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  I don’t know what to say. Finally I stammer, ‘But if it came to court, wouldn’t you be perjuring yourselves?’

  Clara, Ginger, and Guy are all shaking their heads. ‘But don’t you see, Tessa,’ Ginger says, ‘that it won’t go to court now, cause we stood up to him. That’s what it’s all about, y’know. Life down here. Standing together, standing up to strangers who try to bully us about.’

  I feel quite touched. ‘And I don’t even live in this village. But thank you all the same.’

  Guy says, ‘Don’t matter what village. You’re Cornish.’ He grins. ‘Well, sort of.’

  What a great compliment – I’m sort of Cornish. I smile to myself all the way back to St Geraint.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Doors Opening and Closing

  THE WINTRY WEATHER is finally over and it’s starting to feel spring-like, although it’s only February. Light mists roll in from the sea in the early mornings, drifting in patches over the water and then up along the cliffs. With the gales and storms subsided, the sea has lost its white foam, and instead the water swells gently beneath the thin white fog.

  Now that the snow is gone you can see the masses of snowdrops on banks and verges, and in the woodland. It’s late for snowdrops, but after the hard winter there seems to be more of them than ever before. All the spring and summer flowers will be more glorious and plentiful this year because of the snow and frost; the plants will have had a chance to rest. There should also be more wild berries, blackberries and elderberries, sloes and rosehips. I’m not sure how I know this, or how I now know so many things about the countryside I never knew before, but thinking about it, I believe the knowledge and understanding has come by just living here. It’s crept up on me almost unaware. Today as I drove home I heard a buzzard’s cry, and recognised it immediately for what it was, something I wouldn’t have done even a couple of years ago. In London I could tell if the sudden screech of brakes on a traffic-filled street was that of a bus or a taxi, but I couldn’t recognise birdsong. Now I can tell when a songbird’s chirping turns to calls of alarm, followed by that sudden silence when there’s a sparrowhawk around. I love the way these things have seeped into my understanding, rather like osmosis.

  The flurry of activity at the end of the month when some of the second homers return for half term reminds me that it’s time to get our house ready for the summer months. We’ve decided that an easy way to supplement the family income would be to rent our house for the holidays. I’m not a huge fan of camping – I love my home comforts too much – but the rest of the family is, and we had a fun camping holiday on the north coast of Cornwall last year. I’m happy to do it again for two or even three weeks, if it means raising some income. Living here hasn’t been easy, and still is a struggle, financially that is. Ben has had a few acting jobs and in between he works part time at the Sunflower Café in St Geraint and also as a masseuse, for which he was trained in London. He’s being called more and more to the Roswinnick Hotel in St Geraint, a gorgeous and very posh hotel, beloved by both royalty and celebrities, to give treatments to some of the guests there.

  At least Ben and I aren’t alone in this, trying all sorts of things to make ends meet. We’ve discovered that in Cornwall so many people are in the same position. The only truly rich folk are the second homers; the other permanent residents are usually like us, with several part-time jobs, struggling hard to make enough money to keep going. Even those with huge houses are often land rich but cash poor. It gives everyone a feeling of solidarity, surrounded by people with the same money problems.

  I get the idea of renting our house for the summer from one of my customers, a rather grand elderly woman who lives alone in a stunningly magnificent house on the coast. She’s got a view of the sea to die for, and I sometimes sit on her terrace on a fine day enjoying the panorama with her. She’s got a double-barrelled name but insists I call her Joanna. She’s a widow with children all over the world, some in diplomatic positions and others writing important books about world events. She tosses scraps of information about them now and again, almost as an afterthought. I suspect that she and her husband had a rather aristocratic social life when he was alive. Occasionally she’ll mention some lord or lady, and she always refers to the Prince of Wales as the Duke. But then everyone in the Duchy of Cornwall seems to refer to Prince Charles as that, as if he were just one of the locals.

  Joanna is looking very elegant this morning, as she usually does, in a plain blue wool dress, immaculate but not new; I’ve seen her wearing it before. She has a number of similar outfits, all with plain colours, long sleeves, and beautifully tailored. She usually wears one or another with a pair of what used to be called court shoes, in quality leather with a small stocky heel. A plain rope of what I’m sure are very real pearls hangs around her neck. ‘Tessa,’ she says, opening the door as I’m about to post her mail through, ‘do come and look at the sea. It’s such a stunning colour today.’

  I follow her through to some double doors to the terrace that runs the length of the house and around one side. There must be a fantastic view from most of the windows. We stand for a few moments side by side, admiring the way the sunlight, growing stronger every day, seems to be delving deeper into the ocean as the winter recedes, changing its colour from dark greys and greenyblacks, to lighter hues of blue and emerald. Joanna takes a deep breath. ‘Ah Tessa, a day like today is a blessing. I do miss this sometimes, in the summer months.’

  Because there were a few changes in our postal rounds last autumn, I didn’t deliver to this area last July and August. ‘Do you go away every summer?’ I ask politely.

  She turns to look at me. ‘Why, of course. Everyone does. Don’t you?’

  I say cheerfully, ‘Well, we camp for a couple of weeks, but that’s about it. We can’t afford to go away on a proper holiday, it that’s what you mean. You know, planes and abroad and rented cottages or hotels and stuff.’

  She looks perplexed. ‘My dear, who can? I certainly can’t, nor can any of my friends.’

  Now I’m confused. ‘But you just said you went away for the summer.’

  ‘Yes, but not on holiday. I rent out my house, naturally. Quite frankly, I need the income. As do many of the people I know.’

  I look at the sea. Tiny traces of the morning’s mist hover here and there in patches, like receding ghosts. A fishing boat is chuntering out to sea with a flock of gulls in its wake, and a cargo boat sails in and out of the haze still lingering at the horizon. I think what a fortune it would be to rent a house like this for the summer. ‘It’s a brilliant idea. But where do you go?’

  She smiles, gives a little wave of her hand towards the sea, as if it is there that she’ll live in July and August. I notice the pale pink varnish on her fingernails. There’s a tiny smudge on them: Joanna obviously does them herself. There are all sorts of ways to save money, even for someone who lives in a house like this. She says, ‘Oh, I visit friends in the shires and the Home Counties, I have many in that area. And I reciprocate in the winter months. They often come to stay with me.’ She smiles mischievously. ‘Especially over the Christmas holidays, when they want to get away from their children and grandchildren. Not to mention great-grandchildren. I often have quite a houseful, then.’

  We talk a short while longer, and by the time I leave her, finish my round and get home, I’m buzzing with the idea of renting our house this summer. As soon as I walk through the door I’m looking around, trying to see the place with an objective eye, wondering how our family home would look to potential holiday renters.

  It looks good, I say out loud. Even if I do say so myself. There are healthy house plants on windowsills and shelves, pictures on the wall, comfy chairs and sofa and cushions, soft lamps everywhere, flowers – the whole effect is, I think, quite pleasing. Friends who visit from London always say complimentary things about our house, and I’ve loved making a home out of it. Yes, the house will do well for a rental accommodation, I’m sure of it. But as these t
houghts go around in my head, another one surfaces. Strangers in our home? People who might not love it as we do? What if they break something precious? Our treasures are not expensive, not the kind that can be replaced by money, but things that mean something to us. A table lamp I found in a junk shop, just right for a corner of the living room. I searched months for the perfect one that we could afford. An exquisitely beaded cushion that Annie brought me back from a holiday in Morocco, the cushion that goes so perfectly with an old armchair that belonged to my parents.

  Annie. The phone rings and I have a feeling it’s her. Since she’s moved here we’re either at each other’s homes when we have a spare moment, or on the phone. We were like this before either of us married, and now here we are again. The great thing, too, is that Pete and Ben get on so well together.

  ‘Guess what, Tessa?’ she sounds excited. ‘I’ve finally got some freelance work. A writer I met once through the BBC, does historical novels, two a year, can you imagine? Wants to try a different period from his usual Tudor stuff so I’ve got the job researching Victorian England. All stuff I can do on the net so I can work at home.’

  ‘Should be fun.’

  ‘And bring in some cash. Pete’s salary is ridiculously low.’

  I murmur sympathetic words. Agricultural rates in Cornwall are especially poor.

  After some more chit chat Annie says, ‘Listen, one of the main reasons I phoned was to say I’ve got two free tickets for a session with a crystal therapist in Truro, so let’s go together.’

  ‘What’s a crystal therapist?’

  ‘God knows. But it’ll be fun. I’m all for trying alternative stuff and I know you are, too. It’ll do us good, relax us.’

  ‘You’re stressed?’

  She laughs. ‘Not at all, I’m as contented as a cow. C’mon, let’s give it a try. Have a girlie day out, just like the old days.’

  Annie says she’ll ring for an appointment and we hang up just as Ben comes in. I’m thinking about Annie and Pete, wondering if they could rent out their house for the summer, too. We could go camping together. ‘It would be a laugh,’ I say to Ben, ‘roaming about all summer like gypsies, trying to find a place to stay.’

  Ben stares at me. ‘Tessa, what’re you talking about? Who is going to be roaming about all summer?’

  ‘Why, we are! The whole family. Though thinking about it, I guess Annie won’t want to leave her home; she’s only just moved in.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ve lost me, Tessa. Start all over again.’

  ‘Oh, Ben, I’m sorry,’ I give him a big hug. ‘My mind is whirling again; I forgot I haven’t even talked about it with you.’

  We sit down over a cup of tea and I tell him about Joanna. He is as dumbfounded as I was when he hears the astronomical price we could get during the summer weeks. He quickly warms to the idea and starts getting as enthusiastic about it as I am. Then he says, ‘But our jobs. We’ve got to stick around here.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. We always take a fortnight off to spend time as a family – remember our camping trip last year? We can camp near home and live in our tent while we rent out the house.’ I’m getting so excited it’s hard to sit still.

  Ben tells me with a smile to calm down, reminds me that it’s only February and a long time until summer. But he agrees that it’s not too early to start making inquiries, for after all, people start booking their holidays soon after Christmas. So the next day I phone a reputable rental agency which, I’ve discovered, handles many of the properties in our area. I tell the woman on the phone about our home and we make an appointment for someone to come out next week and assess the house for possible lets. ‘I think it’ll be just what people would like,’ I gush enthusiastically over the phone. ‘We’ve tried to make it homey and comfortable. Our London friends think it’s great.’

  The woman clears her throat non-committedly. I’ve been waffling I know, but I love our home, and I’m proud of what we’ve created from virtually nothing. I want everyone to love it as we do. I ring off, saying lamely, ‘Sorry to go on, but you’ll see when you come here.’

  The woman says, ‘Oh, it won’t be me, madam. It will be one of our rental consultants.’

  Goodness, that’s a bit formal, I think. But never mind. Someone is coming out and we’re on our way. All we need to do is to find somewhere nearby to camp for the summer. I feel light-headed and buzzing, thinking what a blessing this added addition to our income will bring.

  The next evening, Ben and I are invited over to our new neighbours’ house for a ‘light supper’ as Kate tells us. ‘Just us,’ she goes on. ‘Very informal, so don’t dress up.’

  I don’t tell her that all our social life is informal these days, as it is with everyone in the village. When friends like Joe and Daphne, who farm on the edge of the village, come over for a meal, it’s very much pot luck for food, and throwing on a clean jumper is as far as dressing up goes. It is the same with Annie and Pete.

  We’ve seen Kate and Leon a few times since the day they arrived, but they’ve been busy settling in, so we’ve not spent much time with them. We’re looking forward to getting to know them, having new friends right next door. I put on a new pair of wool trousers, new that is from a fantastic charity shop I know in Truro, and a cosy warm jumper that I’ve had for years. It looks a bit worn but it’s a gorgeous deep blue colour, and after all, Kate did say casual. I don’t like being cold, and I’m not sure what kind of heating they’ve got in their house now. The freezing weather might have gone but it’s not fully springtime yet.

  Leon opens the door, looking groomed and immaculate in black trousers and a soft grey cashmere jumper. Kate, behind him, is wearing a long skirt and a delicate fine woollen top with exquisite beading around the rather low-cut neckline. She has earrings to die for, silvery and long, like tiny moonbeams clustered in her long dark hair. This is casual? I take a deep breath, remembering they’ve just come from London. They’ll change, adjust to rural life, just as Annie did. She, too, used to visit us dressed out of a fashion magazine, but now she shops like I do, looking at sales items and some of the vintage charity shops. I’ve also taken Annie to a couple of the clothes swaps I’ve been to in the past few months.

  Women in this area have been exchanging clothes for years, but I read somewhere that it’s now quite fashionable in London, since the economic downturn. Someone’s even put a name to it – ‘swishing’. Basically, we take turns holding the swapping party at each other’s homes. Everyone has to bring at least one item of clothing that’s clean, decent, and good quality. People bring nibbles, some wine, and we make a party out of it. One woman’s cast-off clothes can be just what another one is looking for, and we swap. The catch is when several women have their eye on a particularly tasty item, but I have to say, everyone’s been pretty laid back at the clothes exchanges I’ve been to, and graceful about not being too greedy. I have heard that in London, though, there are swishing parties that are not so amiable, when two or more women have their eyes on a designer item. Hostilities break out in some of the most benign circumstances, or so I’m told by old friends in the city.

  When Kate compliments me on the unusual velvety scarf I’m wearing over my old jumper, I tell her about the parties, for that’s where I got it. ‘It’s from Monsoon, never worn – the scarf still had the label on. The woman who brought it to the swap was given it as a birthday present but it wasn’t her thing. Our swap parties are a terrific way to get new clothes, and all for free.’

  Kate looks totally unenthusiastic but says, politely, ‘I’m sure it’s a wonderful idea, for those who can’t afford to shop properly.’

  Oh dear. I don’t think Kate has realised yet that’s me. She seems a very nice person, but I don’t think the realities of Cornish life have sunk in yet.

  The ‘light supper’, which at our house would probably be a Spanish omelette with our own fresh eggs, turns out to be a whole array of delicious titbits from Marks and Spencer that Kate picked up in Tru
ro earlier that day. There are exotic salads, a huge variety of cold meats and cheeses, various sauces, and both hot and cold potato and pasta dishes. I’m sure she spent more on this supper than I do on a week’s meals at home.

  It’s beginning to dawn on me that the Wintersons are not short of money. Kate’s certainly not looking for a job; she’s told me she’s going to enjoy the next months doing up the house, getting used to country life. As for Leon, apparently he did something ‘in the City’, but he’s now retired. How he can be retired when he’s not yet forty, goodness knows, but I heard him tell Ben that he won’t be looking for work just yet, except for some consulting work in the City. He wants to devote his time to hunting, apparently. ‘I’ve just bought a new gun,’ he says, eyes lighting up like a child’s with excitement and pleasure. ‘It’s a Purdy. Haven’t even used it yet. Let me show you.’ He rushes out of the room and comes back with the shotgun. It looks new and shiny, expensive.

  He doesn’t notice that we don’t say much apart from admiring the craftsmanship, which even I can tell is top notch. Leon strokes the gun lovingly. ‘I’ve got a syndicate I shoot with,’ he says. ‘Pheasants, that sort of thing. I suppose you’re quite good at it now.’ He smiles eagerly at Ben. ‘Let’s have a shot at it together, when the season starts.’

  Ben looks startled. ‘Actually, I don’t do any shooting.’

  ‘Really? I thought everyone in the country did. But then you’re not really country, are you. You’re from the Big Smoke, like us.’

  ‘Well, I’m country now. But actually none of the people we know around here shoot for fun. Joe, our farmer friend, has a gun but he only uses it for predators after his sheep. Cornwall isn’t exactly hunting and fishing country.’

  Leon looks rather doubtful but doesn’t say any more, and the conversation turns to other things, including London, as it would naturally. All four of us had former lives there, and we have a fine old time reminiscing about it. We all agree, though, that we’d never go back again. ‘I’m ever so happy here, even though it’s only been a few weeks,’ Kate says as we get ready to leave. I’m feeling a bit tipsy from all that superb red wine we drank with our ‘nibbles’, as Kate called them, but I’m quite sincere when I tell her that we’re so pleased to have them for new neighbours.