Quotes
As is shouting at your neighbour on their moving day, her sensible voice pointed out from the back of her mind. No one is doing this on purpose. It’s just life. Be nice. Get the lorry out of the way and then be on yours. Do not cause a scene with people you have to live alongside for years. Imagine if someone drove past and witnessed her screeching like a banshee. The embarrassment may kill her. The village would be agog to hear that Rosy Winter had lost the plot.
Rosy paused on her driveway to take a deep breath. As she stood there she noticed a silhouette just by her wall. She raced towards the road and spotted someone in front of her tree, holding onto something presumably from the lorry. It was hard to distinguish what it was in this light, and she squinted to see if that helped. It didn’t. More importantly, the minutes were whizzing by. A groan escaped her lips as she pictured Mrs Marksharp arching an eyebrow and checking her watch. She scrunched her nose and practised her best caring-new-neighbour face but it seemed that today not even her face was prepared to be obedient. She could feel her eyes thinning and her mouth dropping as her features seemed determined to rest in their most resolute do-as-you’re-told teacher face.
Realizing that wrestling with her face was not getting her back to school any quicker, Rosy approached the removal man standing by her wall, who was as oblivious to her presence as he had been her car, chattering away on his phone. Uh-huh, so that’s why he hadn’t responded to her beeping. Thankfully, Sensible Voice was dominant in her head, calmly but forcefully repeating ‘more flies with honey than vinegar’, although Cross Voice had also popped up, whispering about people on phones and social deterioration in pure 1950s BBC tones. As she got closer she realized that the previously unidentifiable shape she had spied by her tree was some kind of rolled-up rug, balanced on the upper part of his body.
She came closer still and, as he remained absorbed, stood on tiptoes to tap the man on the back of his rug-free shoulder.
There was no response as he nodded and made ‘hmm’ noises into his handset. Was her tap too light? She could feel her teeth clench. Maybe she needed to punch him? She could almost hear Marion Marksharp’s fingers tapping at breakneck speed on a desk. She should definitely punch him.
She most definitely should not! Although as she uncurled her fist, a glimmer of a smile crossed her face. It was a pleasing thought, but as a headmistress and infant teacher, she wasn’t going to damage her hard-won reputation by hitting men in the village. Or anybody, anywhere. Tap, yes, she would just tap him again. But a little bit harder this time. Tiptoes up, fingers out, there, and again. Perfect.
‘Excuse me.’ Rosy used her firmest tone.
‘Yep, yep, just keep him for me until tomorrow… I know… look, I have to go.’ The man, with a voice so deep it jolted Rosy’s core, spun around to see her standing there and broke into a million
Rosy paused on her driveway to take a deep breath. As she stood there she noticed a silhouette just by her wall. She raced towards the road and spotted someone in front of her tree, holding onto something presumably from the lorry. It was hard to distinguish what it was in this light, and she squinted to see if that helped. It didn’t. More importantly, the minutes were whizzing by. A groan escaped her lips as she pictured Mrs Marksharp arching an eyebrow and checking her watch. She scrunched her nose and practised her best caring-new-neighbour face but it seemed that today not even her face was prepared to be obedient. She could feel her eyes thinning and her mouth dropping as her features seemed determined to rest in their most resolute do-as-you’re-told teacher face.
Realizing that wrestling with her face was not getting her back to school any quicker, Rosy approached the removal man standing by her wall, who was as oblivious to her presence as he had been her car, chattering away on his phone. Uh-huh, so that’s why he hadn’t responded to her beeping. Thankfully, Sensible Voice was dominant in her head, calmly but forcefully repeating ‘more flies with honey than vinegar’, although Cross Voice had also popped up, whispering about people on phones and social deterioration in pure 1950s BBC tones. As she got closer she realized that the previously unidentifiable shape she had spied by her tree was some kind of rolled-up rug, balanced on the upper part of his body.
She came closer still and, as he remained absorbed, stood on tiptoes to tap the man on the back of his rug-free shoulder.
There was no response as he nodded and made ‘hmm’ noises into his handset. Was her tap too light? She could feel her teeth clench. Maybe she needed to punch him? She could almost hear Marion Marksharp’s fingers tapping at breakneck speed on a desk. She should definitely punch him.
She most definitely should not! Although as she uncurled her fist, a glimmer of a smile crossed her face. It was a pleasing thought, but as a headmistress and infant teacher, she wasn’t going to damage her hard-won reputation by hitting men in the village. Or anybody, anywhere. Tap, yes, she would just tap him again. But a little bit harder this time. Tiptoes up, fingers out, there, and again. Perfect.
‘Excuse me.’ Rosy used her firmest tone.
‘Yep, yep, just keep him for me until tomorrow… I know… look, I have to go.’ The man, with a voice so deep it jolted Rosy’s core, spun around to see her standing there and broke into a million
Chapter One
Rosy jumped into her car and sped through the village as quickly as she could without knocking over small children, trying to maintain as professional a look as possible in case she was seen. Headteachers were not allowed to scowl in public, and vehicular manslaughter was obviously a no-no. She whizzed past the last stragglers from school and the thirteenth-century church on the corner, its Grade One listing and historical importance ignored by the teenagers getting off the secondary school bus and sneaking into the graveyard to have one last cigarette before reaching home.
The rows of cottages all jumbled together and daubed with the pastel colours of sage green, baby pink and ice-cream yellow – colours of Cornwall in the summer – receded into the distance as she passed the central hub of the village. The local shop, recently revamped, was now a pale slate grey and stocked with halloumi, hummus and miso paste, a nod to the gentrification of the village as Cornwall had become fashionable again and property prices had shot through the roof. It was at complete odds with its tatty neighbour, the butcher’s, which hadn’t been repainted since the nineties and had a window chock-full of community posters, yellowing and curled at the edges, inviting residents to events long since passed.
She careered past the pub and then the beach, heaving in the summer months but empty at this time of year, and the ice-cream shop, boarded up until Easter when hordes of barefooted families would suddenly appear, snaking all the way back to the sands.
Nearly home and with minutes to spare, she just had to get past the final row of fishermen’s cottages and she could pull up in her driveway and grab the one book she had forgotten this morning.
Her cottage came into sight, the late winter sun bouncing off the granite, lending warmth and making the quartz deep in the stone sparkle. The exposed walls were different from many homes in the village, most of which were prettily painted and as fresh as gin and tonic as the sun sets. Rosy’s cottage was more of a well-loved local ale, one with bits bobbing in it. Its neighbour was the same, both boldly joined together in their rebellion.
As she turned into her drive, Rosy caught sight of the higgledy-piggledyness of the roof, all uneven tiling and indents, and the stunted, windblown cherry tree in the front that exuded character and never, ever failed to make her smile. She had spent many hours wondering how the tree had become windblown, protected as it was by walls all around the front garden. There was just a little space that had been taken out to make way for a drive, and a small gate embedded in the front with its promise of a secret garden.
For her the cottage summed up Cornwall; sometimes wild and grim and grey but, in the right light, welcoming, quirky and warm. The cottage seemed honest, somehow, more in keeping with Cornwall’s past. Rosy was fairly sure that the fishermen and smugglers of yesteryear weren’t b
Rosy jumped into her car and sped through the village as quickly as she could without knocking over small children, trying to maintain as professional a look as possible in case she was seen. Headteachers were not allowed to scowl in public, and vehicular manslaughter was obviously a no-no. She whizzed past the last stragglers from school and the thirteenth-century church on the corner, its Grade One listing and historical importance ignored by the teenagers getting off the secondary school bus and sneaking into the graveyard to have one last cigarette before reaching home.
The rows of cottages all jumbled together and daubed with the pastel colours of sage green, baby pink and ice-cream yellow – colours of Cornwall in the summer – receded into the distance as she passed the central hub of the village. The local shop, recently revamped, was now a pale slate grey and stocked with halloumi, hummus and miso paste, a nod to the gentrification of the village as Cornwall had become fashionable again and property prices had shot through the roof. It was at complete odds with its tatty neighbour, the butcher’s, which hadn’t been repainted since the nineties and had a window chock-full of community posters, yellowing and curled at the edges, inviting residents to events long since passed.
She careered past the pub and then the beach, heaving in the summer months but empty at this time of year, and the ice-cream shop, boarded up until Easter when hordes of barefooted families would suddenly appear, snaking all the way back to the sands.
Nearly home and with minutes to spare, she just had to get past the final row of fishermen’s cottages and she could pull up in her driveway and grab the one book she had forgotten this morning.
Her cottage came into sight, the late winter sun bouncing off the granite, lending warmth and making the quartz deep in the stone sparkle. The exposed walls were different from many homes in the village, most of which were prettily painted and as fresh as gin and tonic as the sun sets. Rosy’s cottage was more of a well-loved local ale, one with bits bobbing in it. Its neighbour was the same, both boldly joined together in their rebellion.
As she turned into her drive, Rosy caught sight of the higgledy-piggledyness of the roof, all uneven tiling and indents, and the stunted, windblown cherry tree in the front that exuded character and never, ever failed to make her smile. She had spent many hours wondering how the tree had become windblown, protected as it was by walls all around the front garden. There was just a little space that had been taken out to make way for a drive, and a small gate embedded in the front with its promise of a secret garden.
For her the cottage summed up Cornwall; sometimes wild and grim and grey but, in the right light, welcoming, quirky and warm. The cottage seemed honest, somehow, more in keeping with Cornwall’s past. Rosy was fairly sure that the fishermen and smugglers of yesteryear weren’t b
13,4 million euros annually to children in difficult circumstances.
Vognmagergade 11, 2, 1120 København K, Denm
Vognmagergade 11, 2, 1120 København K, Denm
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