Home to Roost (7 page)

‘And I love you,’ Annie said, eyes glistening, while Ben and I gave a mock moan and told them to stop being such soppy newlyweds.

More snow has fallen during the night but only lightly, and the day is clear. However, my round is treacherous, and there are many places where I have to leave the van and walk a half mile or so to a farmhouse or isolated cottage. I actually don’t mind this. Today is another of those clear, frosty, windless winter days, and I’m getting fitter and fitter with all this exercise.

And it’s stunning. The frozen trees with their black trunks, the night’s snow still clinging to their bare branches, stand out vividly against the blue sky. On the coast, the sea is a deep blue-black, still but tremulous, as if preparing for the onslaught of the next wintry gale. I pause in one of my seaside villages, stopping to watch a cormorant poised on some rocks leading up to a high cliff. The big black bird with its peculiar hooked beak and large ungainly feet, gazes out to sea like some old-fashioned prophet, majestic and formidable-looking.

Once again I leave my van at the top of a lane, to deliver to my next customers, a young couple who live down a rutted lane in an old farm cottage they’re renovating. When I first began delivering here, it belonged to an elderly farm worker called Mr Hawker, a shy and reclusive man of whom I grew quite fond during my first year as his postie. When he died, the son of the farmers at nearby Trelak Farm took it over, along with his partner Marilyn. The cottage was almost derelict, but they’re slowly making it into a home.

Marilyn and Dave were both born and grew up in Cornwall but had to leave after they qualified as physiotherapists as they couldn’t afford a place to live in the county. With all the second homers and tourists, prices to either rent or buy are sky high. But now they’ve got a chance to make a go of it back in Cornwall, and they know how lucky they are.

Both are at home, stripping off some ancient wallpaper from a back bedroom that looks as if it hasn’t been used in fifty years. They ask me in and I accept their offer of a coffee; I’ve not talked to them for a while. But first I go around to the back where their pet billy goat, named Gruff, of course, has his quarters. I give him the carrot I always bring along for a morning treat and he rewards me with a few joyful leaps in the air after he has nuzzled my hand for his carrot. I play with him for a while, enjoying the stillness of the air, the blue sky. Despite the cold, you can feel the stirring of spring underground. It can’t be far away now.

As I head back through the garden into the house, I see some bottles poking out through a snowdrift behind the house. Dave, opening the door, says, ‘It’s a great way to chill white wine, especially if you only have a tiny fridge like ours. It’s Marilyn’s birthday tomorrow and we’re having some friends over. Come along as well, Tessa.’

I decline, with thanks. Marilyn can only be in her mid- to late twenties; it’s another generation and I wouldn’t barge in on their party, but it’s nice of him to ask. I must remember to bring her a card and some kind of little gift tomorrow with the post.

A sudden burst of laughter and merriment comes from the front of the house, along with squeals from Marilyn. Dave grins. ‘That must be her birthday present just arrived. Let’s go see.’

I follow him through to the sitting room, marvelling along the way at how much work they’ve done in the short time since they’ve been here. More laughter, squeals, and voices greet us as we go into the room. Marilyn is there with two people I know, Clara the cat woman and Guy the cat man.

Marilyn sees me and rushes across, holding up a small fluffy kitten. It looks like the stray one Guy brought when Clara took her walk outside on the ice. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’ Marilyn cries. ‘I didn’t know a thing about it until now. Dave has been in touch with the Cat Protection, asking about a kitten. This stray was found not long ago and needs a home. Oh, I’ve been wanting a cat since we moved here! Isn’t he gorgeous? Here, Tessa, you can hold him for a minute if you like.’ She thrusts the kitten at me while she runs to Dave, hugging and thanking him for the surprise. Clara and Guy are beaming with pride, as if I were cuddling their own baby. The ‘baby’ though is not so cuddly. He’s starting to struggle, digging his sharp little claws into my Royal Mail jacket. ‘He’s frightened,’ Clara exclaims, looking at me as if I’m murdering the thing.

The cat claws my hand. ‘Oh you poor thing,’ Guy cries. He means the kitten, not me.

Marilyn, Dave, Guy, and Clara all rush to me to take the kitten away from the horrid postie who obviously doesn’t know how to handle cats. I try to tell them that it’s still a feral thing and to be careful, but no one listens. Somehow in the handover, Guy gets a scratched cheek, Clara a claw mark on her neck, and the kitten gets his freedom. Out the door it goes, into the snow and ice. ‘Who left the door open?’ Marilyn cries as we all rush out after it. But no one bothers to answer. No good asking who left the stable door open after the horse bolts, is it?

There is now a frantic half hour while we search for the kitten. I can’t help marvelling at how Clara seems to have totally overcome her fear of slipping on ice. She’s sliding around some of the worst patches on the lane leading to the house, waving her arms frantically for balance, calling the kitten, making strange meowing noises which I suppose is her cat talk.

But the kitten is nowhere to be found. Finally we give up, or rather pause to warm up in the house before starting to search again. I say, ‘Look, I hate leaving before your kitten is found, but I really need to get going on my round. The customers will be wondering what’s happened to me.’

Clara is too distracted and panicked about the kitten to even hear me. ‘The poor creature will freeze to death if we can’t find him.’

Guy goes to her and puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘There, there. We will, I promise you. Even if it takes all night. You’re not to worry.’

Clara looks up to him as Guinevere must have done to Lancelot. Her face beams, her eyes shine. Guy’s stoop vanishes, he stands straight and tall, ready to do battle. I watch, fascinated, as he presses his hand on her shoulder. She says, breathless, ‘Oh Guy, thank you. If anyone can find the kitten, you can, I know.’

Well, well, well, I think. So that’s how it is. Or rather, that’s how it’s beginning, for certainly there were no such vibes between them the other times I’ve seen them together. It’s been all business, finding strays, finding homes for them, raising money for their charity by jumble sales, begging for donations. I watch with amused delight as their eyes meet, lock. Has Clara actually forgotten a cat in the romance of the moment?

I can’t stop to find out. I’ve got customers waiting for bread, for newspapers, and for bags of kindling for their fires and wood burners. I say my goodbyes to them all and open the door to my van, shouting out that I hope they find the kitten soon.

And then I squash it. There is a horrific yowl as I sit on the kitten. I leap up, cracking my head on the windscreen, and turn to see the fluffy grey fur ball flattened on the cushion on the driver’s seat. I’d left the window open; he must have jumped on the bonnet for warmth and then climbed into the van. Omigod is he dead? I reach for him with a beating heart but he suddenly leaps up and starts scrambling around the back of the van. I lunge about, trying to catch him before he finds the open window again. At least there’s certainly nothing wrong with the creature; the kitten is meowing madly and running about all over the place.

I finally catch him just as he is about to leap from the window. Luckily I’d put my gloves on for he’s clawing my hands like crazy, no doubt terrified of the hulking postie who not only nearly crushed him to death but also gave him a merry chase around the van.

Cheers of relief greet me as I walk in with the kitten. Clara takes him and he immediately starts to calm down. She really does have a way with cats for the little mite is actually looking around now, fear abating. Everyone thanks me and then Dave says, ‘Tessa, what did you do to your forehead? You have a huge lump there!’

I toy with confessing, but the kitten looks fine; it was probably tucked into the back of the seat and I couldn’t have squashed it as hard as I thought. ‘Oh, bumped my head in the van,’ I say, vaguely.

‘Oh, you must be more careful!’ Clara cries, not taking her eyes from the cat she’s still cradling. ‘Mustn’t she, little pussy?’

The kitten looks at me coolly. I look back.
Don’t you say a word
, I think, before I remember that it’s a cat to which I’m sending telepathic messages. That bump on the head must be making me tizzy.

‘Now I really do have to go,’ I say. Marilyn has taken the kitten from Clara; she’s in love with the little creature already and thanks me again for finding it. As I leave I look back at Clara, who is now holding hands with Guy. Well, holding a couple of fingers, because both of their hands are covered with the knitted fingerless gloves that I recognise as having been made by Tufty’s mum. I hadn’t noticed them before in the flurry of the kitten drama. Clara’s are deep turquoise and the fluorescent stripe is lime green, and Guy’s are an ocean blue with a pink neon stripe. They really are great gloves.

Clara and Guy notice me staring at their hands and furtively unlock their entwined fingers, obviously not yet willing to share this moment with any witnesses. How sweet, I think. I’m such a romantic. As I look away, I see their fingers inching towards each other again.

I hate to disturb their moment, but I have to know. ‘Clara,’ I say, ‘I can’t believe you’re out in this weather. Did you really drive over here in Guy’s van, and walk down that icy lane carrying a cat?’

Clara actually blushes. She looks pretty with colour in her cheeks. ‘Oh, I’m so much better now. Guy’s been helping me get out. And he’s such a good driver, and held onto me down the lane, and held the cat basket …’ she trails off, flustered.

‘That’s great, it really is.’ I’m relieved. That’s one less customer to worry about this winter. I wish the problems of some of the rest of them could be solved that easily.

* * *

One problem that troubles not just me but the other locals living in Poldowe is that of Delia, the widow that Melanie mentioned in the shop the other day. Delia is in her eighties but seems to be going on a hundred. She’s frail, fragile, walks slowly, fearfully, even though there’s not much wrong with her, not physically that is. She’s been that way as long as I’ve known her, relying on Meals on Wheels for her food, and on her neighbours and the postie for other odds and ends. None of us mind, for she’s a sweet lady, always with a smile of appreciation for the things we do for her. Her husband died many years ago, out at sea in a lifeboat accident, and Delia shrank from life after that. The villagers rallied around her, and still do, for she has no one else, no family anywhere.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed a huge change in her. She seems to be not only forgetting things, but also misplacing objects, some of them important, like her house keys, bills that need to be paid, and her glasses. Some days I come in to find her staring into space, a look of panic on her face because of something she’s mislaid. Sometimes I find it for her, only to realise she’s lost it again before I even leave the house.

Today I go in and start to light her tiny coal fire as I’ve done for over a year, after she asked me one morning if I wouldn’t mind doing it. Now, winter or summer, I come in and do it automatically, but this time when I go in she looks at me oddly, almost as if she doesn’t know who I am. ‘Delia, it’s me, Tessa,’ I say, when she doesn’t respond to my cheery good morning.

Finally she murmurs, gives me a small, uncertain smile. ‘Oh, hello. How nice to see you.’ She speaks politely but seems surprised, as if I’m an unusual visitor, not one she sees most days of the week.

I take the small coal bucket outside to the coal shed, fill it as I’ve done most days for over a year, and light her small fire. Usually she is effusive with thanks and gratitude, but today she is silent, watching me but with vacant eyes, as if she were somewhere else entirely. She doesn’t even respond when I show her the scones Ginger has baked for her. I tell her I’m putting them in the kitchen and when I do, I get a shock. Kitty, the sweet tabby cat that Clara gave Delia nearly a year ago, is mewing weakly, and I can tell, even before I pick her up, that the creature is starving.

I open the cupboard, find a dozen tins of unopened cat food and four packs of dry food. The fridge is empty, except for a carton of milk. I know I’m being nosy, but I feel this is an emergency. I start scrounging around in the rubbish bin. To my relief, there are the remains of the Meals on Wheels Delia gets every day, so I assume she’s been eating herself, even if she’s forgotten to feed Kitty.

I cuddle the poor thing, giving her some food which she devours gratefully. I’m annoyed at myself for not checking on the cat before, but when I asked Delia, she always said Kitty was sleeping soundly upstairs on her bed. Knowing that the Venerable Bede, the Humphreys’ cat, spends most of the winter months snuggled on their bed, this didn’t surprise me. I assume that’s what she told Clara and Ginger when they check up on her, as they do every day.

I go back to Delia and say gently, ‘You know, I think Kitty was hungry. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave her some food.’

Delia smiles, ‘That’s fine, dear. I did feed her this morning, though.’

I know there were no empty cat food tins or packets in the rubbish, and no opened ones anywhere. And Kitty wouldn’t have devoured her food so savagely if she hadn’t been ravenous.

I make a cup of weak tea for Delia, the way she likes it, and sit down to talk. I know she adores that cat. When Clara asked her if she’d take in a friendly stray that desperately needed a home, Delia was ecstatic. So was Clara, and I, along with Ginger, and other neighbours in Poldowe, for everyone hated to see Delia so lethargic, giving up on life and using the telly as a substitute, though she doesn’t even do that now. The cat did cheer her up and though she still didn’t go out, she at least went into her small garden in the summer months to watch Kitty play or sleep in the sun. Often when I came in, the cat would be sitting purring on her lap. I should have been suspicious the last few weeks when it wasn’t around, but this was such an unlikely winter that I could easily believe Kitty was hibernating somewhere out of the cold. The poor thing was probably prowling about outside trying to catch mice or scrounge food from the neighbours.