Authors: Tessa Hainsworth
That night, flushed with success – Ben's stall had made a
huge profit too – we go down to the village pub for a drink
after dinner, taking advantage of the fact that Will and Amy
are staying overnight at a friend's house. The pub is packed,
with lots of folk from both our village and the neighbouring
ones. We stop to chat to people at the bar before weaving our
way through the rowdy crowd looking for a table for two.
On our way we pass Daphne and her husband Joe, sitting
at the long low oak table in the corner with three other couples.
'Well done, Tessa,' she says. Then, to the others, 'The gardening
club's produce raised the most money at the fête today and
the whole thing was Tessa's idea.'
While I try to protest that Daphne was as much responsible
as I was, everyone praises me, saying complimentary things
and sounding as if they really mean every word. I feel touched
by it all. But then there's an awkward moment when the talk
runs out and we're still standing there. Joe asks us, belatedly,
to join them, and Daphne nods her head, smiling. Somehow
it's too late. Though perhaps sincere, it doesn't sound natural.
They've got a closed group, a group of old friends with years
of shared experiences. To join them would be to alter their
dynamics; we would feel intruders. So we say truthfully that
there's no room and that anyway we're not staying long. No
one tries to dissuade us.
We find a corner with a table for two and have a drink,
some crisps. The pub is like countless others both in Cornwall
and all over England – low ceiling, oak beams, horse brasses,
beer-smelling, dark but pleasant – and comfortable enough.
We talk about the fête, about our jobs, about the children, and
then decide to get home for an early night. Everyone waves
cheerily as we leave.
Easter also brings the first wave of 'emmetts', the Cornish
word for tourists. In Devon I've heard that the word is 'grockles'.
The two counties are careful of these distinctions; I know that
people who live in Devon can be quite as sniffy as the Cornish
when both places are lumped together as a vague West Country
entity. Everyone is quite clear that when you cross the Tamar
River, you cross a line from one world to another.
Some of the differences are obvious from the start. Like
the anti-litter signs: in Devon it's 'Keep Devon Ship-shape',
while here in Cornwall you see a smiley-faced bin-bag that
states, 'Mrs Baggit says take your rubbish home'. Recently I've
heard Devon visitors commenting on these slogans as a sign
of the sophistication of Devon compared to its southerly more
unsophisticated neighbour, but I've retorted that they just
haven't got the sense of humour we do. I realize that I'm
starting to think like a Cornish woman.
The emmetts that arrive first are what I call the pink shirt
brigade, the high-powered City types who own second homes
along the sea fronts and the tiny villages near the coves and
beaches. They like to think of themselves as part of Cornwall,
a breed apart from the day tourists or the campers or holiday
makers who only rent, rather than own a piece of the county
for themselves, but the locals don't see this distinction. They're
still visitors here, transients boosting their economy.
Easter week is at the end of the month and I'm walking
along the seafront to St Geraint post office. A spate of warm
weather predicted for the weekend has lured not just the
second homers but day trippers as well to the town. You can
usually tell the difference: the ones here for the day are
ambling along, eating ice cream and feeding the seagulls,
though there are strict rules against doing so as the birds have
become aggressive over the years. I've seen a gull swoop down
and take a sandwich from a man's hand as he stood on the
harbour waiting for the ferry and another one snatch an ice
cream cone from a little girl's fingers. They have sharp claws
and beaks, and have become a menace. Especially in June and
July, when they're protecting their young, they can be vicious
and dangerous.
The second homers are too busy to eat ice creams and loll
about the seafront, though they take a moment in their busy
lives to frown at the day trippers as they throw a crumb to the
gulls. The men in their Armani casuals keep surreptitiously
consulting their blackberries or desperately trying to get a signal
on their mobile phones while they try to figure out how to
open the toddler's pushchair, something they've never had to
do before. Meanwhile the women, in their Boden knits and
cords, steer the men up the side streets where there is a boutique
or two selling unusual designer frocks and Dr Hauschka organic
skin cream.
It never varies, as we discovered on many visits to Cornwall
before we finally moved here. As I walk briskly along I'm
reassured that it's all beginning again. The second homers are
back in their cottages, soon they'll be back on their yachts. Life
in South Cornwall goes on as usual.
Susie joins me before I get to the post office. 'Buzzing,
isn't it,' she mutters as we try to pass two supremely obese
women eating pasties as they walk. I notice a couple of the
pink shirt brigade staring disapprovingly at them. The day
trippers are giving 'their' town a bad name, all that eating in
the streets and letting oneself go to seed.
Susie giggles; she's noticed it too. We look at each other and
raise our eyebrows. All of a sudden I'm feeling I've been here
forever, being able to grimace at all the assorted visitors with
the assurance of a local.
Outside a small office, we stop to chat with Harry, who
has recently started work for one of the accountants in town.
Harry, with his partner Charlie, moved down from London
around the same time we did, buying a small cottage in the
next village to ours. Ben and I met the couple right after
Christmas at a party given by some mutual London friends
who had rented a cottage near us for the New Year. That
night, Harry and I discovered we had other acquaintances
in common and since then have struck up an easy friendship,
meeting every now and again for coffee or lunch and
a chat.
He's outside his office now, rolling a cigarette. 'Hey Tessa,
Susie. Looks like summer's early this year.' He rolls his eyes in
mock horror.
Harry is in his mid-thirties, tall and lean, devastatingly goodlooking.
In London he too was part of the pink shirt brigade,
a high-powered accountant for one of the most prestigious
firms in the city, but, like me, the stress finally got to him and
he moved to Cornwall last summer.
Charlie, on the other hand, is Cornish born and bred. He
was born in Morranport, the son of a fisherman. Unwilling
to come out to his family, he left home for Up Country, worked
at odd jobs here and there before ending up as a hair stylist
in a trendy salon in Kent. He and Harry met in Canterbury
when Harry, visiting friends, popped into the salon for a haircut.
The couple have been together since.
'It was me that was desperate to come to Cornwall,' Harry
told me when we talked one day, on a wet January morning
in St Geraint. I'd finished delivering the post and was in the
Sunflower Café trying to get warm before going home when
he joined me. 'Daft name for a café, with the rain beating
against that huge glass front,' Harry muttered as he warmed
his hands on a hot cup of rich chocolate. 'But at least
it's warmer here than in my office. Something's wrong with
the heating. I have to pop out here to get warm between
clients.'
Even with a nose red with cold and hair slick with rain,
Harry looked ravishingly gorgeous. Curious, I asked, 'How did
you end up here? Surely there were more job opportunities in
Truro.'
He'd shrugged. 'I'd had enough of big firms, believe me. I
really did want to downsize in every way.'
I nodded. 'I know what you mean.'
'So when Charlie heard through the village grapevine about
this opening, I applied straightaway.'
As we sat huddled over our hot chocolate that icy day, Harry
told me more about how he'd got here. 'I've always loved
Cornwall, used to come here on holidays with the parents. I
think that's why I first fell in love with Charlie – the rugged
Cornish-ness of him.' He looked dreamily out of the window.
'Didn't Charlie want to come back?'
'He was torn. Missed the place, yes, but knew he'd have to
come out if we moved here. Was a bit nervous of that. His
family didn't know.'
'And is it all right now with them?'
Harry had looked pensive. 'Yeah, more or less. It wasn't easy,
telling them. A small village – it's hard. But they're OK with
it now.'
After a brief chat, Susie and I wave goodbye to Harry and
wander on towards the post office. We pass the old clothes
shop that has apparently been there for decades. A stark contrast
to the trendy boutiques, it has clothes in the window that would
have been old fashioned in the Sixties. I've rarely seen it open.
There is a sign on the door, written in pencil: Closed until I
can be bothered to open it again. I've seen this sign often, but
sometimes it changes to: Open until I get bored. Mostly, though,
the shop is closed.
I asked Susie about it when I started the job. 'Oh, that place.
Owned by an old bloke. Poor man, partner died a year or so
back, tries to run the place hisself but his heart's not in it.'
Obviously not. I take another look through as we walk past.
The sign is as faded as the pleated wool skirt and the beige
nylon blouse in the window.
In the post office, Margaret greets us cheerily. 'Junk mail
issued today, ladies,' she says, indicating mounds of it in the
sorting room. 'But of course I should have said "business mail"
as we must officially call it. Have fun.'
I look sheepishly at Susie. I've already learned the trick of
putting it aside to be delivered the next day, when I'm not on.
We all do it, surreptitiously of course, pretending we don't. It's
just such a chore and so pointless too. The number of people
I have who give it right back to me, or mutter 'firelighters'
when they see it, is phenomenal.
On the way home I stop at the little supermarket for some
milk and butter. It's packed today.
Lulu sees me. 'Mrs Posh Post Lady, how are you?'
'Fine, Lulu, what about you?'
'Oh very fine too. I am liking very much this place in
sunshine.'
The woman she is serving, flashy in her town clothes, her
pink and yellow patterned town wellies, stares haughtily at her,
for daring to chat to the customers. Behind us, there is a queue
of second homers, some I recognize, having already delivered
to them. They're talking loudly and Lulu and I stop talking to
listen.
'Do you think the chicken is
really
fresh? I'm not so sure.
Wouldn't be surprised if it's been frozen.'
'We should have brought one from home.'
'Yes, we should have stocked up in Waitrose. Pity there's not
one here.'
Lulu looks at me and shakes her head. I pack up my milk
and butter while the couple behind me pay for the dubious
chicken.
As they leave I hear them say, 'She wasn't very friendly was
she, that foreign girl who served us.'
'Rude, if you ask me. You'd think they'd train the staff
properly, wouldn't you?'
I scowl at them as they go out. I can just imagine them
telling their friends Up Country how rude the post office staff
is too.
A few days later I am in St Geraint again, planning to meet
Ben for a hurried lunch, not in the Sunflower Café but somewhere
quiet where no one knows us so we can relax and talk.
A new tea shop and lunch restaurant has opened on the edge
of town and we've decided to try there. It's behind the
Roswinnick which is full now with guests. I've heard there's an
English dame who is a well-known actress staying at the hotel
this week, as well as one of the stars of a long running soap,
but so far I've not seen any of them roaming around town.
The Easter break has remained warm and dry and it's not
yet April; I hope this bodes well for summer but you never
know. St Geraint will empty for a time after this spring holiday
but the hordes will be back as soon as summer starts. Earlier
even – the May Bank Holiday is usually the beginning.
As I approach the Roswinnick I see a crowd of people
gathered outside. At first I think they are trying to spot the
celebrities, though the locals are usually fairly blasé about them
and don't pay them much attention.
As I get closer, I hear a noise in the sky and look up to see
what the excitement is about. An air ambulance is about to
land on the thin strip of shoreline in front of the hotel.
I see Harry amongst the onlookers and ask him what's
happened. 'A builder, working on a house a few miles from
here, on his own in the middle of nowhere, apparently fell off
the scaffold. Nearly ripped his arm off.'
'Oh how awful. Where is he now?'
'On his way here, to St Geraint. Luckily some walkers heard
his cry for help or he'd have been there all day. Apparently
they've put him in his car and are on their way here with him
now. It's Ian Franks, you probably know the guy.'
'Only vaguely, he's not on my normal route.'
Eddie has come up behind us and says, 'He's on Susie's
round but I've seen him lots when I've done relief for her.
Nice bloke, has a couple of kids, little maids not even big
enough to go to school.'
'Is he bad?'
Eddie's face is pale under his freckles. 'Don't know.'
We look over at the air ambulance, now on the ground.
The tide is coming in fast and everyone is anxiously waiting
for the car with the injured man. It's a real race against time, for
the helicopter will have to leave without Ian if the tide comes
in before he gets here.
There's a sudden cheer from the crowd. A Volvo estate is
driving furiously up the street, escorted by the local police.
The rescue operation is completed just in time; the helicopter,
with Ian safe inside, is barely up in the air before the sand bar
is covered with water.