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I look at Holly in surprise, for she sounds upset about this. I say, ‘But that’s just Nell, you know that. She’s always the same. I think it’s great, the men love it, it keeps Nell young, and it’s not harming anyone.’

Holly sighs. She’s so young and fresh-looking, her baubles and beads so bright and colourful, yet she looks mournful and troubled. ‘Holly, what’s up?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t blame Nell. I know the flirting is all in fun and she doesn’t mean anything by it. I just hate to see Sydney hurt.’

‘Why should he be? Nell seems to have taken quite a fancy to him.’

Holly looks around to make sure Nell is out of earshot. ‘Not any more. She’s dumped him.’

‘Really? I didn’t know that. Last I heard, they were still seeing loads of each other.’

‘That was the trouble, according to Nell. Sydney wanted to be with her all the time. She told him yesterday he was crowding her and she needed a break. The poor man is devastated.’

More customers come in and Holly goes off to deal with them. I go behind the post office counter to the tiny cubbyhole that is the office. Nell, her gentleman friend gone, says without preamble, ‘So you be talking to Holly, I see. And I suppose you be thinking that Nell is a hard old biddy, breaking off with poor dear Sydney.’

‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, Nell. But I have to admit I was wondering what went wrong. You seemed to be quite a couple, you two.’

‘Hah.’ Nell plonks down on one of the two folding chairs squeezed into the small space and motions me to sit on the other, first making sure that Holly is coping all right with the customers. ‘That be the problem, maid. Everyone thought the same. All me old mates stopped having me around on me own. “Bring Sydney,” they all said. Well, me handsome, I didn’t always want to bring Sydney, and now I suppose you be saying I be a selfish old cow?’

She’s glaring at me as if I’ve already said it, but I know Nell well enough to ignore her glaring and much of what she says. I say truthfully, ‘You know I think you’re as soft as a pussy cat, Nell. You don’t have a selfish bone in your body. You’re all talk, and I and everyone else knows it.’

She snorts. Despite the frown on her face she’s looking good, healthy and tanned, a red cotton T-shirt on over jeans, her great bosom heaving with indignation as she says, ‘Folk don’t think that now, maid. They be saying I gave old Sydney the heave-ho and broke his old heart.’

‘Well, you did. But it can’t be helped. I’m sure you had your reasons.’

The frown is replaced by a sudden look of sadness. ‘Y’know something, maid, I be a widow over twenty years. Before that I lived with me mum and dad, so I never did have a home, a life, of me own. I loved m’husband, we was close, never having no kids. So when he passed over, I didn’t want nobody else. Still don’t, not all the time. Sydney, he does. He won’t settle for seeing me now and again. And me, I be needing my space. So ’tis best we don’t see each other at all.’

Nell gets up abruptly, signally the conversation is over. ‘Now me handsome, I reckon you be saying that Nell be getting lazy in her old age, sitting round when there’s work to be done, am I right?’

She doesn’t expect an answer but goes out to the next customer. As I leave the post office, Holly says, in a whisper, ‘Can you have a talk with Sydney if you see him today? He’s taking this very badly.’

I deliver some post to Woody at the caravan first, who asks me straight away if I’ve heard how Nell has broken his grandfather’s heart. Oh dear, surely it can’t be that bad? At this rate Nell really will be made out to be a cruel, hard woman, but I can totally sympathise with her. I’ve seen the way Sydney has followed her around, seen the way Nell has begun to pull back over the last few weeks.

‘Woody, I think it’s for the best. Nell doesn’t want a full-on relationship.’

‘How full-on can you be at eighty-something?’ Woody rolls his eyes.

‘That’s not for us to decide. It’s up to them.’

He sighs, ‘I know. Talk to the old man, would’ya?’

Sure enough, Sydney is waiting for me. He’s pretending to be stroking one of the cats sunning itself on the garden bench, but as soon as my van drives up he’s coming up the path to meet me.

We talk awkwardly about the cats, the fine weather, Woody and Holly, everything but what is on his mind. He looks and sounds ten years older, and hasn’t smiled once. Several times I can tell he wants to bring up Nell but doesn’t know how, so I finally decide to help. Bluntness is called for here. ‘Sydney, I hear you and Nell have split up.’

For a moment, as I listen to my words, I think how ludicrous this is. These are two octogenarians who should be able to sort out their own lives, without the grandchildren and the local postie giving advice and doling out therapy. They’re not teenagers, for goodness’ sake.

Then I see Sydney’s face. It’s the saddest, loneliest face I’ve ever seen. And I remember that if they were teenagers, they’d have so many more years of looking for, and finding, someone to share their hearts and their homes and their lives with. For Sydney, Nell was probably his last chance, his last hope.

As if reading my thoughts, Sydney’s eyes fill with tears. He tries to hide them and I give him his dignity, let him take out a handkerchief, pretend he has something in his eyes. When he’s got himself under control he says, ‘She’s a wonderful woman, Nell. I’ll miss her.’

‘And you’re a wonderful man. I’m sure she’ll miss you, too. But maybe you can still be friends? See each other now and again? I’m sure Nell would like that very much.’

He shakes his head, blinking back tears again. ‘I couldn’t. The thing is, I want too much. More than she does. Won’t do, won’t do at all. Best we don’t see each other.’

I tell him I’m sure he knows what’s best and we leave it there, talk again about the cats. As I leave he’s stroking the one on the bench, while the other appears from behind a bush and walks me towards my van. ‘Look after him,’ I whisper. ‘He’ll need it.’ When I drive off I see that Sydney is sitting on the garden bench with both cats curled next to him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Farming Life

THE DRIVE UP
Country to Dartmoor is bizarre. It’s Friday afternoon and we seem to be swimming against the tide – all the traffic is streaming down the A30 into Cornwall, not out of it.

We waited for the new tenants to arrive so that we could welcome them, show them where everything is. Like the others, they seemed very nice, very thrilled to be living in our home for a week. It’s great to have people staying who have been vetted by good friends, though I know it won’t be like that when we’re with the rental agency. But this is a perfect way to ease into this letting business.

We leave the A30 at Okehampton, stop at the Waitrose there to buy treats for Annie and Pete. It’s totally heaving, mostly with visitors. I can almost pick out the locals, looking resigned at this annual taking-over of their town. It’s the same look I see on the faces of the locals at St Geraint and Morranport. We grab some bits and pieces and leave quickly.

Once on Dartmoor, we get hopelessly lost. The tiny lanes are signposted to villages that aren’t there, or if they are, we can’t find them. To make things more difficult, a fine summer’s mist has come down, damp and clingy. Every time the road turns sharply we seem to find ourselves on open moorland and we can’t see a thing, the visibility is so bad.

I try to phone Annie when it looks as if we’re going around in circles, but there’s no phone signal where we are. Finally Ben pulls over in an empty layby next to some gorse bushes where we get out, let Jake run about, try to get our bearings. The moor is eerie in this drifting mist, but beautiful. The gorse is bright yellow, like stars peeping out in a foggy sky, and I can see heather, too, already turning purple and blue. The great granite slabs of Dartmoor loom out like giants in the white wispy film of mist, adding to the air of mystery and magic.

As we get back into the car Ben says, ‘I can’t imagine Annie living in a place like this.’

‘Nor can I. But then I couldn’t imagine her living in Cornwall, either. Until she met Pete.’

And then suddenly we’re there. An ancient wooden sign tacked onto a beech tree states: Coombedown Farm. God knows how, but we’ve found it. As soon as we pull up, Annie is there, whooping with greetings, laughter and hugs. ‘At last! I’ve been so excited. Oh, I can’t believe you’re here, really here! Let me look at you, all of you. Goodness, how grown up you two look, let me hug you again. And you, Tessa, and Ben, you look terrific. Yes, Jake, I see you, too! Now come in, all of you. Pete’s down in the field with the cattle, I’ll give him a shout.’

She herds us into the farmhouse, once a Victorian rectory. It’s dilapidated and scruffy, but wonderfully homey and delightful. The kitchen is massive, and filled with an assortment of flowers Annie has picked – big white daisies, various kinds of orange marigolds, some blowsy red roses. Everything looks old, slightly shabby, but clean and comfortable, from the old-fashioned sink and stove, to the open homemade shelves, filled with herbs, spices, cooking oils, and all kinds of kitchen necessities. In the middle is an ancient butcher’s table, scrubbed clean and filled now with mugs for tea, a pile of delicious-looking sandwiches, buns, and cakes. ‘We’ll have a proper dinner tonight, so just dig into those, all of you. Where’s Pete?’ She goes to the door, gives a shout. ‘Pete, they’re here!’ I’ve never heard my elegant city friend bellow like that.

She looks amazingly well, her face tanned, her cheeks rosy with health. She’s in a scruffy pair of jeans, but ones I recognise as being a very posh brand that she used to wear when she visited us in Cornwall from London. They’re muddy now and frayed at the bottom, as is the loose shirt she’s wearing that looks like an old one of Pete’s. Her hair is much longer than I’ve ever seen it and it suits her. She laughs when I comment. ‘It’s only because I haven’t had time to get it cut; it’s not some new style I’m trying out.’

Then Pete comes in and there are more hugs and kisses all around, and more food brought out, and then a whirl of activity as we finally get up from the kitchen table. Annie shows us our rooms – plain furniture, simple wooden floors, old and quietly pleasant. Everywhere seems light and airy despite the mist; and the view from every window is of the ancient landscape of the moor with its hills, trees, and rocky tors. ‘Wonderful,’ I enthuse, and it really is. ‘I’m so happy to be here,’ I tell Annie.

Later, we have a look around the farm. We see Timothy, the famous pet sheep with arthritis. Will and Amy have a quarter of a banana each to give him. Annie remembers their own pet lamb and asks how Patch is getting on at the farm in Treverny. I listen to the three of them talking, equally animated, and think that’s one of the things I love about Annie, her keen interest in everyone and everything around her.

Like her enthusiasm for her new adventure up here on Dartmoor. After we’ve all taken a look around, Ben goes off with Pete to fill the cattle troughs with water, and Amy and Will run off to collect the eggs. Annie and I are on our own. ‘Are you really happy here?’ I ask. I know I’ve asked her this on the phone, but I want to look at her, be with her, as I ask it again.

‘Oh yes,’ she turns to me, glowing with contentment, and amusement, too. ‘It’s so weird, isn’t it? Who’d have thought it? I don’t miss London, my old life for a second.’ She stops, squeezes my hand. ‘You won’t get upset if I tell you I don’t miss Cornwall either? I miss you, and Ben, and the children, but I’m growing to love the farm and the animals. And Dartmoor is fantastic.’

We wander around the farm together and I can’t get over how knowledgeable Annie is about it. ‘We’ve got about one hundred and fifty acres, but we’ve also got moorland rights for the sheep and cattle. It helps financially, too; we get subsidies for that. It’s a struggle – Pete’s uncle went organic about ten years ago so he’s pretty established, but it’s still tough. We’ve got about twenty cattle, mostly the black and white Galloways as they’re slow growing and survive well on the moor. And a few Aberdeen Angus. They’re small but hardy, good beef stock and good on Dartmoor as well.’

Is this Annie I’m listening to? After we’ve had a look at the cattle and then the fifty-odd ewes, with Annie telling me how they sell the lambs both for meat and to organic breeders, I say, ‘Annie, can you hear yourself talk? Are you really you, my London friend, or have you turned into her twin country sister that I never knew existed.’

She turns to me, eyes shining, ‘I know, I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? I guess I never had a chance, before, to let this side of me out.’ She tugs at my arm. ‘C’mon, let’s go see the pigs.’

We tease and chatter all the way to the pig house. ‘We’ve got ten sows,’ Annie says proudly. ‘And like the sheep, we sell to both organic meat suppliers and to breeders.’ The black and white sows look up at us as we pass the field where they’re rooting around in the grass and mud. Annie talks to them, coos to them, as if they were her children. Then she takes me around to another pig house on the other side where there is a sleeping sow and at least a dozen three-day-old piglets running about. ‘Aren’t they adorable?’ Annie cries.