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  ‘You’re our role models,’ Leon says, as we part at their doorstep. ‘We want to become as much a part of this village as you have.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ I say to Ben as we walk down our quiet road towards home. There’s a sliver of moonlight, just enough to see by, although we’ve brought a torch. The dark trees, bushes, and ground have changed dramatically since the snow and frost have gone. Our usual early spring has arrived with a riot of colour and bloom, the fields yellow with daffodils, the gardens dazzling with camellias. It smells like spring, too, rich and fertile.

  Ben is thoughtful, and doesn’t say anything. ‘Don’t you think Kate and Leon will settle soon?’ I ask.

  ‘Maybe. I hope so. But they’re not like us, not like the other permanent house owners. They don’t have to work, don’t have to try to make do, like most of us.’ We walk on in silence for a few moments, past the dark church, the leafless trees getting ready to come to life. Then Ben goes on, ‘It can be divisive, being rich in our community. Unless you’re a second homer. Everyone expects them to be loaded, and they’ve got to be to own a house in Cornwall and another somewhere else. But if you actually live here …’

  I see what he means, and agree it might be harder for the Wintersons to fit in. But they will, I’m sure of it. And in the meantime, we’ve found some new friends. I’m already looking forward to introducing them to Annie and Pete.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Home is Not a Rental House

  THE MAGNOLIAS ARE out in full now as spring gets under way, and I keep the van windows open so that I can catch whiffs of their scent, mingled with the sea air, as I drive around with the post. Signs of the season are everywhere with the greening of the earth, trees and plants. There’s bird activity, too. Robins and various members of the tit family are scurrying about busily picking up twigs and grass to make their new homes. Stone curlews are getting ready to nest on farmlands and open fields. Daphne told me that one curlew nests every year in one of their arable fields. She swears they pick that particular field because Joe grows a wheat crop there, and the nest with the eggs and growing chicks will have shelter in the tall crops.

  There’s a wonderful human sign, too, that makes me feel that the long winter is over at last. As I drive around the lanes, walk around villages and towns on my postal route, I see, waving in the spring breeze, laundry pegged out on the clothes lines of Cornwall. What a sight! Now, this doesn’t just happen in spring and summer. Usually all through the winter months, there are decent ‘drying’ days in every week. This winter, though, has been different. Because of the harshness of the past few months, clothes that were pegged outside froze on the line, so most were dried inside in front of wood burners or electric heaters, or tumble dried for those lucky enough to have them.

  Not only do I love the smell of the clothes when they come off the line, but I feel great that I’m doing something for the environment. I read somewhere that if all households with a tumble dryer dried one laundry load a week on a washing line instead of using the dryer, they would save over 750,000 tonnes of CO2 in a year. And so I’m pleased to see all the washing out today as I deliver the post. It’s a perfect day – a bit of sun, but also plenty of wind. Over the last year I’ve become a kind of town crier of pegging. I get asked more and more often about the weather. ‘Tessa, d’you think it’ll rain this morning? Should I wait till afternoon to peg out my clothes, or do you think it’ll get worse?’

  I’ve taken to checking the local weather reports diligently to help with my advice, but more and more I notice I seem to tell instinctively what the weather will be. Somehow, I am able to read the signs, noticing things such as the way the sea swells, knowing that it means the rain is going to go a certain way; or when the seagulls fly inland, knowing there’s a storm brewing. The way the birds are singing, the way the wind is blowing – all these things have seeped into my consciousness, and I seem to be more right than wrong these days when I try to predict the weather. Maybe this sixth sense makes up for my lack of green fingers!

  One of my customers is actually pegging out her washing as I drive up and head around to the back of her house where I usually leave the post. Her back garden faces the estuary with a breathtaking view of water, sky, woodland on the further shores, rocks and seabirds. The tide is out today and the few boats lie dotted on the sand, as if placed carefully by the Cornish Tourist Information Board to be as picturesque as possible. Even the sea debris – driftwood, clumps of watery turf from the river’s edge, a dollop of seaweed – looks artistically placed on the damp sand, as if to show each to its best advantage. The heron, perched on one leg in the shallows, could have been posing there all morning, waiting for the first day-tripper to come and take its photo.

  ‘Perfect drying day,’ my customer calls out to me.

  We both look up at the cloudless sky, feel the light but brisk breeze on our faces. ‘Yep, perfect! I can’t wait to get home and get my clothes out.’

  She nods, a wooden peg clutched between her lips as she hangs out another garment. I approve of wooden pegs. There’s something so satisfyingly old-fashioned about them that adds to the pleasure.

  I tell her this and she agrees, removing the peg from her mouth and giving me a big smile. She says, ‘You’ve got to have a proper washing line, too. No whirly things or plastic contraptions.’

  We’re really into this now. ‘Oh, I agree,’ I cry. ‘And you should have a peg bag. Preferably something with sentimental value.’

  ‘I made this one myself,’ she says proudly.

  ‘That’s very suitable,’ I admire her bag. ‘Mine belonged to my grandmother.’

  The next five minutes are spent very happily discussing the advantages of wooden clothes hangers as opposed to plastic, and other such domestic things of fascinating importance, especially when standing in a delightful garden, filled with sea scents and birdsong, on a sunny Cornish spring day. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed a few pegs and together we’re hanging out the rest of her washing, a few more towels, and some large items of bedding. ‘Thanks, Tessa,’ she says as we finish and I start to go. ‘Those sheets and duvet covers are much easier with two.’

  I’m humming and singing to myself as I drive along to my next village. Everywhere I look there is washing out on lines; most of my customers seem to be hanging out clothes. I chuckle as I realise that some of these items are familiar to me – I know the owner’s clothes as well as I do them. Dodging the lines as I deliver their post, I know that the baker in one of the villages wears pristine white boxer shorts and has a pair for every day of the week. Today there are six pairs on the line that his wife has hung out – I assume he’s wearing the seventh pair. The female doctor in the same village has extremely sexy lingerie in both black and red. What’s great to see today is how many winter woollens are hanging out on the clothes lines. It’s a sure sign that winter is gone for good – everyone is washing their heavy pullovers and cardigans, putting them away until next year.

  When I finish work and arrive home, my new neighbour Kate is outside in her front garden talking to a tall man with wild-looking hair. As I get nearer, I see that it’s Guy. He and Kate are talking earnestly and while they talk, Guy nods and sometimes takes notes in a scrappy little notebook I’ve seen him carry around. Alongside his voluntary work for the Cat Protection Service, Guy, though a skilled carpenter, earns his rather precarious living doing odd jobs in many of the villages, as commissions for carpentry work are hard to come by. I guess that Kate has some employment for him, which he’ll be glad of.

  Kate calls me over to them, asks if I know Guy. After a few minutes chatting, she asks me in for a coffee. I accept happily and we start to walk towards the house. I’m assuming Guy is coming in, too, as the three of us have been talking about the work the Wintersons want done on their property, and it seemed as if the coffee invite extended to all. Guy must have assumed the same thing, for he’s taken a few steps with us until he stops uncertainly. Kate says brightly, ‘Thanks,
Guy. I really appreciate you coming out today. And the job is yours, if you can start next week like you said.’

  She says this warmly, but it’s clearly a dismissal. Guy takes the hint, says he’ll be back next week for sure, and says goodbye to us both. As we go inside Kate is chatty and happy, and I see that it never even occurred to her that Guy might be glad of coffee or tea before he set out on his next job. She obviously assumed he was in a hurry, I suppose, on to his next work place. It’ll take her a while to learn that few people are in a hurry down here, even if they do have several jobs, a family, and a full life to live. I wonder if I should say something; maybe it’s not too late and she can stop Guy from driving away. He did look dismayed when he realised he’d not been invited inside. But I decide it’s not my place to say anything. Kate is a good person, and seems a sensitive one in many ways. She’ll soon find out for herself.

  ‘Tessa, good to see you,’ she says as we go into the house. ‘It’s been hectic, trying to get the house right. Especially with Leon up in town.’

  By town, she means London, where Leon goes at least once a month for the consultancy work he mentioned. As we settle into her spacious kitchen, Kate enthuses about the work Guy is going to do on their house. Already a brand-new Aga has been installed in the kitchen, a huge gorgeous red one. It fills up the width of the room and is pumping out heat despite the warmth of the day. Kate makes me a delicious cappuccino from the machine glistening on the new marble surface and I drink it blissfully while she tells me about the insulation they’re putting in, the Florentine tiles on the kitchen floor with the underfloor heating, and the wall-to-wall shelves for their collection of books, CDs, and DVDs in the sitting room. ‘Guy says he can do carpentry, so he might be making our bookshelves. Leon collects old books so we want something suitable to display them. I’ve heard from some of the villagers that he’s really good. What do you think?’

  ‘He’s excellent. I’ve seen some of his work. He’s a fine craftsman.’

  She’s relieved. ‘I did wonder if I should get someone down from London. Actually, I tried, but I can’t get the furniture maker I know to come down here until mid-summer, far too late. It’s a shame. He does such beautiful work.’

  ‘Guy will be great,’ I reassure her. I’m relieved she couldn’t get her London carpenter. The locals wouldn’t have taken kindly to the hiring of an Up Country workman when there are so many good ones down here in need of employment.

  ‘I’m glad I asked you,’ Kate says. ‘I thought he was merely an odd-job man. I couldn’t believe it when someone at the shop said he was a carpenter.’

  ‘This is Cornwall,’ I say with a smile. ‘He does odd jobs, that’s true; he needs the money like we all do. But he’s also a terrific craftsman, like I said.’

  Kate is going on with her plans. As she talks, a blackbird sings outside the open window. The two willow trees in the back are beginning to get that shimmering look trees get in spring, as if sprucing up for the great event of beginning anew. They’re lovely trees, quite old. The name of the house, Treetops, obviously came from them, and the copper beech that stands at the end of their garden. Behind it is a grass field, now filled with sheep. Ewes and lambs placidly feed and rest, ambling contentedly in the warmth.

  Kate follows my look out the window. We stop for a moment and listen to the blackbird, enjoy the view. Kate sighs contentedly. ‘It’s so lovely. It reminds me why we came here.’

  As she speaks a raucous screeching sound pierces the sweet birdsong. Kate jumps. The sound comes again, louder and more grating. It’s not very pleasant I must say, but it doesn’t last long.

  Kate cries, ‘What on earth was that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s only the Humphreys’ peacock. Have you met Edna and Hector yet?’

  ‘No, not really, though I think I saw them getting into a rather ancient rusty-looking car one day.’

  I laugh. ‘That’s their young friend, as Edna calls him. He’s around eighty, takes them to the sea every so often. I’ll have to introduce you.’

  She looks doubtful but tries a wary smile. ‘That peacock. Does it always make noises like that?’

  ‘Well, now and again, I guess it does. They only got the peafowls last December, and with the cold weather, the peacock and hen have been inside a straw-filled shed all winter. Now it’s warmer, they’re out and about. And I suppose you hear the peacock’s call more now that it’s open windows time.’ I look at her reassuringly. ‘But you get used to it. I rather like it. It’s nice to have a peacock in the village. Rather grand, don’t you think?’ Kate doesn’t crack a smile at my light-hearted remark but looks quite troubled. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say again. ‘You’ll get used to Emmanuel, honestly.’

  ‘Emmanuel?’

  Outside the peacock cries yet again. Really, he seems to be overdoing it; he sounds louder than ever. I do wish he’d pipe down for a bit and give Kate a chance to get used to the noise. ‘That’s his name, Emmanuel. Some Italian they met years ago was visiting England and looked them up. Apparently Edna and Hector stayed at his father’s palazzo or something outside Rome for a time and the son wanted to see them again. Before he left, he gave them an early Christmas present. Hector’s favourite carol is “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”, hence the name.’ I burst into song, dragging out the Eee-man-u-el in an operatic manner.

  Kate is not amused. ‘A rather bizarre kind of present, don’t you think?’

  ‘The way I heard it, the Italian duke or whatever he was had peacocks wandering around his stately gardens, so his son wanted to give the Humphreys something to remind them of la dolce vita in Italy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, the good old days. Edna and Hector were thrilled. They love those two birds.’

  Kate is still stressing about the noise so I change the subject quickly. Soon we start talking about a television drama we both saw the other night, forgetting the peacock and his mate for the time being.

  When I leave, she walks me down the path in front of her house. The front garden is not large but it’s crammed with primroses. The ground is so golden around here at this time of year that it looks like reflected sunlight, all those primroses, bright wild daffodils and bigger cultivated ones. When I comment on the flowers, Kate says, ‘Yes, they’re lovely, aren’t they? But we have lots more in the back. It’s so large, our back garden. That’s why we’re getting rid of this one.’

  ‘What?’ I stare at her, dumbfounded.

  She doesn’t notice my surprise. ‘Yes, that’s what Guy is starting on next week. We’re having the grass paved over. I’ve chosen some fantastic paving tiles from that huge garden shop outside Truro. The front garden will be our terrace; it’ll extend around both sides of Treetops as well. I’ve ordered some amazing pots, made in Tuscany – oh Tessa, you’ll love them, they’re to die for! I’ll put different exotic plants in them. I’ve got all sorts of ideas.’

  I’m stunned. It sounds perfect for Islington perhaps, but not Treverny. It’s also not very good for the environment. Apparently more and more people in towns and cities all over the country are concreting their front gardens to make more room, park their cars, whatever, and it’s causing damage not only to the bird population, but also to the water drainage system. Because the rain can’t drain away properly through a paved area, it causes flooding.

  I can’t tell Kate any of this, of course, though I’d like to. But she’d see me as being bossy and interfering, and would go ahead anyway. She’s already made her plans, bought the paving tiles, and the pots. And she’s so enthusiastic about it all, too. So I can’t say how I really feel, but I do say, ‘It’s kind of a shame, isn’t it, to not have this lovely front garden? It’s full of wild flowers, you know, not only primroses; you’ll see as the weeks go on.’

  She turns to me eagerly. ‘Oh, I love wild flowers, I truly do, but there are so many in the back, and all over the village. This will be something different.’

  A bit of the city, I’m thinking. It’s different only fo
r our part of the world. She’s bringing the city to her new home in the country.

  Well, to each his own. Or her own. She’s still turning out to be a good friend. I like her enthusiasm, her sense of humour. She’s kind, too. She buys every new, well-reviewed novel that comes out, in hardback, and gives them away after a quick read to our village charity shop, as well as piles of children’s clothes a nephew has outgrown but hardly worn. She’s taken to giving me some of her better cast-offs, too, after the supper when I told her about our ‘swishing’ clothes swapping parties. I give her eggs sometimes, now that the hens are laying again. She tried to pay me for them but I wouldn’t hear of it. ‘That’s what village life is like, Kate,’ I told her. ‘You give me some of those gorgeous clothes you don’t want any more, and I give you eggs. It’s a bit like bartering, you know? I do it with everyone. People give me their homegrown veg in summer, I give them a pot of damson jam I’ve made, or a pie, or whatever.’

  Kate didn’t look convinced. ‘But cast-off clothes are different. I wouldn’t sell them for goodness’ sake, I’d give them to a charity shop if you didn’t take them. Eggs are a commodity, you had to feed the hens, look after them, buy them in the first place – so you should sell your eggs. Here, take the money, please.’

  ‘If I take it, I won’t take your clothes. C’mon, Kate, I don’t give you that many eggs anyway.’

  In the end she accepted the gift of a dozen eggs, but reluctantly.

  As we’re talking, Kate continues walking with me down her path. Across the road, a woman is taking some flowers into the churchyard. Kate murmurs, ‘There seem to be an inordinate number of deaths in Treverny. I’ve noticed how many people go to the churchyard with flowers. It’s terribly worrying.’