And so the week goes on. I never realised how much work a B&B is. There are things like the rubbish to be recycled and put out for an early pick-up, and the used linen to be loaded in special laundry sacks to be collected by the laundry service. There’s the constant shopping and replenishing supplies. And all the time there are phone calls, and emails, requests for bookings which have to be taken. Ben and I spend hours checking and rechecking that we haven’t double-booked anyone in the weeks to come.
Our favourite time is the walk before bed, when all the work is done. We either walk along the beaches if the tide is out, or along the harbour and down the pier. When the tide is full in the fishing boats bob like bath toys in the safety of the harbour, and the lights of St Petroc shine across the water like stars.
‘It’s not exactly a doddle, is it,’ Ben says on one of these walks, ‘this B&B lark.’
‘No,’ I agree, ‘but it’s sort of satisfying, isn’t it? Times like now, when we’ve finished the day’s work, and all is well, at least for the moment.’
He agrees that it is, and we go back, have an early night, ready to be bright and cheerful again at breakfast time tomorrow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Letting Go
‘WELL, THAT WASN’T so bad, was it?’ I say as we leave St Petroc and head for home.
‘It was great!’ chorus the children from the back seat.
‘We did it, anyway,’ Ben says. ‘Without too many mishaps.’
‘One or two tricky times,’ I giggle, remembering the Italians (they never got to breakfast on time, and we never had the heart to refuse them their full English), and Martha and Bertha (whom we grew quite fond of in the end but who gave us a hard time the last couple of days, insisting on staying two extra nights despite the fact we were fully booked. We had to send the new arrivals to a different B&B because the sisters refused to vacate their room).
‘There was that time with the laundry,’ Ben remembers.
The laundry company had sent us the wrong clean and ironed bedding. Oksana opened the packages to find hideous flowered polyester duvet covers and sheets, and not a sign of our white Egyptian cotton ones. After frantic phone calls and tracking down the right sets at another B&B on the other side of the town, we hadn’t finished making the beds when the new guests arrived, despite Ben, Oksana, and I working flat out. I took the guests into the dining room, apologised profusely and plied them with tea and luscious cakes I’d picked up at the bakery. Luckily they were a jolly, easy-going group, and took it all in their stride.
‘It’s not a doddle, though,’ I say as we drive into Treverny. ‘I’d rather be a postie any day.’
I do wonder about that remark, though, as I leave for my first delivery after my week’s working holiday at St Petroc. The weather has changed and August has roared in with high winds, torrential rain, and a severe drop in temperature. It’s been pouring all night and some of the roads I drive down are flooded already. One tarmacked lane leading up to several farmhouses has been totally cut off by a rushing torrent of water pouring from what was a lilting, bubbling brook. I stop, wondering what to do. There’s no way I’m going to risk driving through that, the van will be swept away. I know another route to the cluster of houses but it’s several miles out of the way, up and over the hill.
I’m forced to detour several times because of flooded lanes or roads, and it’s quite late by the time I get the van back to St Geraint. As I park at the boat yard I run into Susie, another postwoman, a feisty and fun Cornishwoman who was a huge help to me when I started out. Susie’s still a good mate and, since we’ve both finished our rounds for the day, we decide to dry out and warm up with a coffee at The Sunflower Café where Ben sometimes works.
The place is heaving with wet, steaming holiday makers, looking quite shocked at the sudden turn in the weather. Susie and I manage to find a table by the window overlooking the sea which is raging, white and churning with foam. The spray is hitting the footpath and road, drenching cars and people.
We order coffee, sit back for a gossip and a catch-up. I tell her about our B&B experiences and she tells me all the news from my round, which she took over while I was away. ‘I spent ages in Poldowe,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘First there was that funny maid, Clara, the one with the cats.’
‘I like her.’
‘Oh, so do I, but she used to talk me ear off about those mangy cats she brought in from all over, trying to find’em homes.’
‘She does love her cats.’
‘Yeah, but y’know something? She didn’t talk cats once this time. I was that relieved, thought I’d get away quick, but she went on and on about her fella, Guy. Can’t believe those two got it together,’ Susie shakes her head in wonder. ‘I thought that maid and that bloke would wander this world single the rest of their lives. Just shows, don’t it?’
She’s silent for some time, contemplating the strange way of love in this funny world, before she goes on, ‘After a good quarter hour listening to love’s bright young song – only them two are not so young, are they! – I had some post for Delia.’ The grin on her face as she was talking about Guy and Clara suddenly vanishes. ‘Tessa, maid, I be right worried ’bout that woman. She’s gone funny.’
‘I know. I’ve been worried about her myself. But she’s got Clara, and her friend Ginger looking after her, and Melanie from the shop, and apparently some of the other villagers as well. She’s not neglected.’
Susie takes a sip of coffee, adds more sugar, deep in thought. Finally she says, ‘I hate like hell interfering, but they can’t cope any more. I know that lot, they be right loyal and they do loads, but Delia needs twenty-four-hour care, now. Last week she nearly set fire to the place, God knows how, or what she was up to. Clara found a burned tea towel on the kitchen floor.’
‘Have you told them this?’
‘Yeah, but they be stubborn. Think they’re giving up on Delia if they call the social. But someone got to do it. She got no family.’
Susie looks me straight in the eye. Poldowe is my patch, and I know Susie well enough to know what she’s saying. If it were her patch, her customers, she’d be in there, doing what she thought right. Now she says, ‘Listen, Clara and Ginger, and the others, will carry on until Delia does something truly harmful, to herself or someone else. It’s not good enough.’
Susie’s warning stays with me until the next day, when I see Delia again. And I know Susie’s right – the older woman needs more help than her neighbours can give her, no matter how willing. By the time I get there, someone has already been in to give her breakfast, make sure she ate something, and obviously washed her and got her dressed. But although that couldn’t have been more than an hour or two earlier, Delia is already in a bad way. The front of her cardigan is soaking. She’s standing in the kitchen holding an empty cup to her chest which, as I strip off the light summer cardigan she’s wearing, is still soggy with hot tea.
Delia makes no response when I try to ask what happened, only looks at me with frightened eyes, not recognising me at all. Even though she doesn’t seem in any pain, I see that a bright red patch has appeared on her upper chest. She must have dropped the near-boiling tea all over herself, and not that long ago either.
She winces as I gently unfasten the top buttons of her blouse; the pain is there although she still hasn’t spoken. It looks as if it might be a nasty burn. I don’t hesitate but get out my mobile phone to call the local doctor. I happen to know that he has a surgery once a week in Poldowe, just at this moment and only down the road.
He’s with us in moments. Right behind him is Clara bringing over Delia’s sheets which she has washed and dried. While the doctor is with the injured woman, tending her burn, making her comfortable – she’s started to moan with pain – I have a chance to talk to Clara. ‘This can’t go on,’ I say.
She stares at me, defiantly at first, but then another long, drawn-out, pitiable moan from Delia pierces us both. Clara’s eyes fill with tears. She looks de
feated. ‘No,’ she says finally, quietly. ‘No, it can’t.’
When the doctor has made Delia as comfortable as possible, he says he’s calling an ambulance, taking her to hospital for tests.
Clara’s tears spill over and she’s weeping in earnest. ‘That’s the end, then,’ she gulps between sobs, confronting him. ‘You know they won’t let her back home, ever.’
The doctor is a good man; he has been treating these villagers a long time, and knows Clara, Ginger, and all the other villagers, knows how diligent they’ve been caring for Delia. He takes the weeping Clara by the shoulder, gives her a paternal hug, and says, ‘It’s time to let go, Clara. All of you.’
She blows her nose, pulls herself together. ‘I feel we’re abandoning her. She does so love her home. Me and Ginger, and Melanie, wanted to keep her here in it. She’s such a sweet old lady, always so kind to us when we were kids.’
Ginger arrives, and starts talking to the doctor, like Clara upset, but agreeing with him that there is nothing more anyone in the village can do. Delia is lying on the sofa, eyes closed, tranquil, at least for the moment. I hear the doctor say to Ginger, ‘I’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she gets good care, gets sent to the best nursing home there is around here. She’ll be safe.’
I lean down, put my hand gently on Delia’s shoulder, wanting to say something comforting but she’s oblivious now to everyone around her. I, like the others, will visit her wherever she ends up, but it still is goodbye. I’ve always been fond of Delia, and knowing she’s not going to get better saddens us all. But I take heart in what the doctor says: she’ll be safe.
I see Susie again in the little post office in St Geraint. The attached shop is filled with wet customers all talking about the latest flooding of roads, lanes, and unfortunately some low-lying homes near rivers and streams. We manage to exchange a few words in private. My concern and sorrow over Delia must show through, for she puts her hand on my shoulder, saying, ‘It’s worked out for the best. You had no choice, you had to phone the doctor; hot tea on her thin old skin could have been nasty.’
‘I know. But maybe it wasn’t that bad? I know some first aid, I could have dealt with it. And the doctor was more concerned with her mental state than the burn.’
‘So he should have been.’
‘But don’t you see, Susie? She’ll never go back home now. I feel so responsible for that.’
‘Thank heavens you be a responsible sort! Them others in the village, good souls, all them women, wanting to look after her. But they didn’t know when to let go. Thank the good Lord you did before Delia did much worse than burning herself with hot tea.’
Her words reassure me. Susie says she’ll check up on Delia, talk to the doctor, find out what nursing home she’ll be in, and let me know. ‘Don’t you be worrying, maid,’ she tells me kindly as we part. ‘Not easy, sometimes, doing the right thing. Bloody necessary, though.’
After the crisis on my postal round, I come home to find another in the village. As I pull up to the house, I see someone with waterproof and hood hurrying along our path, head down against the still-pouring rain. ‘Oh Daphne, I didn’t recognise you,’ I say as we meet. ‘Come on inside.’
She follows me into the kitchen where we pull off our soaking coats, shake the water from our hair. We talk about the continuing rain, as everyone is, and Daphne tells me about her flooded farmyard. After I’ve commiserated, she says, nodding her head to an offer of a cup of hot tea, ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about. I’d have mentioned it sooner, but you were so excited to be off on your B&B adventure – which I want to hear all about, by the way – that I didn’t want to trouble you.’
‘What is it? Nothing wrong with you or Joe, or the children, is there?’
‘It’s your neighbours again. The Wintersons. Tessa, I don’t know why the bloody hell they’re living here. They don’t seem to like a single thing about Treverny, or about Cornwall for that matter.’
I’ve never heard Daphne this cross. I find myself back in my old position again, defending Kate and Leon, trying to explain away their city ways to my friends in the village. ‘I’ve not had a chance to see them since we’ve been back, so I don’t know what the problem is this time, but whatever it is I’m sure it must be a misunderstanding. It’ll take time, but I’m sure they’ll settle.’
Even as I say this, I realise that I’m having doubts. Kate and Leon had us over for drinks and nibbles a few nights before we left for St Petroc, ‘To wish you good luck,’ they’d said. As usual we had a lively evening, enjoying their company, but this time, as has been happening increasingly, it was marred by a disagreement over village affairs. Poor Emmanuel the peacock was cited again, and also the ongoing annoyance the couple have felt for most of the summer over the smell of dung-spreading all around the village.
Daphne is shaking her head, ‘You can go on defending them, Tessa, but they’ll never fit in here. You haven’t heard the latest, either. You know that Joe’s a bell ringer at the church, and that they practise on Monday nights.’
I have a sinking feeling that I know what’s coming. ‘Um, yes?’
‘Those two neighbours of yours have complained about it. Loudly. To Joe, to every one of the bell ringers, and to the vicar himself. Kate and Leon actually wrote him a letter, saying that the noise of the practice every Monday night was disturbing the whole village.’ She takes a deep breath, to calm herself. ‘Which is a load of rubbish. They’ve been practising once a week for years and no one’s ever complained.’
For once I can’t defend the couple. They chose a house right opposite the church, for goodness’ sake, they weren’t forced to buy it. ‘So – what’s the vicar said? Anything?’
‘He came around to see Joe and the other bell ringers, most apologetic. He doesn’t know quite what to do. He hates conflict. He did hesitatingly suggest that perhaps they practise once a fortnight, but as Joe and the others pointed out, that’s not nearly enough practice for them. Also, how does he know that’ll satisfy the Wintersons? They want it stopped altogether.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Hah. Finally. You’re not sticking up for them! You’re on our side at last.’
I sigh. I’m just about to say I’m not on anyone’s side – there shouldn’t be any sides as we’re all a community, all part of one village. Then I realise that unfortunately there is conflict, and although I’ve not exactly sat on the fence, neither have I admitted loudly and clearly that my sympathies are all with the villagers. I am one, and on all the issues that have come up since the Wintersons’ arrival, the truth is that I have been solidly on the side of the locals. Kate and Leon have not adapted to life here, and now I have to admit that they are not even trying. All they’ve done is to bring their city ways, their style and manners, and yes, their prejudices, into our little Cornish village, and not met anyone in the community halfway.
Daphne is watching me, waiting to see what I’ll say next. I sigh, ‘OK, I see what you’re getting at. You’re right. Kate and Leon have not been able to adapt. And like you, I’m now beginning to wonder if they ever will.’
Daphne smiles and her shoulders sag in relief. I realise now how tense she’s been. I suppose she was expecting me to argue with her, tell her yet again that she and the others should be more patient with the Wintersons, or worse, blame the locals for Kate and Leon’s discontent. The fact that I haven’t seems to please her enormously. ‘I’m so glad to hear you say that, Tessa. Although you never signed any of their ridiculous petitions, or agreed with some of the things they did, I was still a bit worried that you saw their point of view more than you did ours – being a Londoner and all that yourself.’
I lean across the kitchen table and give her a hug. ‘Daphne, I’m not a Londoner, not any more. You ought to know that. I’m just me, happy to be here, loving it here.’
She hugs me back and we break apart, grin, chink our teacups. ‘To Treverny,’ she says. ‘Home sweet home, for better or for worse.�
�
‘To Treverny,’ I echo, and we both relax, relieved that the air had been cleared between us. I realise how fond I am of Daphne, what a good friend she is, and Joe, too. Outside, the wind gusts and howls, and the rain beats on over the rooftops, but I’m cosy and happy, and wouldn’t be anywhere else for all the clotted cream in Cornwall.
Just before our second rental begins, and we take the next week of our holiday up on Dartmoor with Annie and Pete, Kate calls to see me. I’ve not seen her other than to wave hello since we returned from St Petroc, which has been a relief because I wasn’t relishing hearing her go on about bell ringing. I was planning to talk to her, to tell her in the nicest possible way, what the villagers were saying. Perhaps if they knew just how they were antagonising everyone, they’d take a good hard look at themselves before it became down and out warfare. I hadn’t a clue how I’d go about it, but I knew I couldn’t go on without saying something.
But Kate surprises me. Once more we are in our kitchen but unlike Daphne, she refuses coffee or tea. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush, Tessa, off to Truro. I have a hair appointment. I wanted to have it done in London when we were there last week but my stylist couldn’t fit me in. I’m not sure of this Truro salon.’
‘Kate, they’re supposed to be quite good. A number of second homers I know actually choose to go there when they’re down here.’
She hardly listens. She’ll never believe anything is as good, let alone better, here in Cornwall than it is in London. I’m about to say something to this effect when she speaks first. ‘I’ve got to dash, but I wanted you and Ben to know first. Leon and I have seen an estate agent; we’re putting the house on the market today. We’re moving back to London.’
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