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‘Who’s he?’ I asked, slightly alarmed. Newly married and sounding dreamy over another man? What’s going on?

‘He’s a darling. I’m crazy about him.’

Now I was totally alarmed. ‘Annie, what are you on about? Who is Timothy? What about Pete?’

‘Oh, he likes Pete, but it’s me he’s really fond of. He ignores Pete when I’m around,’ she laughed, a giggly, girlie laugh. ‘I have to be careful that my husband doesn’t get too jealous. He might ban Timothy from the house.’

Oh God. As she talked, I started envisaging a gorgeous younger man, a toy boy, some rustic Dartmoor yeoman with healthy outdoor bronzed skin and body to match. Annie definitely sounded flirty, talking about this Timothy. Was she getting lonely out on that isolated farm, and looking for a mild flirtation to liven things up? Silly woman, I thought, this wasn’t on at all.

I said firmly, ‘Look, you listen to me. This doesn’t sound good. It’s OK, I’m your friend, I know you probably had a brainstorm when you were wrenched away from Cornwall and thrust up on a wild granite-covered moor, but you mustn’t throw it all away.’

‘Throw what away? What are you on about, Tessa?’

‘Your marriage. Pete. I know you probably think it’s only a flirtation, but it’s still dangerous. Especially if Pete is jealous. You’ve got to give him up.’

‘Who, Pete? Are you crazy?’

‘It’s you who’s crazy. Not Pete, this Timothy.’

There was a long silence on the phone. Then Annie began to laugh. ‘Annie, this isn’t funny. If you only heard how soft and dreamy your voice became when you talked about this Timothy, you’d understand why Pete gets jealous. That’s the way you used to talk about him.’

Annie was laughing so hard by then she couldn’t talk. Convinced she was having some sort of breakdown, I said, ‘Annie, I’m coming up there to see you. Tomorrow.’

In between gulps and convulsive sobs as she struggled to stop laughing, Annie managed to say, ‘You think Timothy is a man. Tessa, he’s a sheep. A twelve-year-old pet sheep.’

I kept quiet for so long that Annie thought I’d hung up. I said, not exactly intelligently, ‘A … a sheep?’

‘Honestly, Tessa, as if I could ever fancy another man when I’ve got Pete!’

‘Um, maybe I did overreact a bit.’

‘A bit? It was hilarious. Wait till I tell Pete, he’ll roar.’

I clutched the phone. ‘Annie, don’t you dare tell Pete, it’s too embarrassing. Just tell me about this sheep you’re so soft on.’

‘Well, Pete’s uncle got him as an orphan lamb twelve years ago, bottle fed him and all that. He had a farm worker at the time and the worker’s child got so fond of the lamb that Pete’s uncle let him have it to keep at the farm. When the family left and moved away, he didn’t have the heart to get rid of Timothy. He’s as soft-hearted as Pete, they’re very alike.’

‘Who, Pete and the sheep?’

‘No, you dodo, Pete and his uncle. Timothy is now a beautiful sheep despite his old age, and so sweet. A bit arthritic, unfortunately, but he’s on medication. I tried all sorts of herbal and homeopathic stuff but it didn’t work, so the vet put him on horse tablets.’ She giggles, ‘They have no drugs for arthritis in sheep, apparently – the poor things get eaten before they live long enough to develop it, I suppose. Timothy gets the same dosage as a small pony. I give it to him in half a banana.’

‘A banana?’

‘He loves them. Apparently dear old Timothy once got into a wheelbarrow full of rotten bananas Pete’s uncle had for the pigs, and he ate so many he blew up like a balloon. Lay there all swollen, nobody thought he’d survive. But he did and he’s loved bananas ever since, can’t get enough of them, though he’s only allowed half a day. He’s such a character, Tessa, I’m quite in love with the daft animal. Wait until you meet him.’

Before we hung up, we made plans for our visit to Dartmoor for one of the weeks when our house is being rented. Annie said again we were more than welcome to stay with them for both weeks, but I don’t want to overstay. A week will be lovely, and then we’ll camp as planned.

There’s a blustery gale coming from the sea that is so fierce it’s hard to open the door at the Morranport post office. I say hello to Holly and ask her how the part-time job there is going. ‘Fine, I love it,’ she tells me.

‘I’m sure you’re a great help to Nell.’

She grins and nods her head, making the dozen or so tiny plaits around her head bob up and down. She’s wearing a short denim skirt, flowery leggings, and sequinned flip-flops, despite the torrential rain. There are enough bracelets on her wrists, and beads and baubles around her neck, to start a shop. She’s like a colourful exotic bird, and I must say, brightens up the place on a stormy grey day like today wonderfully. She says, ‘Yeah, I’ve been an amazing help, me.’ She winks at me mischievously. ‘Though mebbe not that much in the shop.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Matchmaking, more like. The two old dears, Woody’s granddad and Nell.’

‘Holly, keep your voice down! Nell will kill you if she hears you calling her an old dear.’

Holly rolls her eyes, ‘Don’t worry, she’s out.’

‘Out? I’ve never known Nell out of the shop when it’s open.’

‘Ah, now, that was before I got here. She’s out sure enough.’

The place is empty, the weather keeping the holiday makers well away from the sea, but I roam around the shop anyway, looking behind the post office counter and inside Nell’s tiny office space to make sure she’s not lurking somewhere about to jump out chiding us for talking about her. Holly says, ‘I tell you, she’s out. With Sydney. Left ages ago, said she’d be back in half an hour.’

‘Where are they going in this weather? Look at the rain coming down now, it’s horizontal. It’s a full-blown gale out there.’

We look through the window at the storm. The sea is foaming and churning on the surface, black underneath, and the sky is bruised purple and charcoal. Heavy raindrops splatter against the windowpane. Holly says, with a smirk, ‘They’ve gone for a walk.’

‘What? They can’t be, not in this.’

‘That’s what Nell said. Said they’d go take a look at the storm. They got on waterproofs and wellies.’

I’m suddenly concerned. Neither of them is young after all, and this wind could blow them right over. Or what if a freak wave washes them out to sea? It can happen so quickly. ‘Holly, are you sure she said she’d be back in half an hour?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ she looks at her watch, which seems to be a huge face of Mickey Mouse and looks far too large for her thin wrist, and frowns. ‘Should of been back by now. Been gone nearly an hour.’

I’m already zipping up my waterproof, pulling up the hood. ‘I’m going to look for them. It’s dangerous to be walking by the sea in this. I can’t believe they’re crazy enough to be out there this long.’

I go out into the fiercest storm we’ve had since last winter. The waves are crashing over the sea wall, soaking the footpath, and even the road. I look down the length of it and don’t see a single soul.

I’m starting to seriously worry. Where are they? I walk along the road, well away from the spray. The wind is lashing me, as is the rain. I start to run, calling out, ‘Nell! Sydney!’ The only reply is the howl of the gale. My heart starts to pound as I run faster, call louder, until at last I reach the end of the sea wall where there’s a lone cottage before the path veers up to the cliff top. This is the home of two of my well-loved customers, Archie and Jennifer, retired teachers, both Cornish, who have lived in this house all their married lives. Archie’s family were all fishermen, and this was his father’s cottage. I love the fact that it’s still a home to a fisherman’s family, and not a second home as no doubt it will be one day, as the couple have no children to pass it on to.

I look up onto the cliff top. If Nell and Sydney have gone up there, on that narrow path right at the edge, the wind would have blown them off in moments. I’m sure they’re sensible enough not to have attempted the cliff. The more likely scenario is that they stopped by the sea wall to watch the thunderous waves and were knocked down, pulled in. My heart is beating so hard at this thought that instead of running all the way back to the post office to raise the alarm, I bang on the door of the cottage in front of me.

After a moment Archie appears, his mouth open in surprise as I say breathlessly, ‘Quick, we need to phone. The coast guard, the lifeboat, somebody.’

‘Tessa, come in, the phone’s in the kitchen. What’s happened?’

As we rush towards the kitchen I say, ‘It’s Nell and Sydney, they’ve disappeared, went for a walk along the sea front and there’s no sign of them. I think they’ve been swept out.’

Like some whacky film, I stop short, do a double take, and stare at the kitchen table. Sitting there serenely drinking tea is Nell, with Jennifer on one side of her and Sydney on the other.

For a few moments I freeze, not quite believing my eyes. Then as relief washes over me, making me weak at the knees, Archie says, ‘You don’t need to make that phone call, so why don’t you have a cup of tea instead?’

Nell is glaring at me. ‘Maid, did you be thinking that I cannot look after meself in a storm?’

I make myself look contrite. ‘Nell, I’m afraid I did think that for a moment. I should have known better.’

Sydney says, his eyes twinkling, ‘And d’you think for one minute I’d have risked dear Nell’s life in a storm like this’un?’

‘Um, no. Of course you wouldn’t.’

Everyone has a huge smile on their face as the teapot is brought around, a cup placed in front of me. Nell refuses a second cup, stands up and says, ‘I’d best be off. Don’t want anyone thinking I do be neglecting the shop, just because I take a breather every now and again for a spot of fresh air.’ She stares at me with her best haughty look, as if daring me to mention again that the fresh air is a Force seven or eight gale.

I look her straight in the eye. ‘We all need a walk in the fresh air to clear our heads sometimes, Nell. But you don’t need to hurry back. Holly is minding the shop and post office just fine. The storm’s kept all the customers away, anyway.’

But Nell insists on leaving, and Sydney insists on accompanying her, and I’m left with Archie and Jennifer, drying out in front of their Aga, kept on low even in the summertime. I spend a lovely half hour catching up with them, looking at Jennifer’s latest watercolours (she sells quite a few of her wonderful paintings in the summer) and talking to Archie about the progress of his book on Cornish history.

On the way home the storm breaks at last, and the sky is arced with rainbows, not just one or two, but at least three, and a hint of a fourth. I pull into a hillside layby where I can look out over the fields and cliffs to the sea. One rainbow is all one colour, or so it seems from here – a streak of crimson going straight up from the sea to the sky. I’ve never seen that before, and I watch for quite some time, until the light changes and it fades from view. There are so many things I’m seeing in Cornwall for the first time, I feel like a baby in a bright new world.

The phone is ringing when I walk through the front door a week or two later and I grab it, still wearing my postie uniform. I wonder if it’s Ben, who is Up Country doing a voice-over. There have been a spate of these recently, which is great for our income but I miss him when he’s not around. At least he’s not on a six-week theatre tour as he was this time last year.

But it’s Annie, and I’m immediately alert as I only talked to her the night before. ‘What’s wrong?’ I blurt, before she has time to say more than hello.

‘Nothing. Everything’s fine. But look, I’ve got a friend who has a problem and I suddenly thought you’d be just the one to help.’

I sit down to listen, as Annie explains. ‘This friend, Dominic, I’ve known him for ages; he was at our wedding, remember?’

‘Yes, I remember Dominic. And?’

‘His parents pulled up their London roots and moved to Cornwall, up on the north coast. St Petroc, the village is, you know it.’

St Petroc is a seaside village, a fabulous harbour town with a couple of beautiful beaches, great cafés, art galleries, and shops. The harbour is filled with fishing boats instead of yachts as this is still a working harbour, and the pier is stacked with nets and the paraphernalia of the fishermen. The village is a family favourite and we’ve visited it often.

Annie continues, ‘This was six or seven years ago. Dominic’s parents started a B&B right on the seafront, opposite the pier and harbour. Great little place, I stayed there once long before you even moved to Cornwall.’ She sighs deeply. ‘In my wayward youth,’ she reminisces, ‘so long ago. I was with that …’

‘I know all about your lurid past, Annie, now forget it and get on with what the problem is.’

‘The B&B is called The Blue Seashell. It’s got a great blue seashell over the door.’

‘Duh. Really? Not a green one?’

‘Don’t be facetious, Tessa. I just mentioned it as you might have seen it.’

‘I think I have. It’s a darling house, an old fisherman’s cottage.’

‘They’re all darling fishermen’s cottages in St Petroc. Anyway, the couple, Dominic’s parents, made a real go of it, are doing terribly well, booked up almost all year. Well, except for the winter months when they go off to the Maldives or something and shut the place up.’

‘Goodness, they must be doing extremely well.’

‘Well, they are. They work hard, too. They must both be around sixty now, though they look years younger. They’ve got such energy, but now here’s the problem. Dominic’s mother is due to have an operation in a week’s time, nothing critical but not something she can postpone. His dad’s sister was coming to help run the B&B but now their father – Dominic’s grandfather – who has a birthday soon, eighty-eight or eighty-nine, has just been told he’s terminally ill and has only another six months to live. He’s in Canada and now, of course, both Dominic’s father and aunt want to be there with their father for his last birthday. They’ve frantically tried to get cover for the B&B for the week after next but can’t find anyone at this late stage. Today’s the first of July as you know.’

I’m beginning to get her drift. ‘And in a week’s time, our house will be rented.’

‘Exactly. You need to vacate your house and they need someone to live in and run the B&B for that one week. I believe they’ve got someone lined up afterwards, but no one when they first go. What do you think, Tessa? Think you and Ben could run a B&B? It’ll be better than camping anyway – that’s the week you were going to, isn’t it? There’s a family apartment in the B&B where all four of you can stay; think of the fun Amy and Will can have, the beach practically outside their door. And you’ll get paid for it, as well, how about that?’