Home to Roost (31 page)

‘Sydney?’ Edna must have heard that last bit. She’s muffled up against the sudden cold spell today with a woolly hat, a long velvet cape, and some very ancient sheepskin boots. ‘How is your dear grandfather, Woody?’

‘Oh, fine,’ Woody says. ‘Though worried about you, as I said already. This tree …’

Edna politely but firmly cuts him off. ‘Do give him my love. And tell him I’m sorry it didn’t work out with little Nell.’

Little
Nell? Well, I suppose she’s about ten years younger than Edna, maybe more. I keep forgetting that they all grew up together in the area, and knew each other well. And no doubt still keep tabs on each other, through the Cornish grapevine that winds from village to village, from coast to coast.

Hector, also woolly-hatted and wearing an ankle-length black overcoat topped with a rather holey crimson scarf, says benignly, ‘Ah, Sydney and little Nell – yes, it’s a pity it didn’t work out.’ He turns to his wife. ‘She would be much more suitable for him than you’d ever have been, my dear. Aren’t you glad I came along just as I did, that time in St Petroc when we were so young, and hanging about with all those strange artists?’

Woody, Holly, and I have all turned to stare at them, waiting for them to go on. The young couple look almost bewildered, as if they can’t imagine all these ancient folk ever being as young as they are. But of course Hector and Edna don’t say another word. They never do, and we’re always left wondering, tantalised.

Edna brings us back to the present, ‘How lovely that moon is.’

‘And the rooks, settling down, getting ready for the night,’ adds Hector.

Woody says, with desperation in his voice, ‘Please. We’ve got to come to some decision about this tree. It’s got to come down. Winter’s nearly here and there’s a real risk a strong wind could blow it right over.’

‘It survived that terrible summer storm. It must be sturdier than we give it credit for.’

‘But there’ll be more storms. The ground will be wetter in winter, the roots could weaken even more. The oak really should come down, for your own safety.’

Edna says kindly, ‘You’ve already told us that, dear. Quite a few times.’

‘He’s right,’ Holly cries. ‘We’d never forgive ourselves if anything happened to you, because of that bloody tree.’ She stamps her foot in frustration. She’s a wearing a woolly hat which covers her still-shaven head. Earlier, I saw the Humphreys contributing to her fund for charity. She and her mates have raised quite a sum already. Holly says they’ll keep their heads shaven until their friend’s chemo is over and her hair is growing back.

Woody echoes Holly’s words, ‘She’s right. I’d sure as hell never forgive myself if that tree comes down on you.’

‘Oh my dear children,’ Hector says, ‘you must never, ever say that.’

‘Or feel any kind of guilt over us,’ Edna adds.

Woody nudges me to say something. ‘Well, I feel the same,’ I murmur. ‘We all feel terribly responsible. All your friends and neighbours do. Woody’s the expert, and if he says the tree needs cutting down, it’s the right thing to do.’

They both look at me with fondness in their eyes, yet firmness, too. Hector speaks first. ‘Thank you, Tessa. And you, Woody, and you, Holly,’ he adds, turning to us all in turn. ‘But you’re wrong. As long as that tree is in no danger of crashing down into the road, hurting others, then the right thing to do is what we feel in our hearts.’

‘And that’s to let it stay,’ Edna says. ‘For the rooks, yes, but also for us.’ She looks around at each of us then up at the sky which is beginning to darken, a lone star shining. ‘We’ve been here a long time. Hector even longer than me; he was born here. And this tree was here before that.’

‘When I’m gone, it’s up to others to decide what to do with it,’ Hector says, after a pause. ‘But I’m here now, and I say it stays where it is.’ His smile as he looks around at us is warm and tender. ‘And let’s be optimistic, shall we? The tree might not blow down, or fall down. It might stay up for a few years more, isn’t that right, Woody? No one can tell for sure.’

Woody nods, reluctantly, ‘No, you can’t say for sure I s’pose.’

Hector goes on, ‘So we’ll let it be. And what happens, happens. No good worrying about it now, is it? On such a still, clear night, with that incredible moon rising higher and higher, even as we speak.’

There’s no more to be said. We stand for a few moments more, watching the moon, and then comes a burst of noise and light as someone, somewhere, lets off the first firework of this Guy Fawkes night. We say our goodbyes, head towards our own homes. And suddenly I’m no longer worrying about the Humphreys, about their rooks, or their tree, or about them. They are right, I feel; they’ve lived long enough to know what is best for themselves, what path to follow.

The heart’s path, Hector had said. And with a sudden joyous lilt in mine, I start to run towards home, towards my family, and towards this cold, clear Cornish autumn night which is alive with the moon and stars, and the fiery crackle of distant fireworks somewhere by the dark, calm sea.

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