Home to Roost (18 page)

The two of us perch on an ancient tomb in the churchyard. I try to see whose grave it is, but the engraving has worn away, it’s so old. I spare a quick thought for the bones beneath, wondering what life, what dreams and hopes the person had, before turning my attention back to Guy. ‘So tell me what’s up.’

He runs his big hand through his thick hair and it stands up even more than usual, giving him a look of surprise or shock. ‘Y’see, you’re right. We
were
friends. Great mates, for a couple of years, ever since Clara started this cat business and I kinda got to helping her out. Gave me something to do in between jobs. I had the van, you see, and could sling a cat basket in there easy like, cart the cats around, help deliver them to new homes.’ He stops twitching and for a moment starts to relax, thinking of Clara and their friendship. He gets stuck in his reverie for so long that I have to gently prompt him, for I still have a batch of post to deliver. ‘So what went wrong, then? Did you fall out with her?’

He stares at me with a horrified look. ‘No, no, no, of course not. Never! Clara and me, we get on like a house on fire. Fall out? No, no. Whatever gave you that idea?’ And off he goes in yet another trance, staring out over the churchyard – which is quite beautiful with budding shrubs and a stunning magnolia tree at one end, and the ground covered in bluebells – musing on the impossibility of ever arguing with Clara.

I really do have to get on with the post. ‘Guy,’ I say, less gently this time, ‘do tell me exactly what the problem is.’

He looks at me gloomily. ‘The problem is, I started to fancy her. Sudden, like. Over the cat. The kitten, you know, you were there – the one we took to Marilyn for her birthday, in the snow. It got away, remember? We found it in your car?’

‘Yes, yes, I remember. You started to fancy her then?’

He’s standing now and pacing about in front of me. ‘Yeah. Couldn’t help it, Tessa. Suddenly I saw how great she looked, how great she is, how terrific really, and … well, you know.’ He looks as if he’s about to cry.

‘I do know, Guy. Perfectly normal, she’s a lovely person. So why are you so miserable? From what I saw that day, it looked like she was starting to fancy you, too.’

Guy sits down again and his whole body slumps over the tombstone. ‘She does,’ he wails, ‘that’s the trouble.’

‘You’ve lost me, Guy. You fancy her, she fancies you, you’re both single, what’s the problem?’

For the next ten minutes, while a robin sits on a nearby tombstone staring at us, Guy tells me what the problem is. It seems he is painfully shy when it comes to love and romance, and all the rest of it, and feels too awkward and anxious to just pop in on Clara like he used to. ‘Cause we’re not mates any more, get it? It’s different.’

I listen to all this patiently but now I’ve really got to get on; we’ve been talking for ages. ‘Guy, believe me, you can be mates with someone as well as being lovers.’

He looks amazed at this. ‘How?’ he wants to know.

I stand up, brush some moss from my uniform. ‘Go see her. Now. Without the post, without any excuse. Go and tell her how you feel, for goodness’ sake, it’ll make it much easier for her, too. I’m sure she knows it anyway, and is wondering why in the world you’ve stopped coming around. You’ve probably broken her heart, actually.’

Now he is truly horrified. ‘I haven’t! Have I? Crikey, what should I do? I’d never hurt her, never ever.’

Brisk measures are called for here. I pull him up, or rather urge him up with a few brisk military-like gestures and pushes, and march him out of the churchyard. ‘You’re going to see her right now. Forget about yourself and your shyness and everything else, and think about poor Clara, in there, heartbroken. She’s probably seen your van, knows you’re in the village and haven’t been to see her. How do you think she feels about that?’

Pulling him across the road, I half shove, half drag him to the front of Clara’s house. I really hope she’s not at the window watching this. ‘Just get in there,’ I order in my sternest voice.

He straightens his shoulders for a moment then immediately slumps. ‘I can’t. I’m terrified. What if she laughs at me?’

So that’s his problem. He looks so forlorn, so dejected and afraid, that I take both his hands and squeeze them gently. ‘She won’t, Guy, I promise. You’re a lovely man, good-looking, kind – what more could a woman want? You know she fancies you, too, she held your hand that day with the kitten, I saw it. Don’t blow it now. Don’t break her heart.’

I squeeze his hands again for moral support. He straightens up, looks me in the eye, nods, then turns and marches up to Clara’s front door. He doesn’t look back once, not even when she opens the door, smiles hugely, and they both vanish inside.

What a relief, I think as I carry on delivering the post in Poldowe. I feel quite cheery, young love always does that to me. Well, not exactly young, but young enough. Clara can’t be more than forty, still time to have a baby if that’s what they want …

I stop myself. They haven’t even gone out on a date yet, and here I’m imagining babies and whatnot. Always the incurable romantic. I’m grinning to myself, thinking about Guy and Clara, my premature dreams for them, when I nearly bump into Ginger. ‘How’s it going?’ I say. ‘Still like the job?’ I was able to help her find work last year when she was desperate. One of the great things about being a postie is learning about who needs what and somehow being able to put them together.

‘Love it,’ she smiles and her whole face, sad in repose, looks suddenly animated. ‘It’s going really well. I’m doing less days now, which suits me fine.’

We talk about this and that, and I admire her new haircut. Ginger’s hair is dark brown, no ginger in it at all. She explained to me once that her mother was a big fan of Ginger Rogers, hence the name. She’s easy-going, pleasant, but today she seems slightly troubled. The smile has faded and there’s a frown on her face.

‘Is anything wrong?’

‘Wrong? Um, no, nothing,’ she hesitates, as if about to say more, but then changes her mind. ‘Nothing’s wrong, gotta go. Any post for me today?’

She’s off as soon as I tell her there’s nothing for her, waving a friendly goodbye. She’s still uneasy, though and I wonder what’s up, hope it’s nothing major.

My last stop in Poldowe is at Delia’s house. I’m increasingly worried about what I’m afraid is dementia. Since that first day last January when I began to really notice her forgetfulness, she’s got worse, I’m sure. Her neighbours, like Clara and Ginger, are concerned, too, but don’t know what to do about it. They’ve been helping her out for years as she’s always been a bit helpless and fragile, but this is getting too much for them.

Today I get a shock. Delia, who usually dresses meticulously despite her forgetfulness, is sitting in her usual armchair with her soft brushed cotton nightdress on. It’s pulled up to her thighs, which are naked and thickly veined. Her feet are bare, scarred with corns. I’ve never seen Delia without a pair of sturdy beige shoes on her feet; she never even wears slippers, usually.

‘Oh good morning, Tessa,’ she says, as if she’s fully dressed and greeting me as she used to, when she was well. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it? I opened all the windows this morning.’ She makes no move to pull down her clothes or cover her bare thighs.

I agree it’s a beautiful day and don’t mention the fact that the windows haven’t been open for ages; it smells stale and musty in here. ‘Are you all right, Delia?’

She looks puzzled. ‘Of course, thank you, dear. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that … that you’re still in your night clothes,’ I say gently.

She looks down then up again at me. ‘Why, so I am, dear. I must have forgotten to get dressed this morning.’ Her face takes on a panicky look as she says this. ‘I’d better go now, shall I?’

She stands up, wobbly and uncertain. From outside I can hear her cat meowing, yowling even. She must not have even let him in yet from his night prowling. Delia doesn’t seem to notice the sound, which is worrying. She loves that cat. I don’t trust her to go upstairs on her own so I offer to go with her. She accepts gratefully. When we get to the bedroom I wonder whether to stay or to go. I want to give her privacy, but on the other hand she’s looking bewildered, standing by the bed with a confused expression on her face.

I say, ‘Do you want me to help?’

‘Oh yes. Please. If you don’t mind. I feel … I feel not quite myself today. Perhaps I’m not quite well after all.’

I’m almost relieved by this. Perhaps she has a touch of the flu, some kind of virus. Something she’ll get over. I say, ‘Why don’t I help you back to bed then, if you’re feeling ill? Best place for you. I’ll help you get comfortable if you like.’

She seems to visibly pull herself together, taking a deep breath and facing me again, this time more certainly. ‘I feel better now. Much better, thank you Tessa. I’d like to go downstairs. If you could just help with some zips, perhaps? It won’t take a moment.’

She goes to her old-fashioned, heavy oak dresser, takes out underwear, and vanishes into the bathroom with them. I stand awkwardly in her bedroom, feeling intrusive but not wanting to leave her alone. I look around at the ancient brass bed, a dark oak wardrobe, old-fashioned velvet curtains. These haven’t been opened yet and the room looks gloomy and forbidding. ‘Shall I open the curtains for you, Delia? Let the sun in?’

She comes in, modestly covered with a long satin slip, old and not as clean as I’d have expected from Delia, who has been meticulous in her dressing in the past. ‘Do open them, thank you. And the window, please?’ She seems to have forgotten that she’d told me she’d already done this. It’s worth the struggle to open it. The air coming in is fresh and sweet, taking away the musty stale smell that I’d noticed when I came in.

Delia finds a dress and I help her put it on, pull up the zip. She seems to be coping all right with thick beige cotton tights and her usual shoes, and by the time we get downstairs she seems quite herself again, even remembering the cat. When I finally leave, she’s feeding it some dried cat food, forgetting I’m there while she coos over it.

I worry about her as I finish delivering the post, though the sight of Guy’s van still parked on the street outside Clara’s house lightens my mood. Before I get back into my own van, I check in at the local shop. The shop is empty, so I get a chance to talk to Melanie about Delia, as I know the shopkeeper is one of the villagers who looks after her.

Melanie is very concerned. ‘I’ve noticed she’s getting worse, and so have the others who check on her.’ She sighs. ‘It’s hard, her not having any blood kin to call on. Still, we’re like family, round here, so we’ll keep an eye on her, don’t you worry, Tessa. You got enough on your plate as it is, what with working full-time, trying to get your house fit to rent, looking after the family, scraping and making do.’ She gives me a motherly smile and pats my hand. I feel like a twenty-year-old just starting out in the world, the way she’s trying to reassure me. Melanie makes people feel like that, I’ve realised: that you’re a little chick and she’s the mother hen looking after you, even though you’re more or less the same age.

It’s not until I’ve left the shop, munching on some amazing chocolate chip cookies the bakery man has just delivered, that I wonder how she knew all that about me. This isn’t even my village; Treverny is several miles away from Poldowe. I’ve never confided in Melanie; we’ve exchanged pleasantries when I’ve gone in, but that’s all. Typical Cornwall, I think as I brush biscuit crumbs from my uniform. Or this part of it, anyway. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, though I suppose that’s village life anywhere. Not that I mind. Not when they use the information like Melanie does, to reassure, console, and help. I’ve seen her do it to others, sympathising with someone she’s heard lost his job, or his dog, or whatever. The grapevine here is strong, but it’s used to send news along so that people can do something to help if need be.

I trot back to my post van feeling quite light-hearted. Delia will be cared for, and young, or not-so-young, love seems to be doing just fine as Guy’s van is still parked at Clara’s and he is nowhere to be seen. The only person that slightly worries me is Ginger. She really did act oddly, though I’m sure I’ll find out what is bothering her soon enough. In the meantime it’s a fabulous day, and I can’t wait to get out of uniform and walk Jake on the beach.

A couple of hours later, we’re at Penwarren beach, smelling the sea air, romping along. The neap tide is right out, as I knew it would be, and Jake and I leap over rocks, inspect the pools, and examine the mass of seaweed on the shore. Several people are out walking, and we wave or shout greetings as our dogs rush up to each other, sniff, play, or run for a while before following their owners along the shore.

On the way back I notice a familiar couple coming towards me. It’s Leon and Kate, strolling along barefoot, dressed in shorts and brightly coloured T-shirts that look brand new, the colours not yet faded from weeks in the sun. ‘Great to be retired,’ Leon says. I nod, thinking how ludicrous it is that a man of his age, looking years younger as well, is already retired.

We stand for a few moments admiring the way the waves are splashing against some nearby rocks, sending a delicate spray of iridescent seawater up into the air where it glistens in the sunlight. The light plays upon the mounds of seaweed on the shoreline, turning it luminous green, gold, and fiery red. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it,’ I murmur.

Leon and Kate follow my eyes, stare at the seaweed, then glance at each other. Leon says, ‘Seaweed? If you ask me, it’s the one thing wrong with this beach. Awful stuff.’

Kate is agreeing with him. ‘You can’t walk in it, can’t swim in it. Quite honestly, I think it’s disgraceful, that the local council, or whoever is in charge of the beach, hasn’t done anything about it.’

I can’t let this go. Figuring they’re still city folk, still naïve about rural living, I cheerily explain to them what I learned about the ecology of seaweed, its necessity. ‘I felt like you did, before we moved here. But now that I know how important the stuff is, how many sea creatures live or feed on it, I think differently about it.’ I pick up a strand of red-green seaweed, holding it out to show them. ‘There are so many varieties! The Cornish Wildlife Trust did a survey of them all recently, and would you believe there are at least 180 species of red, brown and green seaweed. I’ve been reading about it on the website; I can give you the link.’ I lay down the seaweed carefully. Jake sniffs and then dismisses it, racing after a seabird. ‘The divers found all sorts of fantastic things along the Cornish coast – sea fans, anemones, wonderful things like giant brown forest kelp, and something called mermaid’s ear, a delicate pink sea plant. There’s such a wealth of marine life living on seaweed and sea sponges, even seahorses!’