6

      The postman, never knowingly uninterested in people’s business, was enjoying his morning. It was that day in August when, around the country, exam results were dropping through letterboxes, anxious pupils waiting on the other side, braced for what news they might bring. The postman always took it upon himself to hand-deliver the envelopes in Trevay – whether he was conveying good news or bad, he wanted to pass it to the addressee personally.

      Today he’d witnessed four people in tears (three of them mothers) and received two hugs of joy. No one had yet offered him a brew, and he could do with one. He was driving from the small modern housing estate at the top of Trevay, down the hill towards the old town and the sea. He pulled on the plastic sun visor to shield his eyes from the glare of the early morning light glinting off the water in the estuary. He turned right onto the posh road where the white stucco executive bungalows sat with their unfettered view of the river, the harbour and the open sea beyond. Each home was surrounded by a generous plot of land, either planted with palm trees, china-blue hydrangeas, large mounds of pampas grass or a selection of all three.

      He stopped his van at Bryn and Elizabeth Clovelly’s conspicuously expensive bungalow, unimaginatively named Brybeth. He sorted through the bundles of post. He was looking for one with Greer Clovelly’s name on it. He found an electricity bill, a Cellophaned edition of Golfer’s Monthly and a letter from the DVLA (all addressed to Mr B. Clovelly), a postcard from Scotland (addressed to Mrs E. Clovelly) and finally a plain envelope addressed to Miss Greer Clovelly with a Truro postmark. He got out of his van and walked with dignified purpose towards their front door.

      Greer was lying in bed listening to the radio. Kim Wilde was singing ‘You Keep Me Hangin’ On’. As usual Greer was thinking about Jesse. She didn’t hear the doorbell ring or the bustle of her mother coming from the rear kitchen to the front door. But she did hear her mother calling her name.

      ‘Greer. The postman has a delivery for you.’

      ‘What is it?’ she called back.

      ‘Something you’ve been waiting for.’ Her mother was using her singsong voice.

      Greer sat up quickly. ‘Is it my exam results?’ She didn’t listen for the answer as she leapt out of bed, grabbed her Snoopy dressing gown, a cherished Christmas present from Loveday, Mickey and more especially Jesse, and dashed down the hall to the open front door.

      She thanked the postman and slid her thumb under the flap of the envelope. Her hands shook a little as she took out the letter inside and unfolded it.

      The look on her face told the postman all he needed to know. He hung about briefly in case there was a congratulatory cup of coffee to be offered, but when it wasn’t he set off, desperate to spread the news.

      Bryn stood at the kitchen table and read the letter through again. ‘You passed! Ten O levels. My God, Greer, I’m proud of you.’

      ‘Thank you, Daddy.’

      ‘Ten! That’s ten more than you and me, eh, Elizabeth?’

      ‘It certainly is. Oh, Greer, we are proud of you.’

      ‘This means I can go to sixth-form college and do my art and design A level.’

      Her father sat down opposite her and, pushing his reading glasses onto the top of his head, adopted a patient tone. ‘How about getting a good secretarial qualification? Hmm? Secretaries are always needed. Good ones, anyway. They are the oil of the engine in any business. And when you get married, you won’t need to work. You’ll be looked after by your husband, while you look after your home and your family. Like Mum.’

      Greer looked at her father in exasperation.

      ‘I want to be an interior designer, and a wife and mum.’

      ‘Well, I’d like to be a professional golfer, but we all have to be realistic.’

      ‘I am being realistic. Lots of women have jobs these days and bring up a family.’

      ‘You’re talking about those lah-di-dah city types with posh nannies and banker husbands. It’s different here.’

      ‘And who says I can’t be a lah-di-dah city type?’ she countered mutinously.

      Her father glowered at her. Greer chewed her lip and there was a strained silence. She knew it was pointless to provoke her father, but she consoled herself with the thought that he’d have to stop treating her like a child one day.

      Her mother went to the bread bin and sliced two pieces of granary bread before popping them in the toaster. She was thinking of how best to back Greer without antagonising her dinosaur, chauvinist husband.

      ‘I think she’d make a very good interior designer, Bryn,’ she said quietly. ‘Look what she’s done with her bedroom. And interior designers can charge the earth for their services. She has good taste, and people are prepared to pay for good taste.’

      Bryn shook his head dismissively. ‘A fool and his money are easily parted.’

      *

      ‘Mum!’ Loveday was bouncing uncontrollably round the tiny stone-flagged hall of the cottage she shared with her mother. ‘Mum! I got seven! And an A for maths!’ She flung herself into her mother’s arms and jigged them both up and down on the spot. ‘Can you believe it, Mum?’

      Beryl Carter managed to extricate herself from her daughter and, panting, said, ‘Oh, my darlin’ girl, you done so well! Your dad would be proud of you and no mistake. Seven! You’ll be going to university at this rate.’

      Loveday stopped jumping and pulled her mother into a giant bear hug. ‘Mum, I’m not leaving you. I’m going to get a job and bring some good money into the house. I’m going to look after you properly. The way Dad would’ve.’

      ‘No,’ Beryl told her firmly, pulling herself out of Loveday’s grip again. ‘You’m not giving up your future for me. I can look after myself. You get out and see the world. You could be a doctor or … or … a professor or something.’

      ‘Not with only seven O levels,’ laughed Loveday. ‘And what do I want to see the world for? I’m happy in Trevay with you and Greer and Jesse and Mickey.’ A thought suddenly struck her. ‘I’ll ask if there’s a job going at Jesse’s dad’s or Greer’s dad’s. I’ll work as hard as they like. Harder than anyone they know.’

      *

      Jan Behenna took the envelope from the odious postman and propped it against the teapot on the kitchen table. She prayed Jesse had done well. She wanted him to be happy and fulfil his dreams, whatever they were. If that meant emigrating to Australia, so be it. She’d barely left Cornwall herself, let alone the United Kingdom. If Jesse went to Australia, Jan could apply for a passport and fly on an aeroplane. She’d have the chance to see the Sydney Harbour Bridge. She sighed as she dreamt of Jesse’s future. The one thing she didn’t want for him was to be pushed into a marriage of convenience to Greer bloody Clovelly and her jumped-up family.

      ‘Morning, Ma.’ Grant came into the kitchen; he’d come home for the weekend and looked better than he had for ages. His hair was shaved close and neat and, despite being out last night drinking with his old Trevay mates, he was up bright and early this morning and looked none the worse for it. It was early days, but Jan hoped that life in the army was giving the boy the discipline he sorely needed. She fervently prayed that he’d turned a corner and was putting his old ways behind him.

      Movement upstairs signalled that Jesse was awake. He and Edward had come home from a long fishing trip the night before and he was only now stirring, the smell of eggs and bacon wafting