The Sweethearts Collection. Pam Jenoff
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the thin soles of her boots. Ahead of them, the other vans were continuing their journey, ponies blowing and snorting as they laboured their loads up the long incline. Men and women walked alongside while children and dogs darted in and out of the golden gorse, setting its coconut scent wafting on the early-morning breeze. Birds swooped low, gathering food for their hungry chicks while in the distance she could see the sweep of the moors with the tall chimneys and gaunt engine houses of tin mines dotted around the landscape. Colenso stretched, glad to be out in the fresh air again, then hurried to join Mara who was leading Ears along the dusty lane.
‘I didn’t realize you were making such an early start,’ she said, staring in wonder at the crimson sun rising above the hills, bathing them in its rosy glow.
‘We have a full day’s travelling ahead of us for the Feast of St Senara, which is where they reckon the name of Zennor comes from, by the way. Starts on Sunday.’
‘St Senara?’ Colenso frowned. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of him.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t because Senara was a woman – a Breton queen, no less,’ Mara grinned. ‘According to legend she was thrust into a barrel and thrown into the sea by a jealous husband. Whilst there she gave birth to a son who went on to become St Budoc, another famous Cornish saint. Anyhow, Senara created the church and by all accounts was a popular saint, worshipped by the men who fished the dangerous waters near the village.’
‘Even so, it’s a long way to travel just for one day, isn’t it?’ Colenso asked.
‘Except the feast lasts for a whole week. Families who’ve left the village return home, and people visit from miles around. There’s all manner of celebrations so it’s well worth setting up the fair. There’ll be other attractions too, as long as they can get their wagons along the narrow lane to the church.’
‘And I can manage to walk on all these stones,’ Colenso cried as another sharp stone cut into her foot.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mara asked, stopping and frowning as she was shown the holes in Colenso’s boots. ‘Hardly appropriate for walking any distance, are they?’ Before Colenso could answer, the woman put two fingers to her mouth and gave a sharp whistle.
‘Hey, Tinks,’ she shouted. A thin man weighed down under the weight of various bags with shoes and boots dangling from his shoulders, turned to look at them. ‘Got a suitable pair of boots for Col here?’ He nodded then began rummaging through his motley stock while he waited for them to catch up.
‘How about these?’ he asked, holding up a pair of scuffed but serviceable boots as they pulled up alongside. ‘Could let you have them for a shillin’.’
‘A shilling,’ Mara cried. ‘You old reprobate. And after I let you have some of my rabbit stew last week. You can swap them for Col’s old ones here and a bottle of my sloe gin as long as she hasn’t got any blisters when we arrive,’ she told him. The tinker grinned.
‘Done deal,’ he said, spitting on his hand then holding it out. As Mara shook it, Colenso took off her old boots and donned the new ones. They were a bit big but the soles had plenty of wear left in them.
‘Better?’ Mara asked, handing her old ones to the tinker when she nodded. As the tinker went on his way, Colenso turned to Mara.
‘But I’ve already got blisters.’
‘Shame. Old Tinks likes his gin,’ Mara winked. Colenso laughed, for the woman really was incorrigible. ‘I suppose your father intended buying you new ones?’ Recalling how he’d ignored her discomfort on the journey to the works, she muttered something noncommittal but Mara shot her a knowing look.
They spent the next few hours traversing the undulating hills, passing through tiny hamlets and farmland criss-crossed with hedgerows until they reached the saltings at Hayle, where they stopped for a break.
‘Oh, this is much better,’ Colenso cried, breathing in the sea air as she perched on a rock and watched the gulls wheeling over the gently lapping waves. ‘The countryside is pretty but it does feel hemmed in.’
‘Well, make the most of it for we’ve a fair few miles of country to pass through yet,’ Mara told her. ‘Mind you, I can’t say travelling the open road has ever made me feel hemmed in as you put it. Come on, finish your bread, the others are preparing to move on.’
Having made their way through winding lanes with blackthorn and bracken high on either side of them, passed through Halsetown and skirted around St Ives, they started to climb a steep hill. The vista of the sea opened up as the land fell away sharply to their right, while rock-strewn, bracken-covered moorland towered above them on the left. After the procession had struggled up the tortuous tracks, it was late afternoon when they finally reached their destination. Zennor was set in a deep valley with a cluster of granite cottages, sprawling farms, and a magnificent church beyond which the moors rose like a battlement. Thinking they would be taking a break, Colenso offered to fill the kettle from the stream then make them some tea. To her surprise, Mara hooted with laughter, setting the hoops at her ears dancing.
‘Take a rest?’ she spluttered. ‘We’ve to help set up the fair before we can even think of taking a rest.’ Colenso peered around, wondering how she could have missed the frenzied activity that was now taking place. Rides were being manhandled into position by burly men with tattoos decorating their muscular arms, stalls already erected were having their contents artistically displayed, while the big wagons carrying their heavy equipment were being directed onto the field. Villagers stood avidly watching whilst their children, hopeful of earning a few pence or free rides, were clamouring to help.
‘I’ve never seen so many people in one place before,’ she cried.
‘Well, you were hidden in the van at Helston. Just you wait until tomorrow. Won’t be able to move for bodies,’ Mara replied, setting Ears free from the wooden shafts. Bending down, she then began pulling poles and bags out from the racks under the van.
‘Well, don’t just stand there with arms the same length – grab hold of these and help me carry them over there,’ Mara said, thrusting the poles at her while trying to point towards the church at the same time. ‘If we don’t get a move on, the best places will be taken. Jostling past others, all with the same intent, Mara headed towards a vacant spot near the graveyard. ‘Adds to the atmosphere,’ she winked.
Much later, when her little round tent had been erected and the folding table and chairs set out to her satisfaction on the hessian rug, Mara turned to Colenso.
‘How’s your feet?’ she asked.
‘Tired but these boots are much better, thank you.’
‘Good. Well, I don’t know about you but I’m ready for supper,’ she said, pointing to a fire that was blazing in one corner of the green before striding towards the kumpania she travelled with. As Colenso followed, she could smell woodsmoke mingling with the appetizing aroma of stew. She guessed it was coming from the huge iron pot that was swinging from the chitties spiked into the ground alongside the yag, which she now knew was what they called the campfire. She sat down on the ground beside Mara, who began introducing her to her companions.
‘This is Col who’s helping Jago whilst Karla is indisposed,’ she explained. At first, Colenso was wary but they welcomed her cordially, asking no personal questions, and she guessed Mara had already briefed them about her situation. By the time a plate of rabbit swimming in rich gravy was passed to her, she felt relaxed enough to enjoy her meal.
The sun was sinking behind the hills and she watched as the sky darkened to inky black and the first stars twinkled their nightly appearance. Excitement bubbled up inside her. Although she was exhausted and her legs ached, tomorrow she was to help Jago at the Panam and she couldn’t wait. Surely now she could shed these horrible, itchy garments and wear her own clothes again.
✳
‘Oh good, you’ve come bearing gifts,’ Jago greeted Colenso when she arrived at the Panam stall weighed down with the cones she’d spent the morning making.