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,
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,
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