‘Well, yes, they do but…’
‘You wouldn’t believe how tricky it was getting through the lanes with this thing.’ Again he gestured but this time towards the van. ‘But with the windows open and the breeze whooshing in you kinda feel as if everything will just be OK. I had to stop at the top of the main road, by the turn off to Penmenna, at the brow of the hill that looks across the bay. I’d seen it before but still the beauty takes your breath away. It’s almost like a dragon resting his head between his paws, the shape of the peninsula, I mean. I don’t actually see dragons everywhere. I’m not that sort of person, but still it just struck me. I supposed you’re used to it, living here.’
Rosy was split in two; she was still in a hurry but never before had she heard anyone vocalize the sleeping dragon theory. It had always been how she described the shape of the promontory in her head. And that place at the brow of the hill – that was one of her absolute favourites, filling her with that safety-of-home feeling as she saw the fields rolling down gently to the coast. Of course, up close, the coastline was far more ragged than tranquil, jagged rocks and secret pathways leading to hidden coves and dangerous riptides. The sleeping dragon, serene from afar but perilous when explored.
‘I don’t think you ever get used to it. The beauty of the coastline still takes my breath away and I’ve been here years and years now. And time does seem to move slower down here. Whenever I visit anywhere else my head spins with the speed at which everything rushes past – I’ve got used to Cornish time, that’s for sure.’
‘And it’s not just the coastline – the whole county is like a different world, certainly different to the rest of the country, don’t you think? They say the light in St Ives is magical, but I think that the whole of Cornwall seems to have that magical sense to it, as if nothing can go wrong here; all your ills will be cured. You must think I’m being naive but really I just can’t believe I get to live here. And in this village, too. It’s so picturesque, postcard perfect, like someone envisioned the most idyllic place they could andpop, it appeared. I know I’m meant to be unpacking the van but I keep getting sidetracked. Every time I grab a box something else catches my eye and before I know it I’m just stood here staring at beauty. Oh, I’m sorry. You’re in some kind of mad rush and I’m banging on about scenery – I apologize.’
‘It is beautiful, and any other time I would be happy to chat but I’m just in such a hurry. I’m sorry.’
‘No, all my fault. I’ll move the van now, right now, promise. No more interruptions.’ And with a broad smile, and added eye sparkle, he wandered off towards the house. In the opposite direction of the lorry.
‘Wow! Really?’ Rosy muttered and ran her hands through her hair, shaking her head. She may as well just set up a camp bed right here and accept that Mrs Marksharp was going to be waiting all night. Clearly this removal man was a perfect fit for the Cornish pace of life.
‘I’m fetching the keys,’ said the removal man over his shoulder. His words hung heavy with amusement but were accompanied by a crashing tinkle as the rug he was carrying knocked a terracotta plant pot from her wall.
The dried-out earth and dead stick it had contained lay on the pavement between them, the baked clay spread into chunks and shards. Rosy just stared, eyebrows almost shooting from the top of her head and fighting to keep her hands off her hips, as the removal man knelt on the pavement and slowly swept it into a little pile with his hands, the rug now lying at his side.
She had kept the pot there on the wall for the last couple of years with the full intention of clearing it out and replanting something a little less dead. Probably this weekend. What was this man going to do next? Moving the van quickly didn’t seem to be on the agenda.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll sort it out properly in a moment. This really is not a great start, is it? But don’t you worry about it, I’ll have it as good as new before you can blink.’
‘Don’t worry about the pot, please could you just move the van?’ Desperation had replaced that fleeting misplaced spark of lust. ‘I’m going to go and wait in my car.’ Perhaps a final winsome smile would help. ‘Please, thank you. Please?’
‘Be right with you, promise.’ He beamed, moving with a bit more speed towards the cottage.
And Rosy headed back to her car to wait, wondering if she was ever going to make this meeting and really hoping that no one had noticed her stamp her foot.
A few minutes later and Rosy was inside her classroom, thankful that Marion’s tendency to wander around the school causing trouble meant that her own tardiness had gone unnoticed. Not so lucky was the Class Two teacher, Harmony Rivers, currently being harangued by Mrs Marksharp as she attempted to cross the playground.
Harmony relied upon conflict resolution techniques that nodded to New-Age theory to defuse situations between seven-year-olds, but a smudge of lavender oil and a talk about doing unto others was not going to appease Marion. Rosy, for kindness’ sake, was going to need to intervene, but as she stood up Mrs Marksharp turned and headed to the classroom.
Rosy let her breath fill her chest before gently exhaling and letting the air slowly play on her bottom lip as the head of the PTA wandered into her room. It wasn’t that she was physically intimidating as such… well, she was a bit: all that perfect blondness and skin that looked as if it were stretched a little too taut. Very thin and as quivery as a racehorse, she was one of those women who was constantly looking over your shoulder for someone slightly more important to talk to – which was fine because it meant that after a minute or so of insincere chit-chat she would be heading off to buttonhole someone else. What was frightening was when you were the number one person she wanted to see; then there was no hope of escape.
That overdone beam was now heading her way, eyes lit with a determined glow as she approached. It took all of Rosy’s professionalism to maintain eye contact and not visibly gulp.
‘Hello, it’s soooo good of you to fit me in, Rosy.’ Mrs Marksharp addressed all the staff by their first names. She had confided to Lynne, the teacher Rosy shared her class with and friend, that she thought it created a strong bond. Lynne, in turn, confided in Rosy that as far as bonds went, she’d be more comfortable with masked men, rope and some gaffer tape, but didn’t want to give Monster Marksharp ideas.
‘Now the thing is, I really need to talk to you about Rufus. You see, he is so gifted and I’m very worried about the absence of challenge.’ She drew back the tiny plastic chair and sat herself down, motioning to Rosy to do the same. ‘Well, as a mother, you see, who wouldn’t be? Why, only the other day he was trying to make olive oil in the conservatory using our olives and a screwdriver. Obviously he didn’t mean to smash the glass, but that’s the price you pay for having such a bright boy. And then last week he fed the chickens Miracle-Gro – such a lateral thinker!’
Forty-five minutes later – all of which were devoted to how special Marion’s three boys were – Rosy managed to escape, but only after promising to sufficiently stretch Rufus, despite her own doubts about his natural genius.
The more surprising aspect of the conversation was Marion confiding that she had heard whispers that the Local Authority had bought a large tract of land on the outskirts of Roscarrock. If this were the case it could have ramifications for the school. Roscarrock was where most of the Penmenna children went for the next step of their education so if it was for a new secondary school that would mean a shiny new school for them once they became eleven, but if it were for a new primary then it could impact negatively on Penmenna’s future numbers. Either way, she made a note for Sheila to see if she could find out more.
Sheila was the school secretary and Rosy’s PA and was teetering on the brink of retirement – teetering being the key word. Sheila was lovely, the most supportive and compassionate woman Rosy had ever met and surely on a list somewhere for potential sainthood. It was just that if anyone had given Sheila that list, she would have promptly lost it, or scrunched it up, or run it under water and used it to dab a grazed knee. She reminded Rosy of a little dormouse behind her desk – petite, smiley, oh-so-cute and just as effective. Dormice may have no role in the running of an efficient school, but Sheila had been at Penmenna since the year dot, and was as much an institution of the school as the Nativity play, so it was a matter of just riding it out until retirement rolled around. And making sure she wasn’t allowed near any of the important stuff. This job should be safe with her, though.
Dropping a note on Sheila’s desk, Rosy crossed her fingers and headed back to the office to tackle another new government directive to increase efficiency and standards. Then, four hours after the supposed end of school, she set the alarm, turned the key in the lock and headed home to a large glass of wine and a little bit more caramel shortbread.
The windows shook for the full length of the five-minute journey back to the cottage as Rosy sang along with the radio and the smile returned to her face.
‘Ricooooochet… da da da da da da… titaaaaniuuuum!’ Maybe she had been a tad rude to the removal man? It wasn’t his fault she’d had a crappy day and left Rufus’s book at home. The last time she had felt such an instant, visceral attraction as she had this afternoon was upon meeting Josh, and that hadn’t ended well. Perhaps her snappiness was her subconscious trying to protect her? Regardless of the reason, she should apologize when she got home. Yes, that’s what she’d do, make a cup of tea and apologize.
But when she pulled up in the drive, there was no sign of the removal van, either responsibly or irresponsibly parked, although the lights sparkled in the cottage next door for the first time in ages. She wondered if the new neighbours would have children. A couple more on the roll was always a good thing in a rural school.
Tomorrow was Saturday so she could bake them something yummy and go around to introduce herself, and hope her reputation wasn’t tarnished forever because of her uncharacteristic snappiness with their removal guy. Perhaps she could ask them to pass on an apology for her? Perhaps she could make another cake for them to pass on with it? Everyone liked chocolate cake, didn’t they? Perhaps she should just stop worrying and not be so neurotic? She was self-confident and in control. She had just been assertive – that was good. Plus the man had been quite smiley; he hadn’t seem perturbed by her foul temper. And he had broken her plant pot – that was quite remiss of him. Yes, she’d just leave it.
As she parked the car and headed towards her cottage, something on the doorstep caught her eye. What was that? The late January evening was pierced by the glare of her outdoor light, making it impossible to define what was sitting upon the step. She walked up to the shape to find it was another terracotta pot, but this one didn’t have a dead stick in it; no stick at all. She picked it up to take it inside and have a better look.
