Home to Roost (15 page)

By now the shop is even more crammed with people buying provisions for a picnic, a bucket and spade for the little ones, cold drinks, and various other odds and ends. Sydney says, ‘Nell’s right, you know. The shop seems to be getting busier and busier, and it’s not even the Easter holidays yet.’

‘It will be in another week.’

‘She’ll be run off her feet, poor woman.’ He looks truly upset at this.

‘Oh, Nell can handle it,’ I say to reassure him.

He looks even more distressed. ‘But she shouldn’t have to. That’s why I suggested Holly.’

‘What?’

He takes my elbow gently, leads me to the tinned tomatoes and baked beans in the corner of the shop to keep out of the way of customers who keep bumping into us as they browse around the tiny space. ‘You know – Holly, Woody’s girlfriend. Such a sweet little maid.

‘Yes, I know who you mean, Sydney, I was asking what it was you were suggesting to Nell about her.’

He takes my elbow again and leans his face down towards mine. I get a whiff of aftershave. It smells like something he’s had in his bathroom cupboard for decades, but at least it’s not too overpowering. He has to stoop down to make sure I hear, for his voice has dropped to a whisper. ‘Holly needs a job, and Nell needs help in the shop. You see what I’m getting at?’ He straightens up triumphantly, looking as if he’s solved several world problems in one go.

I say, ‘Have you mentioned this to Nell?’

He nods. ‘The other day.’ His look of triumph falters. ‘She acted like she didn’t hear a word I said. She’s a wonderful girl, our Nell, but she can be a mite stubborn at times, y’know.’

Nell, stubborn? The understatement of the year, I nearly said. And I’ve never heard her described as a girl before. Sydney is going on, ‘Any chance of helping me in this, Tessa? Nell likes you, she’ll listen to you.’

I tell him I’ll try, because I think it’s a good idea. Morranport, as well as St Geraint and all the coastal areas of Cornwall, doubles or even triples in size during the school holidays and summer months, and Nell certainly is run off her feet. She still has the locals who come into the post office with packages to mail, stamps to buy, cars to tax, and all the sundry services post offices continue to provide, despite the Internet taking over many of these things. The villagers like the face to face contact, the chats, the walk to this tiny post office perched practically on the sea. For some, it’s their only contact with other people except for their post deliverer. So Nell has these to deal with, along with the extra visitors buying shovels, spades, and fishing nets, and day-trippers buying ice creams, cold Cokes, and the Cornish pasties Nell gets in from the bakery.

I get a chance to talk to Nell alone before I leave. For a few moments the shop is clear and I jump at the opportunity. Nell hardly hears me out before interrupting, ‘You be saying I’m too old for this job? That it’s time I be put to pasture? Retired? Or just shot and dumped into the pond, like they used to be doing with lame horses in the old days?’

‘Oh, Nell, of course not. Listen, not even I could handle all the people who come in here in summer, and I’m about thirty years younger than you are.’

‘You got some cheek, maid, thinking you be knowing how old I be,’ she glares at me, but her eyes are dancing with fun.

She’s in a mellow mood now so I push my advantage, talk to her about help, at least from now until summer’s end to start with. She knows Holly, and likes her, so that’s no hurdle, but she still stubbornly insists that she absolutely does not need any help at all in the post office or shop.

I’m about to give up the campaign when I have a brainwave. I say enticingly, ‘Sydney’s so fond of Holly; she’s like a daughter to him. He would be so happy if she found work, especially here with you, Nell. He thinks the world of you.’

She looks pleased even though she’s doing her best to look stern. ‘Hmmph,’ she says. She’s not usually a woman of few words so that’s encouraging.

I go on, ‘One thing does worry me. With Holly here as well as you, you’ll never be able to get rid of Sydney. He’ll be hanging around the shop even more than he seems to be doing since he got those cats, always in your way. Nice as he is, I know you wouldn’t want that.’

Nell clears her throat, ‘D’you know, I be thinking while you be nattering away, that I have forgotten how crazy it be in summertime. Why sometimes so many folk are crammed into this little place that drawing a breath be near impossible.’ She waves me an offhand goodbye and I leave with my bag of post for the residents of Morranport.

I see her again a couple of hours later, back at the post office. ‘Oh hello, maid,’ she greets me with a smile. ‘I phoned that nice Holly to help out in the shop when we be getting rushed. Thought I’d be telling you before someone else blabs it to you, seeing as since you’re the postie here.’

I smile to myself as I walk out the door. Diplomacy and general animal cunning are as necessary here in rural Cornwall as they are in London, sometimes.

Before I leave the post van in St Geraint I stop at the tiny cottage belonging to Tufty’s mother, Angela, the knitter of those colourful fingerless gloves. She wasn’t home when I tried to deliver a package to her earlier, and she’d forgotten to leave the porch door open as she usually does when she’s out. There’s a letterbox for the thinner mail, but this is a bulky package that I didn’t want to leave outside. It’s no problem calling again, as I pass close to her cottage on the way to the boat yard car park.

She’s home this time, pottering in her front garden which is wild and wonderful, a patch of uncut grass filled with flowers. Bright spots of blue, yellow, pink, and deep red poke out between the grasses. White wood anemones crouch between tiny wild daffodils and delicate violets, plus a host of other flowers I don’t recognise.

Angela’s white hair is standing straight up on top of her head as it often is, unless she remembers to smooth it down. She has this habit of running her hand through and then forgetting to pat it back down again. She’s sweet and cherubic, rather old-fashioned in her manners and dress, hardly ever going out, not even having a television, as Tufty once told me, but preferring to reread again and again all Jane Austen’s novels.

So it’s a huge surprise to me when she cries, ‘Oh how marvellous! My wool has arrived, and I only ordered it from eBay a couple of days ago. God bless the Royal Mail.’ She smiles her sweet matronly smile, ‘And eBay, of course.’

Right there and then she opens the parcel and out tumble a rainbow of colours, balls of wool that look like the neon lights of a huge modern city, bright and glowing and magical. Some sparkle in the sunlight, others smoulder like embers with their fiery colours. ‘Aren’t they wonderful?’ Angela enthuses. ‘Such vivid colours! When I discovered these on eBay, I was thrilled. I’ve found a steady supplier, too.’ Her gentle smile turns slightly sly. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t tell you the name. It’s a very small outlet and I seem to be taking all of his stock of this type of yarn.’ She looks slightly embarrassed. ‘Though I have to say, I’ve already bought far more than I can use. I can’t seem to resist.’

I assure her I wouldn’t dream of asking about her supplier. ‘But Angela, have you ever thought of selling your gloves? I see they’ve spread out of Poldowe. It’s not just Melanie and Tufty wearing them now, but others, I’ve noticed lately.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t ask money for them,’ she looks shocked at the thought, then turns wistful. ‘But it would be a treat to see other people wearing them. They are a bit of fun, don’t you think? I sometimes imagine Jane Austen in a pair. She had quite a mischievous streak, you know.’

By the time I leave, I’ve convinced her that if she sold some of her gloves, it would pay for the knitting materials, and more importantly, bring delight to loads of people. In the end, she insists on giving me five of her ‘best’ pairs to show some of the village shopkeepers. I’ve got my eye on a deep orange pair, the colour of a mature pumpkin or a harvest moon – perfect for Halloween, especially with the silvery black trim. I’ll buy them surreptitiously from one of the village shops; if I admire the pair too much she’ll give them to me then and there, and I know she struggles to live on her small pension.

I spend an hour on the way home stopping at a few village shops to ask if they’ll take some of Angela’s gloves in the autumn. They all agree. The St Geraint post office shop will take at least ten, feeling sure they’ll sell them all during the half-term holiday. I negotiate a fair price (Angela asked me to do this) and I finally make it home feeling quite pleased with life. From this small beginning, who knows, a whole empire can grow, I say to myself. That’s how Laura Ashley started, that’s how The Body Shop began, organically and growing upwards from the roots. Laughing at myself for my crazy dreams for other people, I quickly come down to earth, remembering that’s the last thing Angela would want. Maybe a small cottage industry would do, rather than a multi-national company.

Though it’s far too warm for gloves, I pull on the ones I purchased from the Treverny shop, where I left the five pairs. Well, four now. I hold them up to the sunlight which catches the bright orange and they gleam joyfully like a sunset over a late autumn seascape.

Annie rings me one morning on my mobile. ‘I can’t remember if you’re working or have a day off today,’ she says. Her voice sounds strained.

‘I’m off. What’s up?’

‘Look, can we talk? I’m free now if you are.’

I’ve got a dozen things to do but I’ll put them all off for Annie. Something must be wrong; we met only a few days ago. Ben and I went to their place for an evening of fish and chips, and a DVD, though we never did get around to watching the film as we were too busy talking.

She’s here in less than half an hour. We seat ourselves at the kitchen table and I say straightaway, ‘So what’s up?’

‘I don’t know how to tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’

She looks at me, worry and concern written all over her face. ‘We’re moving. Pete and I. Leaving Cornwall.’

I’m so stunned I can’t answer. Annie rushes on. ‘We had a phone call, the day after that evening with you and Ben. Pete’s uncle, the one who has a small farm in Devon. You’ve heard Pete talk about him.’

I nod. I still can’t find my voice.

‘He’s just turned sixty and wants to turn his life around. Travel, see the world. He’s got no children, no wife – they divorced years ago – and Pete is like a son to him. But he doesn’t want to sell up, loves his farm, the animals. He just needs a rest from them for a few years. So he wants Pete to take over. He’s been thinking about this for months.’

I finally speak. ‘So how does Pete feel about all this?’

Annie smiles for the first time. ‘Oh Tessa, he’s so happy! It’s his dream to run a farm of his own. He’s been in agricultural supplies for so long and this is a chance in a lifetime. And he loves that farm; he spent all his childhood summers there, helping his uncle.’

‘Annie, I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say,’ I still haven’t taken it in. ‘How do you feel about it?’

Her smile fades. ‘I wouldn’t choose to leave Cornwall, you know that. I’ve been so happy here. And having you nearby again has been such a treat, such a bonus to my new life.’ She sighs. ‘But I want to give it a go. Because of Pete. How can I say no?’

I understand, of course I do, but my heart is heavy. ‘When would you start?’

‘As soon as possible. His uncle wants to be gone before summer. Pete’s giving in his notice at work today. We’ve been talking about nothing else all week, listing the pros and cons. We only decided late last night. Pete wanted to make sure I was up for it. He said it was up to me, in the end.’

‘And are you? Up for it?’

Annie’s eyes fill with tears. She looks vulnerable, uncertain. ‘I don’t know. But I’ve got to try, for his sake.’

I lean across the table to give her hand a squeeze, blinking back my own tears. ‘Of course you do. And you’ll be fine.’

‘Will I? I’m not a starry-eyed twenty-year-old any more, Tessa, I’m double that. Maybe I’m too old to start a new life as a farmer’s wife.’

‘You started a new life here.’

‘That was different. A little house in a village, my best friend nearby – it was easy.’

‘It was easy because you had Pete. And you’ll have him wherever you go. Hold on to that.’

She’s smiling now and crying at the same time. ‘I will. I do. I love him to bits, you know.’

That evening, I tell Ben the news. He’s sad about it, too. The four of us have had such treasured times together since Annie and Pete met. ‘But you’ll miss Annie the most,’ he says to me.

I nod. I’ve already had my little weep, my bit of grieving, and I’m determined to be optimistic about the move. ‘I will miss her, but at least Devon is loads closer than London. Think of the fun times we’ll have visiting them. The farm is right on Dartmoor, apparently.’

‘Lots to explore around there,’ Ben agrees.

‘And look how lucky we are – our old friends are moving, but we’ve got new friends now, right next door, who we seem to have lots in common with. I know Leon and Kate could never take Annie and Pete’s place, but you know that old cliché – when one door closes, another opens.’

Ben and I talk for a long time, long after we should have been in bed as I’m up early again tomorrow. But it takes a while to digest the news, and then we end by reminiscing about Annie, about how long she’s been in our lives, and from there, on to other friends throughout the years. And still I lie in bed for an age before I fall asleep, thinking of how life always manages to surprise us with the things we least expect.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Trumpeting of Angels …