Home to Roost (21 page)

I wonder how he can, when he hasn’t opened his eyes, but his voice sounds normal and reassuring. Edna, though, has opened hers, and smiles at me, ‘How nice to see you.’ She beckons me to sit down on the old moss-covered tree stump which has been there for years. There is no other place to sit in this ramshackle back garden, which is no more than a wilderness with a space cleared outside the back door where granite slabs have been laid to make a kind of rough patio. Doug has made some attempt to keep down the weeds and excess foliage and, though it’s often a losing battle, right now the land is at its best here. It’s a sea of bluebells, some of the biggest, bluest, I’ve ever seen. The bluebells here always seem to come out slightly later than others on the south coast, and now they’re glorious, the scent amazing.

I say, ‘Sorry if I’ve disturbed your afternoon sleep. Great idea, a nap after lunch, especially in this weather.’

Hector opens his eyes and sits up, ‘Oh, we weren’t napping. We were practising our deep breathing.’

Edna beams, ‘An old sage in India told us once that when a person is born, they are given a certain number of breaths to use in their lifetime. So, of course, the secret of longevity is breathing slowly, deeply, to eke out those breaths.’

Hector is nodding in agreement, ‘The worst possible thing to do is to breathe fast, shallowly. You use up your lifetime’s breaths too soon, you see.’

They look at each other, smiling. Edna says, ‘Well, we shall see whether it works or not. I suppose we won’t be sure until we reach a hundred.’

They are both out of their deck chairs now and before we can talk about anything else, or even have a cup of the tea which Edna promises is forthcoming, they give me a little lesson in deep breathing. ‘In through the nostrils, that’s right, Tessa, slowly, deeply, first feel your belly expand as your diaphragm sucks the air in, then feel your chest expand as you breathe deeply into your lungs, hold it there for a second or two before slowly – with control, Tessa! – breathing out. That’s right, slowly, in, in, in, then out, out, out.’

When they’re satisfied I know how to breathe properly, they bustle me into the kitchen where we have a good cup of English breakfast. I must say I feel very relaxed after my session of deep breathing. If that’s what got these two to such a fit old age, I’m all for it. But then it could be their Spartan diet, or the concoction of strange herbs Edna uses for her various teas, or the meditative walks they do up and down their garden path winter or summer, or the Tai Chi – or any one of the other things they must do that I don’t know anything about yet. That’s the delight of these two, I’m always finding out new things about them.

Or it could be luck that the two of them happen to have great genes.

And thinking of longevity, I finish my tea quickly and mention the tree again. ‘Doug is worried about you. So is everyone. I know you like your independence, and it’s your life, but if that tree crashes into your house, with you inside …’

‘We’d be crushed to death,’ Edna says, cheerily.

‘We know that, dear maid,’ Hector adds, also quite cheerful. ‘So we will take the precaution of making sure nice people like you, and others who visit us, don’t come during a storm, or any kind of fierce wind.’

We’re wandering out to the front of the house as we speak, to look again at the tree which is causing all this trouble. It looks even more staggy headed, as Woody put it, than it did a few months ago. Behind it the other trees, English oaks and magnificent beech trees, look positively brimming with health, at least to an untrained eye, although Woody did say they were quite ancient, too, and needed to be watched carefully. But they’re not a probem at present, and it is the holm oak, home to the huge rookery, that’s the worry.

Doug is right, though, the younger rooks are starting new nests in the other trees. I mention this fact to the Humphreys, but of course they’ve already noted this. I say, ‘So if you have the dying tree down, the rooks will all simply move next door. No problem.’

Both the Humphreys look at me as if I haven’t understood a thing, but Hector answers kindly, ‘Would you like to be forced out of your house?’

‘And made to move on, against your will, even if it was only next door?’

‘You see, maid, we choose our homes, fill them with loving care and they become part of us. It’s the same for the rooks.’

I give up. Edna and Hector have settled down on the bench in front of their house to watch their beloved birds. I perch on a wooden stool next to it, since they’ve asked me to stay and watch with them. Edna smiles. ‘Hector and I sit here looking at them for hours.’

I can see why. Rooks are fascinating birds. I look up at the ones nesting in the trees. Once I thought they were all jet black, but now, with the sun slanting through the branches and shining on the rooks, I can see that they have all sorts of glistening colours in their plumage, blues and purples and burnished copper. They are such sociable birds, too, always chattering amongst themselves, or so it sounds. The cacophony of noise now as they feed their young, flying to and fro, busying themselves in the tree, is so loud that it’s a wonder Kate hasn’t also started a petition about the rooks. Neither Edna nor Hector has mentioned the peacock one, so I gather they don’t know about it, and I’m certainly not going to tell them.

As I sit watching the activity in the rookery, stealing a glance now and again at the old couple sitting on the bench, a great sense of peace and calm settles on me. It’s a windless day, with a few clouds but enough sun to cast patterns and shadows in the tree and along the ground, and enough blue sky to contrast brightly against the glossy feathers of the rooks. Other birds are also around: five or six swallows perch on a telephone wire, and a few sparrows are flying in and out of the eaves of the house. A faint scent of some kind of flower or blossom I can’t identify is wafting through the front garden. I could ask Edna, she’d know, but she’s in another world, entranced, watching the rooks. She and Hector look so utterly still, so completely contented and at peace, that I don’t want to disturb them. So I turn my eyes back to the rookery and see the most amazing sight. A kestrel flies down towards the holm oak and suddenly four or five rooks are chasing it away. The bird of prey retreats and the rooks return.

‘That was incredible,’ I say, when they’ve all settled again.

‘Yes, it’s quite a sight, isn’t it,’ Hector agrees. ‘We’ve seen the rooks chase buzzards before. One only has to glide too near the rookery and they work as a team, two, three or more chasing the buzzard away. They never go far after it; the rooks come back as soon as they’ve chased it off.’

As we watch, a great number of the birds fly up out of the tree and circle around high up, before flying into the distance. ‘Good weather,’ Edna says. ‘When they make those sweeping circles low in the sky, bad weather is on its way. They’re much more reliable than the weather forecasts we hear on the radio.’

I finally tear myself away. I can understand why Edna and Hector do not want to cut down the holm oak. And yet all things die, everything has to end. Perhaps by next autumn, when the westerly gales hit Cornwall, they’ll have second thoughts about the tree. I hope so, for their sakes.

A week or so later, I’m outside trying to tidy up the back garden when I get a wonderful surprise. We have swifts nesting in the roof of our house. They’ve declined so much, become so uncommon in Cornwall, that the Wildlife Trust has asked people to contact them if we see them nesting anywhere.

The person on the phone at the Trust told me that the reason for the dramatic decline in numbers seems to be modern building techniques which block up their nesting sites. Most of them nest under broken roof tiles, in open eaves, or holes in walls, but now the old properties have been repaired, holes concreted up and eaves fitted with grills. Roof tiles that were put on decades ago have been repaired or, more usually, new ones are fitted closely together. Because of all this home improvement, in the last forty years swift numbers have dropped by forty per cent.

I want to mention this to the Wintersons, for they’ve got Guy back making repairs to Treetops. There won’t be a single place for a swift family to nest on that property. Maybe Kate and Leon haven’t a clue about swifts. I didn’t, until I read about their decline in the local newspaper. At least I know that, unlike seaweed, the Wintersons do like birds; both of them have mentioned how wonderful the bird life is in Cornwall, except for peacocks, of course.

I decide to go over then and there. I haven’t seen Kate for a couple of weeks as she’s been up and down to London catching up with friends, the theatre, new restaurants. Leon is busy there this month with consulting work, so Kate likes joining him. They use a friend’s apartment, some film maker who is abroad half the time.

On my way I stop to watch the swifts. It’s evening and they’re swooping around the sky, making their peculiar screaming sound, looking so graceful with their long streamlined black wings, slender bodies and tails. It’s such a wonderful sight, and such a short time we have the chance to see them, for they’ll be gone again in August.

When I arrive at Treetops, only Guy is there, working on some guttering. After we’ve chatted, mostly about Clara – the relationship is going a storm now, after his initial agonising shyness – I ask if my neighbours are home, for no one has come out. Guy says, ‘Nah, they’ve gone somewhere with some London friends they’ve got visiting.’ There’s a distasteful look on his face. ‘Probably talking about that posh furniture maker from Up Country.’

There’s not much I can say but I try, ‘I don’t blame you for being cross about all that, Guy, but I’m sure if they knew your work, how professional it is, they’d have kept you on.’

‘They didn’t even ask to see my stuff. I could’ve taken them to homes that have shelves, even furniture I’ve made. But those two didn’t want to know.’

I change the subject. It’s done now, no point talking about it. ‘Well, I’m sorry they’re not in. I was going to mention the swifts, you know we’ve got a nest in our eaves? Treetops has a couple of loose roof tiles that would be perfect for swifts, wouldn’t that be exciting if one nested there? Thought I’d warn Kate and Leon not to repair it. I know they’re interested in the birds around here.’

Guy has stopped work and sat himself down on the new hardwood picnic table in the Wintersons’ garden. ‘Think I don’t know about the swifts, Tessa? I told them I didn’t want to patch up the places where they might have a chance to nest, but Leon told me the birds had plenty of places to make their homes and they didn’t want a leaky roof all summer, so I should get on with it.’

I’m shocked. ‘Surely he wasn’t that rude, Guy. That doesn’t sound like Leon.’

Guy gives me a sheepish smile. ‘OK, those weren’t his exact words. And no he wasn’t rude, in fact he couldn’t be more polite. He used different words, is all, but the meaning, that were the same. He wants his house perfect, and if that means covering up the eaves, so be it.’ His smile is replaced by a frown. ‘I wanted to tell him to stuff it, do his own eaves, especially as he’s happy enough to have me as an odd-job man but not a skilled carpenter. But I need the dosh, Tessa,’ he looks down quickly, but not before I see a blush on his face. ‘For, um, me and Clara, y’know? She wants me to move in to her place, move out of the digs I got. And I want to pay my way, not live off her.’

I totally embarrass him with a huge hug and great kisses on both cheeks. ‘Steady on, Tessa maid,’ he mumbles, face bright red, as I congratulate him and wish them both well.

I leave, sad about the birds, but happy for Guy and Clara. Before I go into my own home, I stand for a long time, watching the swifts, hoping they’ll be around for many more years despite the odds against them.

CHAPTER TEN

Lost in the Storm

IT IS JUNE
and the weather has turned grey and drizzly; the holiday crowds now appearing are not well pleased. There are droves of them, and it’s not even official summer holiday time, but lots of families, some with pre-school age children, others who have taken theirs out of school during term time, are holidaying early to save on the sky-rocketing expense of accommodation and so on during July and August. I’ve had a few phone calls from the rental agency wanting to know how I’ve got on with my ‘home improvements’. We’ve completed some repairs, slowly but surely, and are starting to check off their exacting requirements, but I’ve told them the property won’t be one hundred per cent ready until next spring. It’s a relief not to do it all at once; we’d never have managed it in such a short time, either physically or financially. And we have those two weeks already booked in the summer, with people who like the sound of our house exactly how it is. It’s a start, to condition us slowly to this renting lark, and will earn us a bit of money in the meantime.

I talked to Annie the other night, and asked how she was settling in on Dartmoor. ‘I absolutely love it,’ she surprised me by saying. I knew she’d adjust to being a farmer’s wife eventually, as she adjusted to life as an agriculturist’s wife in rural Cornwall, but this seemed quick. ‘I must have lived on an isolated moor in another life; I feel so at home here,’ she went on. ‘I’m getting fond of all the animals. The locals, too, are really nice, friendly and helpful.’ She paused. ‘And then there’s Timothy.’ Her voice was soft and soppy.