I’ve not replaced our old washing machine, for I really do loathe throwing out something that is perfectly serviceable. Next year, when we’re with the agency, will be time enough for a new one. There is a load of clothes in the washer now, and I go to see if they’re done. To my horror, there is water everywhere, all over the floor, pouring from my trusty washing machine. It’s stopped and I open the door gingerly. More water cascades out and I shut it quickly.
This is just what I don’t need. Ben’s away; he knows the machine’s funny ways and can get it going sometimes when there’s a blip, but he won’t be home until late tonight. My spare uniform shorts are in there and I need them for tomorrow; I got a bit carried away rummaging in some brambles trying to find a ball for the toddler son of one of my customers and I ripped my other pair earlier. The weather’s hot and humid, with temperatures tomorrow predicted for the high twenties; I don’t want to wear the heavy Royal Mail trousers, that’s for sure.
I pull on shorts and a loose T-shirt, fasten my hair into a ponytail and mop the water on the floor, drain the washing machine. I then do all the things Ben does – like examining the filter for a blockage and checking the door. But it won’t start. It seems stone dead.
I have to get it going so I phone Al, the young man who has done numerous repairs on various electrical appliances in our place. I get him on his mobile and he tells me he’s in Treverny anyway, next door with my neighbours, Kate and Leon, and will be right over.
He’s here in fifteen minutes. ‘Good timing,’ he says as he bounces in. ‘Those neighbours of yours, they bought this fancy telly down from London, along with other electronic stuff, and I had to wire it all up. They got some cash, don’t they?’
I shrug. I’m not about to be drawn into talking about them with Al. He goes on, ‘I had some raffle tickets for the village footie club, some great prizes. I asked your neighbour if he’d like a ticket and he said no, but he gave me a tenner anyway. I tried to get him to take the tickets but he said he didn’t want’em.’
Instead of looking happy about this perk, Al looks positively glum. I say, ‘Well, that’s OK, isn’t it? It was generous of Leon, giving you ten pounds.’ Even as I say this, I’m beginning to realise I spend a great deal of time trying to justify or explain our neighbours’ actions to the locals.
Al says, ‘The cash is fine, yeah, we can be doing with it all right, but man, what’s wrong with taking a raffle ticket? Aren’t our prizes good enough for him?’ He shakes his head, scratching it as if searching there for words. Finally he says, ‘Some folk just don’t get it, do they.’ It’s a statement, not a question. ‘They just don’t get that money’s not everything. We all want it, and need it, but hell, it’s not all there is.’ He finally looks up at me. ‘And it sure as hell’s not a substitute for other things. D’ya know what I’m saying?’
I nod. Actually, I do. It’s something that the Wintersons haven’t learned yet, and I’m beginning to wonder if they ever will. The other day I was talking to them both about a fundraising event some of the villagers want to hold to raise money for repairs on the hall. We plan on having cake stalls, second-hand clothes stands, games with prizes for the children – the usual stuff of village fetes all over England. I was in Kate and Leon’s house, drinking coffee, enjoying the breeze blowing through the open windows. All their new kitchen units gleamed, and the Italian tiles on the floor glowed rustically in the sunbeams. I thought how the rental agency would love this house, everything new, in perfect condition.
‘Would you like to take part in the fundraiser?’ I asked them, thinking it would be a great way for them to get to know some of the villagers. Apart from us, they haven’t seemed to make any friends.
Leon and Kate looked at each other. I went on, ‘You could run the cake stall. That’s great fun. There’s always loads of the most delicious baked goodies on sale, all made by the locals. I always get some for the freezer; you can’t make them for the price.’ Kate looked doubtful so I babbled on, ‘Or you could both run one of the games stalls. Like throw a ball at a teddy, or guess how many buttons are in a bottle.’
They still looked doubtful, but then Kate said, ‘I’d like to help, and I know Leon would, too.’ She looked at him and he nodded at her to go on. ‘But – I’m not much good at that kind of stuff.’
Leon broke in then. ‘It’s hard for either of us to commit right now, Tessa. But look, it’s a great idea, and like Kate said, we’d love to help. After all, Treverny is our village, too. I’ll tell you what we’ll do – we’ll make a donation to the village hall fund.’ He smiled broadly, pleased at his solution.
Kate looked relieved. ‘That’s what we’ll do, yes. In fact, wouldn’t it be easier if everyone did that? I mean, I know money is tight everywhere these days, but let’s face it, if most of the locals go to the fete – and they’ll support it, as they always do – they’ll probably each spend, say, ten pounds, or so. Well, wouldn’t it save a lot of time and energy if everyone just gave that amount to the village hall fund?’
They both looked at me with such an expectant look that for a moment I didn’t know what to say. Like Al said, they just don’t get it. The fundraising fete is not only about money, it’s about people getting together, doing things together, keeping their community alive.
Tactfully, I tried to explain some of this to Leon and Kate, stressing the fun we villagers get from these efforts, and they listened politely but it was obviously not their thing. So I asked them about the play they saw at the Old Vic in London last weekend, and they asked me how the filming was going – Ben’s in another episode of Doc Martin – and we spent another twenty minutes amiably chatting. When I left, they walked me outside and as we were saying goodbye, we heard the dreadful screech of Emmanuel again.
Kate overreacted theatrically, making a face and holding her hands over her ears. Leon frowned. ‘Damn bird,’ he muttered. ‘Really, it shouldn’t be allowed. It really shouldn’t. Poor Kate gets headaches from that noise, and I must say it drives me up the wall every time I hear it. It sounds like fingernails scraping a blackboard, only ten times as loud.’
I murmured something about not noticing it so much but Kate cut in, saying, ‘I tried to stop it, but do you know, no one signed my petition. Well, none of the locals. Two or three who own homes here but live in London did, but that’s all. No point taking it further if no one backs us up.’
It seemed they had forgotten that I didn’t sign it either, nor did Ben, for they looked at me as if expecting a sympathetic glance. I nodded non-committedly, relieved that Edna and Hector weren’t going to be hassled, and rushed back home.
I stop thinking about Leon and Kate as Al inspects the washing machine. I bring him tea and a large piece of carrot cake – he requires mounds of food when he comes to repair something – and wait for the verdict. Finally, he finds some part that’s faulty, says it can be repaired easily, then tells me the astronomical cost. ‘That’s settled it,’ I say. ‘We’ll have to have a new one.’
He’s horrified. ‘No, no, no! Of course you don’t. That’s what a new part would cost, but hey, I’m sure I can find you a second-hand one. Leave it to me.’
‘It’s fine. We’ll have to have a new machine when we start proper rentals, so no point wasting money repairing this.’
‘It won’t cost much, honest. A second-hand one is cheap, I know just where to look, too.’
We squabble about this for a bit, me insisting on a new machine, Al insisting it can be mended inexpensively. Suddenly I stop, seeing the ludicrousness of the situation. He should be convincing me to spend the money on a new appliance – his parents own the shop we’d buy it from – not the other way around. Then I remember yet again that this is Cornwall. They do things differently here. It’s such a sensible way to live – instead of chucking things out as they get worn and immediately buying new, this frugality saves resources.
So in the end I let Al have his way and tell him to find the part, to mend the machine. Eventually
we’ll have to get that new one, but if he fixes it, as he says he can, then it’ll do for a few more months at least.
When Al leaves, I take Jake off to another of my favourite woodlands for a walk. The storms at the end of June have subsided and July is, though cooler, sunny and pleasant, with only the occasional shower to keep us on our toes. Today it rained briefly in the morning and the foliage shines in the sunlight, not quite dry yet. Patterns of shade and light mottle the woodland floor, and create shapes between the leafy trees.
I breathe the peculiar woodland scent, a wonderful heady mix of damp earth, old wood, past rainfall combined with hot sunlight. Because we’re so close to the sea, there is a faint tang of salt and ozone, though barely perceptible – more like a hint of some faraway scent that you can only just make out.
Jake is rummaging in mounds of dead leaves not yet fully composted back into the earth, and occasionally gives an excited yelp when he discovers the scent of a rabbit, a squirrel, or mouse. The trees and stones are covered with lichen. It seems to be all colours, green, grey, yellow, and white.
I finish my long amble on one of the many wetlands that abound in Cornwall. I wander across the tidal estuary watching the waders pecking the mudflats. The river water is churning now; a hefty breeze has sneaked up on us. Sandpipers scurry along, watched by an egret standing motionless on a rock. The smell of water and wet earth is quite strong here, exhilarating. Gulls skim and swoop over the waves.
Jake and I head back just as the rain starts. It’s only a shower, and a warm one at that, so I don’t mind not having a waterproof. The rain on my face is as life-affirming as the sunshine. You can’t have one without the other, I tell Jake, as we both quicken our pace towards home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Summer Days
THE WEEK BEFORE we leave for the B&B is a busy one. I’ve taken a week’s holiday from the Royal Mail, and will take my second one when the next group of Londoners come to rent our house. Ben has taken the same time off from the café where he only works sporadically anyway, when there are no acting jobs around. We’ll spend a week at St Petroc manning the B&B then a week back at work. Later we’ll have a proper holiday with Annie and Pete on Dartmoor.
Work is, as usual, time-consuming during the summer months. The houses that were empty all winter are suddenly lived in again and I have to deliver to them, mostly junk mail, but it has to be done. People are also more chatty in the warm weather, which is fine with me but it makes my deliveries longer.
Doing my round at St Geraint, I’m more aware than usual about how noisy, how loud, the visitors from Up Country are. Not just the day tourists, or the campers and cottage renters, but also the second homers who come year after year. I didn’t notice it so much at first though I heard some of the locals mention it, complaining that no one knew how to talk softly these days. Now I’ve heard it, too, hear it this morning as I’m walking along the main street of the town, the sea on my left and the little shops and cafés on my right. It’s a perfect holiday scene, the day tranquil, still, and sunny. A couple of terns sit on the harbour wall, herring gulls cry to each other overhead, and people are strolling, eating ice cream, admiring the clear emerald and blue sea glassy as a mirror under the perfect sky – and talking. Loudly. A couple nearby are admonishing their children, two docile little girls, for letting ice cream drip down their arms and onto their pretty summer frocks. They chide kindly, without rancour, but loudly, as if they want the whole street to know what pride they take in teaching their daughters the proper way to eat ice cream. On the other side of the road, staring at the sea, a middle-aged couple are discussing where to go for lunch. They can’t both be deaf, surely? Their voices are raised so high they must reach the ferry about to leave the harbour. And now another man and woman, holiday dressed in shorts and flip-flops, stop me to ask directions to the Roswinnick Hotel. Although they are standing right next to me, they seem to be talking to someone at the end of the street. They are certainly not deaf, for I direct them in a soft voice, but their thanks and comments on the hotel nearly blast me off the pavement.
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 wh
en 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.’
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