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‘He’s excellent. I’ve seen some of his work. He’s a fine craftsman.’

She’s relieved. ‘I did wonder if I should get someone down from London. Actually, I tried, but I can’t get the furniture maker I know to come down here until mid-summer, far too late. It’s a shame. He does such beautiful work.’

‘Guy will be great,’ I reassure her. I’m relieved she couldn’t get her London carpenter. The locals wouldn’t have taken kindly to the hiring of an Up Country workman when there are so many good ones down here in need of employment.

‘I’m glad I asked you,’ Kate says. ‘I thought he was merely an odd-job man. I couldn’t believe it when someone at the shop said he was a carpenter.’

‘This is Cornwall,’ I say with a smile. ‘He does odd jobs, that’s true; he needs the money like we all do. But he’s also a terrific craftsman, like I said.’

Kate is going on with her plans. As she talks, a blackbird sings outside the open window. The two willow trees in the back are beginning to get that shimmering look trees get in spring, as if sprucing up for the great event of beginning anew. They’re lovely trees, quite old. The name of the house, Treetops, obviously came from them, and the copper beech that stands at the end of their garden. Behind it is a grass field, now filled with sheep. Ewes and lambs placidly feed and rest, ambling contentedly in the warmth.

Kate follows my look out the window. We stop for a moment and listen to the blackbird, enjoy the view. Kate sighs contentedly. ‘It’s so lovely. It reminds me why we came here.’

As she speaks a raucous screeching sound pierces the sweet birdsong. Kate jumps. The sound comes again, louder and more grating. It’s not very pleasant I must say, but it doesn’t last long.

Kate cries, ‘What on earth was that?’

‘Oh, it’s only the Humphreys’ peacock. Have you met Edna and Hector yet?’

‘No, not really, though I think I saw them getting into a rather ancient rusty-looking car one day.’

I laugh. ‘That’s their young friend, as Edna calls him. He’s around eighty, takes them to the sea every so often. I’ll have to introduce you.’

She looks doubtful but tries a wary smile. ‘That peacock. Does it always make noises like that?’

‘Well, now and again, I guess it does. They only got the peafowls last December, and with the cold weather, the peacock and hen have been inside a straw-filled shed all winter. Now it’s warmer, they’re out and about. And I suppose you hear the peacock’s call more now that it’s open windows time.’ I look at her reassuringly. ‘But you get used to it. I rather like it. It’s nice to have a peacock in the village. Rather grand, don’t you think?’ Kate doesn’t crack a smile at my light-hearted remark but looks quite troubled. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say again. ‘You’ll get used to Emmanuel, honestly.’

‘Emmanuel?’

Outside the peacock cries yet again. Really, he seems to be overdoing it; he sounds louder than ever. I do wish he’d pipe down for a bit and give Kate a chance to get used to the noise. ‘That’s his name, Emmanuel. Some Italian they met years ago was visiting England and looked them up. Apparently Edna and Hector stayed at his father’s palazzo or something outside Rome for a time and the son wanted to see them again. Before he left, he gave them an early Christmas present. Hector’s favourite carol is “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”, hence the name.’ I burst into song, dragging out the Eee-man-u-el in an operatic manner.

Kate is not amused. ‘A rather bizarre kind of present, don’t you think?’

‘The way I heard it, the Italian duke or whatever he was had peacocks wandering around his stately gardens, so his son wanted to give the Humphreys something to remind them of
la dolce vita
in Italy.’

‘What?’

‘You know, the good old days. Edna and Hector were thrilled. They love those two birds.’

Kate is still stressing about the noise so I change the subject quickly. Soon we start talking about a television drama we both saw the other night, forgetting the peacock and his mate for the time being.

When I leave, she walks me down the path in front of her house. The front garden is not large but it’s crammed with primroses. The ground is so golden around here at this time of year that it looks like reflected sunlight, all those primroses, bright wild daffodils and bigger cultivated ones. When I comment on the flowers, Kate says, ‘Yes, they’re lovely, aren’t they? But we have lots more in the back. It’s so large, our back garden. That’s why we’re getting rid of this one.’

‘What?’ I stare at her, dumbfounded.

She doesn’t notice my surprise. ‘Yes, that’s what Guy is starting on next week. We’re having the grass paved over. I’ve chosen some fantastic paving tiles from that huge garden shop outside Truro. The front garden will be our terrace; it’ll extend around both sides of Treetops as well. I’ve ordered some amazing pots, made in Tuscany – oh Tessa, you’ll love them, they’re to die for! I’ll put different exotic plants in them. I’ve got all sorts of ideas.’

I’m stunned. It sounds perfect for Islington perhaps, but not Treverny. It’s also not very good for the environment. Apparently more and more people in towns and cities all over the country are concreting their front gardens to make more room, park their cars, whatever, and it’s causing damage not only to the bird population, but also to the water drainage system. Because the rain can’t drain away properly through a paved area, it causes flooding.

I can’t tell Kate any of this, of course, though I’d like to. But she’d see me as being bossy and interfering, and would go ahead anyway. She’s already made her plans, bought the paving tiles, and the pots. And she’s so enthusiastic about it all, too. So I can’t say how I really feel, but I do say, ‘It’s kind of a shame, isn’t it, to not have this lovely front garden? It’s full of wild flowers, you know, not only primroses; you’ll see as the weeks go on.’

She turns to me eagerly. ‘Oh, I love wild flowers, I truly do, but there are so many in the back, and all over the village. This will be something different.’

A bit of the city, I’m thinking. It’s different only for our part of the world. She’s bringing the city to her new home in the country.

Well, to each his own. Or her own. She’s still turning out to be a good friend. I like her enthusiasm, her sense of humour. She’s kind, too. She buys every new, well-reviewed novel that comes out, in hardback, and gives them away after a quick read to our village charity shop, as well as piles of children’s clothes a nephew has outgrown but hardly worn. She’s taken to giving me some of her better cast-offs, too, after the supper when I told her about our ‘swishing’ clothes swapping parties. I give her eggs sometimes, now that the hens are laying again. She tried to pay me for them but I wouldn’t hear of it. ‘That’s what village life is like, Kate,’ I told her. ‘You give me some of those gorgeous clothes you don’t want any more, and I give you eggs. It’s a bit like bartering, you know? I do it with everyone. People give me their homegrown veg in summer, I give them a pot of damson jam I’ve made, or a pie, or whatever.’

Kate didn’t look convinced. ‘But cast-off clothes are different. I wouldn’t sell them for goodness’ sake, I’d give them to a charity shop if you didn’t take them. Eggs are a commodity, you had to feed the hens, look after them, buy them in the first place – so you should sell your eggs. Here, take the money, please.’

‘If I take it, I won’t take your clothes. C’mon, Kate, I don’t give you that many eggs anyway.’

In the end she accepted the gift of a dozen eggs, but reluctantly.

As we’re talking, Kate continues walking with me down her path. Across the road, a woman is taking some flowers into the churchyard. Kate murmurs, ‘There seem to be an inordinate number of deaths in Treverny. I’ve noticed how many people go to the churchyard with flowers. It’s terribly worrying.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the radon gas, you know. I’ve heard some parts of Cornwall are quite badly affected, and Treverny must be the full of it. There must be more people dying here than anywhere else, judging from all the activity in the churchyard. I wish I’d known before we bought the house.’

‘Oh Kate, Treverny isn’t full of radon gas or any other lethal thing; in fact it’s probably one of the healthiest places to live with all the sea air and unpolluted countryside. There are always people visiting churchyards down here, putting flowers on their loved ones’ graves. It’s not like cities, where people mostly die and are buried far away from their roots. Here people live nearby, so they can visit the graves often.’

She’s so relieved that she gives my arm a quick, thankful squeeze. ‘Oh I’m so glad we talked. You’ve no idea how it’s been troubling me.’

As I go into my own home, I remind myself to warn Ben about the new paved garden next door. He won’t like it either, but like me, he won’t say much. It’s their house after all, and what they do with it is their business.

Back home, I give the rental agency a ring. They were meant to be sending someone out a week or so ago, but they had to cancel for some reason. Too many homes suddenly being put up for rental, I suspect, but they assure me they need more, as Cornwall is even more of a holiday destination with all the Euro problems abroad, and many people forced to be more frugal. Campsites especially are booming, with many of them booked up already for the coming summer. It’ll be no problem at all renting our house, I think as I look around it.

The woman on the phone jolts me by saying, ‘Actually one of our consultants has just had a cancellation. She can be with you in half an hour.’

Suddenly my lovely home looks rather chaotic. Jake is lounging on his favourite armchair, the carpet looks a bit dog-hairy, and there are cushions on the floor where Amy and Will were watching television last night. There are also magazines and newspapers all over the place, not to mention a few play scripts Ben is reading, strewn around on several work surfaces, next to a batch of recipes I cut out last night from a favourite Sunday supplement and haven’t put away yet.

But goodness, it’s all surface stuff; I can tidy it away in minutes. ‘That’s fine,’ I gush. ‘Just wonderful. I’m ready to show you my house.’

The next half hour I rush around like a madwoman, even giving the sitting room floor a quick Hoover. By the time the rental consultant comes, my house looks perfect. Just the sort of place I’d love to rent for my own holiday.

The woman who knocks at our door exactly thirty minutes later is extremely businesslike. Navy suit, navy heels – high but not too high – crisp white blouse underneath her jacket, not too skinny. She’s even carrying a briefcase. I offer her tea or coffee, which she refuses, but sits down for a moment in the armchair that Jake has just vacated. He’s leaping around her in greeting but she ignores him. Thank goodness she’s got dark clothes on and won’t see the dog hairs that must be sticking to her trousers. I get the feeling she’s not a dog lover so I put Jake out in the garden. When I get back, Ms Channing, as she’s called, has pulled out a formidable sheaf of papers which she hands me. ‘This is for you to read later,’ she tells me. ‘It gives you the requirements necessary for a rental property.’

We then go around the ‘rental property’. She’s taken a clipboard out of her briefcase and seems to be checking things as she goes along. I start off the tour bubbly and confident. ‘This is my daughter’s room. Amy’s. We’ll put twin beds in here, as well as in Will’s room. His is smaller, but we can squeeze another bed in. That way the cottage would sleep six.’

‘A good number,’ she says, face non-committal. ‘Don’t forget that you have to have a bedside table and lamp by each bed. And a chair. Plenty of hanging space for clothes as well as a dresser. Oh, and a mirror for each bedroom as well.’

Goodness, all that?
A bit fussy, I’m thinking, but OK, it’s manageable.

She leaves the bedrooms and makes her way to the bathroom. ‘You’ll need to put a lock on that,’ she says, indicating the door.

‘Oh, right.’ We’ve never had a lock on any of our doors inside. The family knows, and so do all our visitors, that if the door is shut, someone is inside, if it’s open, the bathroom is free. So, a lock on the loo. Well, that won’t be a problem either. So far so good.

‘And you’ll need locks on all the windows.’ She’s busy jotting things on her clipboard.

‘Really? Here in this placid little village? Window locks?’

She nods. Seems a bit much, but I nod back. ‘Fine.’

Ms Channing is very polite, quite nice actually, but I’m getting more and more uncomfortable as her eagle eyes begin to spot imperfections in our perfect home. Well, perfect to us anyway, but now I, too, am not so sure as she spots a couple of cracked windows at the back of the house, which we meant to get mended ages ago but never got around to. ‘They’ll have to be repaired,’ she tells me as we go downstairs. Her eyes pierce the room, and all its hidden secrets. ‘The sitting room needs repapering.’ Oh dear, she’s noticed the bit in the corner where it’s peeling. But to repaper the whole thing? Really? ‘I’m afraid so,’ she says. ‘Actually, the dining room, too. Make it look fresher.’

Next it is the windowsills. They’ve rotted slightly and need repairing as well. She looks out through the open window and I feel cheered. It’s glorious out there again today, with spring at its best, flowers and foliage rampant everywhere, birds chirping away merrily. Ms Channing agrees when I mention it. ‘Yes, it’s lovely, really lovely. I do adore spring in Cornwall.’ Abruptly she is businesslike again. ‘Your gutters all need to be cleaned and drained.’ She makes another mark on her clipboard. I imagine great big black Xs against our house. I feel like a schoolchild again, being marked down.

But I pull myself together. Those are only a few little things which can easily be seen to. Well, maybe not easily – glass is expensive, and new window panes won’t be cheap – but it’s all reasonable stuff. If it has to be done, it will be.

‘I’m sure we can manage all those repairs before summer,’ I say, confidence booming again.

She nods. ‘Good. Now, can I see your equipment? Let’s start with the kitchen.’

My confidence ebbs again. Our appliances are old and will need replacements. They’re working perfectly well, almost perfectly, certainly they’re good enough to do all the home cooking Ben and I do, not only for ourselves but for our many visitors. ‘You’ll need a microwave, of course,’ Ms Channing is ticking her boxes furiously. ‘Are you sure you don’t have one?’ She’s peering around in cupboards as if we’re hiding away the microwave for some strange reason.