Home to Roost Read online

  I hate to disturb their moment, but I have to know. ‘Clara,’ I say, ‘I can’t believe you’re out in this weather. Did you really drive over here in Guy’s van, and walk down that icy lane carrying a cat?’

  Clara actually blushes. She looks pretty with colour in her cheeks. ‘Oh, I’m so much better now. Guy’s been helping me get out. And he’s such a good driver, and held onto me down the lane, and held the cat basket …’ she trails off, flustered.

  ‘That’s great, it really is.’ I’m relieved. That’s one less customer to worry about this winter. I wish the problems of some of the rest of them could be solved that easily.

  * * *

  One problem that troubles not just me but the other locals living in Poldowe is that of Delia, the widow that Melanie mentioned in the shop the other day. Delia is in her eighties but seems to be going on a hundred. She’s frail, fragile, walks slowly, fearfully, even though there’s not much wrong with her, not physically that is. She’s been that way as long as I’ve known her, relying on Meals on Wheels for her food, and on her neighbours and the postie for other odds and ends. None of us mind, for she’s a sweet lady, always with a smile of appreciation for the things we do for her. Her husband died many years ago, out at sea in a lifeboat accident, and Delia shrank from life after that. The villagers rallied around her, and still do, for she has no one else, no family anywhere.

  Lately, though, I’ve noticed a huge change in her. She seems to be not only forgetting things, but also misplacing objects, some of them important, like her house keys, bills that need to be paid, and her glasses. Some days I come in to find her staring into space, a look of panic on her face because of something she’s mislaid. Sometimes I find it for her, only to realise she’s lost it again before I even leave the house.

  Today I go in and start to light her tiny coal fire as I’ve done for over a year, after she asked me one morning if I wouldn’t mind doing it. Now, winter or summer, I come in and do it automatically, but this time when I go in she looks at me oddly, almost as if she doesn’t know who I am. ‘Delia, it’s me, Tessa,’ I say, when she doesn’t respond to my cheery good morning.

  Finally she murmurs, gives me a small, uncertain smile. ‘Oh, hello. How nice to see you.’ She speaks politely but seems surprised, as if I’m an unusual visitor, not one she sees most days of the week.

  I take the small coal bucket outside to the coal shed, fill it as I’ve done most days for over a year, and light her small fire. Usually she is effusive with thanks and gratitude, but today she is silent, watching me but with vacant eyes, as if she were somewhere else entirely. She doesn’t even respond when I show her the scones Ginger has baked for her. I tell her I’m putting them in the kitchen and when I do, I get a shock. Kitty, the sweet tabby cat that Clara gave Delia nearly a year ago, is mewing weakly, and I can tell, even before I pick her up, that the creature is starving.

  I open the cupboard, find a dozen tins of unopened cat food and four packs of dry food. The fridge is empty, except for a carton of milk. I know I’m being nosy, but I feel this is an emergency. I start scrounging around in the rubbish bin. To my relief, there are the remains of the Meals on Wheels Delia gets every day, so I assume she’s been eating herself, even if she’s forgotten to feed Kitty.

  I cuddle the poor thing, giving her some food which she devours gratefully. I’m annoyed at myself for not checking on the cat before, but when I asked Delia, she always said Kitty was sleeping soundly upstairs on her bed. Knowing that the Venerable Bede, the Humphreys’ cat, spends most of the winter months snuggled on their bed, this didn’t surprise me. I assume that’s what she told Clara and Ginger when they check up on her, as they do every day.

  I go back to Delia and say gently, ‘You know, I think Kitty was hungry. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave her some food.’

  Delia smiles, ‘That’s fine, dear. I did feed her this morning, though.’

  I know there were no empty cat food tins or packets in the rubbish, and no opened ones anywhere. And Kitty wouldn’t have devoured her food so savagely if she hadn’t been ravenous.

  I make a cup of weak tea for Delia, the way she likes it, and sit down to talk. I know she adores that cat. When Clara asked her if she’d take in a friendly stray that desperately needed a home, Delia was ecstatic. So was Clara, and I, along with Ginger, and other neighbours in Poldowe, for everyone hated to see Delia so lethargic, giving up on life and using the telly as a substitute, though she doesn’t even do that now. The cat did cheer her up and though she still didn’t go out, she at least went into her small garden in the summer months to watch Kitty play or sleep in the sun. Often when I came in, the cat would be sitting purring on her lap. I should have been suspicious the last few weeks when it wasn’t around, but this was such an unlikely winter that I could easily believe Kitty was hibernating somewhere out of the cold. The poor thing was probably prowling about outside trying to catch mice or scrounge food from the neighbours.

  Luckily Clara was in when I arrived at her house, a few doors down. I told her about Kitty, and how strange Delia had been. Clara promised to call that evening and see what she could do. ‘I’ve been worried about Delia anyway,’ she said. ‘She’s been acting a bit odd. Forgetting things, repeating things she told you five minutes ago. The other villagers who call in on her have noticed, too.’

  Oh dear. It doesn’t sound good. But thank goodness Delia lives in a village and has caring neighbours she’s known for much of her life. I leave, relieved that I’ve been able to pass over some of the responsibility. I finish delivering in this part of the village and go back to my van, which I’ve parked on the High Street. To my chagrin I see that I’m blocked in. Parked right in front, leaving me about an inch of space, is a swish new Peugeot which I’m sure must belong to one of the second homers, obviously down for the weekend since the forecast is a brilliant one. Finally, a thaw is on its way, along with sunny skies and only a little cloud. It’s Friday and already there’s a steady stream of cars arriving as the second homers, mostly vanished since the Christmas and New Year holidays, come down to check out their houses after the snow and frost, and get them ready for the spring influx.

  Behind me is Guy’s old van. I’d parked fairly tight, to make room for other cars, but there was absolutely no need for the Peugeot to come in that ridiculously close, as there is nothing on the other side of it. Luckily, I see Guy coming out of the shop and I call out, ‘Guy, I’m stuck, can you move your van?’

  He lopes over to me in that gawky but endearing way he has. ‘Right’o, Tessa, will do it now. Hold these, will ya?’ He hands me a bouquet of carnations, not exactly at their best. He adds, anxiously, ‘They’re, uh, for Clara.’ He stops, blushes, looks at his feet. ‘Now I’ve bought them, I don’t know if she likes flowers. What’d’ya think?’

  ‘I think she’d love them.’

  He looks even more doubtful. ‘I dunno. I’m not sure she’s the flower type.’

  ‘Most women love getting flowers,’ I say patiently. ‘And now, please can you move the van?’

  But he’s not budging. He takes the flowers out of my hands with sudden determination. ‘She might hate carnations. I’m taking them back, I’ll change them for chocolates or something.’

  ‘Guy!’ I holler as he’s heading off back to the shop. ‘I really need to get on. Clara might be on a diet or something; flowers are really much better.’

  Back he comes. ‘Clara can’t be on a diet. She’s not fat. She’s perfect.’

  ‘I didn’t imply she was. Maybe she doesn’t eat chocolates to keep herself perfect. Give her the flowers but please let me out of here first.’

  He doesn’t move but stands forlornly, indecisively looking at the carnations. ‘Maybe it’s too early,’ he says, finally.

  ‘What is?’ I’m trying to be patient. I’m trying to remember that this slow easy life is why we moved here. No hurry, no rush, no stress. I try to go with what is happening at the moment without worrying about being even m
ore late finishing my round. I take a deep breath. ‘What’s too early, Guy?’ I ask when he doesn’t answer.

  ‘Our relationship. Giving her flowers. So early on.’

  ‘It’s never too early.’

  ‘But we don’t even have a relationship.’ His foot is fiercely making circles in the patch of snow on the verge of the street.

  ‘Oh. But, uh, you want one, right?’

  He finally looks up at me. ‘Oh, Tessa, I do!’ His face looks so sweet, all lit up like a harvest moon, that I have to hide my smile.

  I push my advantage. ‘Then giving her those flowers is the best way to get one started. And as soon as you move your van, you can get on with it. Clara’s home, I just saw her a short time ago.’

  I’ve never seen him move so fast. He thrusts the flowers at me again and is about to open the door of his van when I see that someone has come from behind us and is opening the door of the Peugeot. I say, ‘Guy, never mind, the man in front of me is moving. Here’s your flowers, give them to Clara before you get cold feet again.’

  He still looks indecisive so I give him a gentle shove towards her house. ‘Oh look, you’ve got to go, she’s seen you from the window. You can’t run away now, Guy.’

  This is a little white lie but I said I was a romantic, didn’t I? And it works; he’s walking up the path to her door, if not exactly like Lancelot than at least not too hesitantly.

  I jump in the postal van, start it up, and wait for the man to get his Peugeot out of my way. There’s nothing behind him (his car is facing me) and there’s nothing on the road, but he’s not moving. I look closely and see that he’s on his mobile phone.

  I count to ten, noting that he’s got his seatbelt on so he must be going soon. Five minutes pass (I’ve counted to ten a zillion times) and he’s still talking. His face is turned away from me and he seems not to see me, or is pretending not to. Finally, when it seems he’ll be sitting there talking for ever, I get out of the van and walk over to his window.

  It’s shut, so I give an easy, friendly knock on the window. He looks up at me and shouts, ‘What?’

  I do a double take. I know this man. He’s Mr Landers, one of the second homers in our village. He’s had a house there for several years but no one calls him or his wife by anything other than their surnames; they made it clear they wanted no intimacy with us villagers as soon as they moved in. I’ve had a run-in with him before, when Marilyn’s pet goat, Gruff, was being stubborn and sitting down in the hardly used road near their house. Mr Landers came by – he had a different car then; I haven’t seen this one before – and instead of laughing about it as anyone else would, he had a mega hissy fit, shouting and hollering and threatening to report us.

  So I am not well pleased to see him now. He’s turning away from me again, as if I am too unimportant to take note of. I knock on the window again, this time a bit harder. He zizzes it down so hard it nearly takes my finger off. ‘What?’ he barks again. ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’

  I keep my voice sweet. Not because I’m such a goodie-goodie, but because I know it will annoy him. He wants me to shout back so he can yell even louder. ‘Yes, Mr Landers, I do see that, but you happen to be blocking me in. I need to get on with my postal round. The Royal Mail always gets through, you know.’ I give him a smile as I think, except when blockheads like you stand in its way.

  He says, ‘You’ll have to wait. This is important.’

  ‘So is the Royal Mail, sir,’ I reply. Oh, I love it when I’m on my best behaviour with rude types like him. After a time they begin to get suspicious, not knowing if you’re taking the mickey. It throws them, whereas shouting wouldn’t. They’re too used to shouting.

  He turns back to his phone while I wonder if I should just give up and get Guy out of Clara’s house to move his van. But why should I? Mr Landers is right there and for all I know Guy and Clara might just be on the brink of beginning that relationship Guy so wants. Who am I to thwart young love? Well, maybe not so young but never mind. I’m just about to ask him again to move when he cries into the phone, ‘Don’t you dare hang up on me you …’

  Whoever it was obviously does, for he slams the phone down on the passenger seat, letting out a couple of swear words. I figure he’ll go now so I jump back in the van, turn on the engine as he does the same. As I wait for him to reverse out – there is still nothing behind him – I’m jolted in my seat as he goes forward instead and rams into the van.

  We’re both out of our vehicles at the same time. I’m annoyed more than anything, as neither one seems damaged, maybe a few scratches that’s all. The idiot was in such a fury that he went into first gear instead of reverse. Thankfully the damage isn’t worse. I hope he’s feeling properly shame-faced and apologetic – but not a bit of it. I can hardly believe what he’s saying. He seems to be blaming me for the collision. ‘You ran right into me,’ he yells. ‘Too impatient to wait for me to move. I’m going to report you.’ He turns to look at the front of his car but there’s not much there to look at. That doesn’t stop him. ‘You’re going to damn well pay for this.’

  I’m too shocked to be angry. ‘Mr Landers, it was you who ran into me.’

  He’s right in my face, in my space, breathing down at me. He’s not that tall but taller than me, ordinary-looking, maybe in his early fifties. ‘It bloody wasn’t. You hit me straight on. I’d swear it in any court.’

  I’m so shaken by his bald-faced lie that I literally can’t speak. He’s going for his phone, looks at me with daggers in his eyes while he punches in directory inquires, asking to be put through to the main post office in Truro. He doesn’t seem to be getting through to anyone so he throws the phone down again, starts on at me again. ‘You’ve given me trouble before, I recognise you,’ he says, no doubt meaning that incident with Marilyn and the goat blocking the road.

  I finally find my voice. ‘I’ve never given you trouble and I most certainly did not run into your car. You were the one who hit me.’

  At this he blows, swearing and throwing another one of his temper tantrums. Really, the man needs either yoga or tranquillisers; he’ll have a heart attack. I have to admit I’m losing my cool myself. ‘I did not hit you. You rammed your car right into post office property. With me sitting inside, too. You could have injured me badly.’

  We’re at a stalemate. By now several of the villagers have come over to watch the scene. Guy is there with Clara, and Ginger, too, as well as Tufty from the shop. It doesn’t take them long to figure out what happened. Mr Landers is saying again, ‘I’ll swear in court that you drove straight into my parked car.’ He gets his phone, starts to punch in numbers again.

  Guy, standing next to me, says loudly, ‘And I’ll swear that I saw everything, and that the post office van did not move.’

  ‘Me, too,’ echoes Clara, clutching onto Guy’s hand.

  There is a sudden, deadly silence. Ginger breaks it, saying softly but very clearly, enunciating every word carefully, ‘I saw it, too. I’m happy to come to court as a witness.’ And then Tufty and several of the other villagers join in, mumbling promises of support for me.

  Mr Landers doesn’t say a word. He looks from Guy to Ginger and then at me. We all stare back. He looks at Guy again, takes a step forward as if he’s going to punch him. Guy, skinny awkward Guy, doesn’t even flinch but also takes a firm step forward. Mr Landers, the brawny bully, is taken by surprise by this act of courage and obviously is not sure what to do. Finally, in a fury he turns, jumps into his car and violently starts the engine. I tense, thinking he’s going to ram the van again but he reverses and drives far too fast up the road towards Treverny.

  I’m totally shaken. I don’t know if he’d been so angry at whoever he was talking to on the phone that he forgot he wasn’t in reverse, couldn’t remember clearly, or whether he realised too late but was deliberately blaming me. I hope it is the first one.

  Whatever, it’s over now. The other villagers begin to disperse. Tufty says, ‘He was in the
shop a while ago, giving Melanie a hard time because she didn’t stock the bottle of wine he wanted. Rude bugger, that one. Glad he doesn’t live in Poldowe.’

  ‘Unfortunately he’s got a second home in Treverny,’ I say. ‘Not the most popular couple in the village, the Landers. Thank goodness they don’t come down often. But never mind them now. I owe you three a big one, coming to my rescue like that. Thanks so much.’ I give them all a hug, and an especially big one to Guy, thanking him for standing up to the man. Guy looks embarrassed, modest but proud. Didn’t I say he was Lancelot? What a hero!

  ‘What luck that you were watching.’ I’m burbling now with relief that the whole sorry incident is over. ‘All of you. And Tufty, too. He must have been watching from the shop window, saw the whole thing. Had you and Clara actually come outside, Guy, just before it happened?’

  Guy looks a bit furtive. ‘Uh, actually no. Clara and I were, um, talking, and we heard all this hollering so we came out to see what was up.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Ginger says. ‘I’d been in the shop, didn’t see what happened. Tufty couldn’t have either; he wasn’t anywhere near the window. We all rushed out when we heard the crash and then the shouting.’ She giggles. ‘I don’t think any of the villagers saw a thing, y’know, just like we didn’t. It’s still winter, still freezing. Everyone was inside until all the noise and hubbub brought us running out.’

  ‘But – but you said you’d go to court. Be witnesses.’

  Now Guy is smiling, too, his crinkly face even more creased with fun. ‘D’ya think I’d believe that bugger? If you said it was his fault, then it was, far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Same here,’ Ginger says. ‘And same as all the others who offered support. They know you, and they know him. He stops in here quite a bit when he’s down from Up Country, to pick up bits and bobs. Always got his nose in the air. Her, too.’