the kitten looks fine; it was probably tucked into the back of the seat and I couldn’t have squashed it as hard as I thought. ‘Oh, bumped my head in the van,’ I say, vaguely.

  ‘Oh, you must be more careful!’ Clara cries, not taking her eyes from the cat she’s still cradling. ‘Mustn’t she, little pussy?’

  The kitten looks at me coolly. I look back. Don’t you say a word, I think, before I remember that it’s a cat to which I’m sending telepathic messages. That bump on the head must be making me tizzy.

  ‘Now I really do have to go,’ I say. Marilyn has taken the kitten from Clara; she’s in love with the little creature already and thanks me again for finding it. As I leave I look back at Clara, who is now holding hands with Guy. Well, holding a couple of fingers, because both of their hands are covered with the knitted fingerless gloves that I recognise as having been made by Tufty’s mum. I hadn’t noticed them before in the flurry of the kitten drama. Clara’s are deep turquoise and the fluorescent stripe is lime green, and Guy’s are an ocean blue with a pink neon stripe. They really are great gloves.

  Clara and Guy notice me staring at their hands and furtively unlock their entwined fingers, obviously not yet willing to share this moment with any witnesses. How sweet, I think. I’m such a romantic. As I look away, I see their fingers inching towards each other again.