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I’ve come to the conclusion that this is the kind of persona a person has to adapt to get ahead in a large city. You have to be more vocal, brasher, more noticeable. Your voice no doubt becomes louder without you realising, as you struggle against all the zillions of others trying to make their mark, to be recognised, to get somewhere.

Passing the posh Roswinnick Hotel, I remember chatting with the valet there, before he moved on to other work. He used to have great fun parking all the guests’ cars. His favourite was Rowan Atkinson’s Austin Martin DB7 Vantage, the same car Rowan used in the film
Johnny English
. The valet was overwhelmed at the thought that he’d be parking this amazing car. Brimming with excitement, he phoned his mates, told them to come outside and they’d see a fine sight. Full of curiosity, they came out of their homes, wondering what was up. They didn’t have long to wait for there was their friend the valet, taking the long scenic route around the village to the car park, grandly waving to his mates from the wheel of that fabulous car.

I was in my postie van that day and saw it all, the fabulous car, the valet waving, his friends cheering as he drove by. I gave a cheer, too, as he passed, though it wasn’t until later that I learned who owned the car.

Mickey at the boat yard is busy, mending and maintaining the many yachts moored here. They all seem to be out today, the placid sea is full of them, shining white and silver in the sunlight. I exchange a few words with him, mostly commiserating as he berates some of the yacht owners who want a repair or a paint job done immediately. ‘I tell’ee, maid, them boat owners can be sumptin’ else,’ he moans. ‘All puffed up with importance, like a feisty gull. Not all, mind, but more’n some. Drives me wild.’

‘I know how you feel, Mickey. But they pay good money. You work hard in the summer but you make enough to take it easier in winter.’

He looks up from under an upside down hull, ‘Be that as it may, maid, money ain’t everything, y’know.’

I nod and agree as I throw the post into the van and head off on my rounds. I’ve been hearing a lot of that lately. It seems a contradiction, too. On the one hand, people in Cornwall are really struggling to make a living. Jobs are scarcer than ever, wages lower, inflation higher. So money, and making it, is vitally important. And yet, as Mickey, Guy, Al and others have said to me, it isn’t everything. It’s ironic, I think as I drive along, sunglasses in place to reflect the glare on the bright summer’s day, that those who have least, know the importance of other things: time, leisure, respect, quality of life. They might not put it in so many words, but that’s what they mean when they say, ‘Money ain’t everything, y’know.’

When I get to Poldowe, Clara stops me in the street before I get to her house. ‘Nothing for you today,’ I say cheerily. ‘Not even the junk.’

‘I wasn’t after the post. Tessa, I’m upset.’

‘Oh goodness, are the cats all right?’

‘Yes, fine,’ she brightens for a moment. ‘Guy and I have managed to find homes for every one of the latest four strays brought in.’ Her brightness fades and her face darkens. Oh no, I think, it’s not Guy, is it? She must sense what I’m thinking for she smiles and looks years younger. ‘Guy is so terrific. He’s moving in with me, y’know. When summer is over. Right now he’s got so many jobs on, repair work for the second homers and stuff, that he’s out till late, getting it done. So we’ll wait till September.’

‘I’m so glad for you both. You’re lucky to have each other.’

She looks dreamily out over the church and the sea beyond. I tell her I’d better get on, and that brings her back to earth. ‘Oh Tessa, it’s Delia I’m worrying about. She seems so, I don’t know, confused most of the time. We’re all keeping an eye on her, but we wanted your opinion. That is, Ginger and I did. She was going to talk to you weeks ago about it then changed her mind. But since then things have got so much worse.’

I remember that time when Ginger confronted me in Poldowe, troubled about something but not saying what it was. Clara goes on, ‘Ginger decided we could handle Delia ourselves. She’s one of us, born and grew up around here. Ginger thought it over and decided it wasn’t right to call on someone else.’

I can understand this. ‘Look, Clara, if there’s anything I can do, let me know. I’ve also been worried about Delia.’

Clara looks relieved. ‘The thing is, you see loads of old people on your rounds, are any of them as odd as she’s getting? Ginger and me, and Melanie, too, from the shop – well, we’re getting so we don’t know what’s normal for folk Delia’s age and what’s not. Maybe we’re all too close to her.’

I’m on my way there anyway so we go to Delia’s house together. But Ginger is already there, making tea for the older woman. So is Melanie, who is fussing around Delia trying to get her to eat a tea cake she’s just brought over.

We all greet each other and then I try to talk to Delia. She’s worse since I last saw her, over a fortnight ago as my round was changed for a short time because another postie was ill. I’m shocked at how bad she looks, thin and worn, her eyes wide and frightened in a pale face.

But she sees me, smiles and knows who I am, calls me by name and asks if there is any post for her. I’m relieved, for it seems like the old Delia. Then in a few moments she seems to have forgotten. ‘Clara, who is this woman? Why is she here?’ Delia grows agitated. Clara soothes her, holds her hand, until she calms down. I go into the kitchen to talk to Ginger who says, ‘She’s like this all the time. She didn’t know me when I first came in today. Then something clicked into place and she remembered, seemed perfectly normal for a time, then suddenly off she went again, acting strangely.’

‘Is she eating?’ This has been our worry all along.

‘Oh, between Clara and Melanie and me, we make sure. And the other villagers, too. We have a rota, bringing in food for her. And she still gets her Meals on Wheels.’

‘But does she eat it?’

‘We always sit with her, make sure she eats at least enough to keep going.’ She finishes washing up some plates, pours tea into several cups. ‘That’s the hard part, making her eat.’

I help her bring the tea out to the sitting room. Melanie says, ‘I’d better get back to the shop, relieve Tufty.’ I’ve also got to get on, so I walk out with her. Clara comes with us, leaving Delia with Ginger who says she’ll sit there a while, to make sure Delia drinks some tea and eats something. ‘Will you change her bed, or should I come back?’ I hear Melanie say quietly to Ginger who answers, ‘That’s OK, I’ll do it, you did it yesterday, and Clara the day before. My turn. I’ll wash the sheets, too.’

Just as we are going, Delia tries to leave the house, hysterically repeating that she must find her father. The village women calm her soon enough but it is a worrying sight.

Outside, Melanie goes off to the shop and I stand talking to Clara who asks, ‘What d’you think, Tessa? What we were wondering really was, is there anything to be done? You know, like medication, or something.’

‘She needs special care, Clara,’ I try to soften it but I’m horrified at what I saw and heard. Delia is definitely far worse than she was even a few weeks ago.

Clara says, ‘What do you mean, special care?’

‘The social services. You need to call them. They’ll know what to do.’

Her face hardens into stubbornness. I’ve seen her like this before, when someone has been cruel to a cat. Fierce and determined. ‘Can’t do that, Tessa. We look after her. Me and the others. We be doing it since her husband died. First t’was our mums bringing her food, helping her out when her husband first died and she didn’t go out no more, then us’n took over. She don’t need care, she got us.’ Her speech has gone into dialect, the first time I’ve ever heard Clara talk with a Cornish twang. Though I’ve noticed this with some of the other locals, how they can lapse back and forth, I’ve never heard Clara doing it before. It’s as if she’s closing in, keeping out outsiders, especially social services.

This kind of protectiveness is something I’ve often witnessed, the way the locals band together to look after their own. ‘Clara, I’m sure you and the others know what you’re doing, and I know you look after her, but if you ring the social services, they might give you some advice, some help, too, if need be.’

She’s shaking her head, not looking at me, as she says, ‘They’ll take her away. Put her in a smelly home somewhere. It’ll kill ’er. She needs her own home.’

I leave it there. It’s very admirable, what they are doing, but I’m afraid Delia will only get worse. They can’t be there all the time. And all of them, Clara, Ginger, Melanie, have jobs, lives, of their own. They’ll never be able to look after her twenty-four hours a day.

I can’t linger any more but carry on with my deliveries, hoping against reason that I’m wrong, that this is a blip, that Delia doesn’t have dementia as I fear and that she’ll return to her old self before long.

After Poldowe I’m in my van again and off to Trescatho, an isolated village on a road leading nowhere. It’s high on a woody hill overlooking the sea, and in the past few years this sleepy village has been converted to a ghost town with a handful of permanent incomers, and a heap of second homeowners.

Two of the permanent residents are the Armstrongs, who moved in a couple of years ago and have settled perfectly, endearing themselves to the locals in other villages by their good-natured spirits and love of all things Cornish. I deliver to them last, as they’re pleasant to chat to and I welcome the cold drink they have waiting for me in this hot spell. Before I get there, I’m stopped by someone called Donald Wilkins and his wife, Maddie. They’ve bought one of the old thatched houses in the area as their ‘summer cottage’ and have been trying to get it repaired, and in places newly thatched. They’re both in the garden, sniffing the air like a couple of terriers, trying to get a whiff of the sea a couple of kilometres away. At the very end of the long garden is a cedar tree, quite an old one, and I can see Woody on a ladder, sawing through one of the branches.

He breaks off when he sees me, coming down the ladder to say hello. Donald and Maddie frown a little at this, and I can tell they don’t like him chatting when they’re paying him by the hour. I feel like saying, ‘Money isn’t everything, you two,’ but I refrain. Woody is a hard worker, always conscientious, and the Wilkins will get their money’s worth of work. They obviously know this, for they don’t say a word and even force a smile as he greets me and goes off to his van to grab his rollies, for a smoke and a chat.

While he’s gone Donald says, ‘Well, at least he shows up when he says.’

‘And does the work,’ Maddie admits.

‘They all do, in the end. The locals. Sometimes it’s in their own good time, but they get there in the end.’

‘Hah, do they?’ Maddie is indignant. ‘We’re still waiting for our thatcher.’

‘He’s the best in the West Country, we were told,’ Donald goes on with the story. ‘So we phoned him two years ago. He came, looked at the thatch, said he’d take on the job, and then we didn’t see him for a year.’

‘We would have got someone else but everyone warned us not to, that this chap was the very best.’

I say, ‘But he came in the end, didn’t he? I’m sure I saw him here in spring.’

Donald looks grim. ‘Oh, he came all right. He got all his equipment, got the new thatch, his ladders, scaffolding and whatnot. Up he climbed and within minutes he was down again, packing up his stuff.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’d found some birds nesting in the thatch. Sparrows. He said he couldn’t disturb them, and would be back when they’d flown. Can you believe it?’

I can, but I don’t say anything. Maddie says, ‘I asked him why there isn’t netting covering the thatch here, like there is in Surrey. To keep the birds out.’

‘What did he say?’

They look at each other, a hopeless look, as if they’ll never understand the way of the world down here.

‘He said, “We don’t be holding with that kind’a thing in these parts.”’

I start to laugh, but when I notice neither of them is even smiling, I try to look solemn. Luckily Woody has joined us, a rolled cigarette lit between his fingers. He plops down on the warm grass and stretches out, propping his head up with his hand, elbow on the ground. ‘So how’re things, Tessa?’

‘OK. We’re off next week, to St Petroc, to do our B&B stint.’

‘That’ll be a right laugh.’

‘I hope so.’

He takes a long drag on his rollie. The smoke floats in the direction of the Wilkins, hovering nearby, and drives them away back into the house. I wonder if they’re at the window, timing Woody’s break. ‘Holly’s loving the shop job,’ he says on an exhalation. ‘It’s great for her to be getting out, seeing people. She was getting lonely in the caravan, gardening on her own all day. No one but my old granddad up the road to keep her company.’

‘How is Sydney anyway?’

He grins. ‘Never see’im these days. He’s over’t Nell’s quite a bit.’

‘It’s that serious?’

‘Don’t know about that. All I know is, the two are together more’n they be apart.’

‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Me? I’m glad as hell. Me and Holly been worried about the old man, all alone, fussing over the two of us in the caravan like we was babies. Hardly notices us now. First the cats to take his mind off of us, now Nell. ’Tis great, we love it.’

When I leave and toddle off to the Armstrongs’ house, I feel quite cheery about Nell and Sydney. And, I have to admit, about the thatcher who refuses to work where birds are nesting.

Mr Armstrong and his wife are keen bird lovers, and I find them both putting seed in a bird feeder. ‘Ah, hello,’ they call out. ‘You’ve just missed the cirl bunting. She was here again earlier this morning, on our bird table.’

The couple have kept me informed about cirl buntings over the last few weeks, for they are passionate about the birds. ‘They used to be common in southern England and Wales,’ Mr Armstrong told me. ‘They were known as the village bunting, a hundred years ago. They’re from the same family as our yellowhammers.’

Mrs Armstrong sighed. ‘And then like so many of our beloved birds, they started to decline.’