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In Part Two of Derek Tangye's new book of CorniSh Chronicles,

"YOU KNOW," said Jeannie, "tonight I feel mortal."

I looked across at her in her chair in front of the fire, and laughed.

"You certainly don't look it," I said. Jeannie has always been ageless . Her

height was five feet five inches. She was slim, like a boy. Her hands were slender, her fingers tapered. Her eyes changed colour according to what she was wearing, from grey-blue to green. Her hair, shoulder length, was dark, and although she complained that it was too fine, making trouble for her hairdresser, it possessed a casual elegance.

There was her smile. She believed that most people are fundamentally vulnerable, and they require to be given confidence; whenever strangers appeared at Minack, there would be this smile. She put herself in their place. She, too, was vulnerable. She had been through the same experience.

"Why do you say you feel mortal?" I asked. "You're not hiding anything from me?"

"Of course not. I've never felt better. It's Fred's death that has upset me, made me feel mortal. I suddenly realise time is going by. Silly, I know, but I didn't think death belonged to us. At this moment I realise it does."

I found it strange she should speak in this way, because she was one of the War gener­ation of pretty girls who lived daily with death. Jeannie knew too many of her genera­tion who were killed; and I believe that one reason she gave up her hugely successful job, with its glamour and frivolous ple~ures, was because she was haunted by memories of those who died in the war.

We both were ready for the change. We both were ready to live at Minack without running water, electricity, and on only £3 a week.

T HE DAFFODIL harvest was late, the year that Fred died. Jeannie picked the first daffodils on 2nd February; we

usually begin sending away in the third week of January. This lateness threatened a poor season because early growers in the far West of Cornwall had to sell their daffodils before the factory-type growers began to send daffodils to the markets. Our own slow method of picking in small meadows close to the sea cannot compete in commerical terms with these big growers.

On 8th February we sent our first two boxes away to New Covent Garden Market. They were of the Magnificence variety, a yellow trumpet with a faint scent, and there were sixty bunches in each box. We had picked them in the bottom meadows of the Merlin cliff, three baskets of them, and it meant a long clamber back, me with two baskets, Jeannie with one. When we reached

SECOND INSTALMENT

ann1 by Derek Tangye

This is the story of two people who met, and found a

marriage of true minds. Happily, they turned their

backs on sophisticated London and found their hearts' desire

in the West Country. How lucky they were: as Jeannie so

often declared . . .

The belle of the Savoy- Jeannie in her days as the hotel's Publicity Officer.

the top Jeannie said: "We must be fit, doing this without puffing!"

We were primarily doing this work for the sake of pride. We were the last of the daffodil cliff growers between Penzance and Gwennap Head, near Land's End. Every other grower had given up because prices did not compensate for the cost of labour. Yet Jeannie had .this passion to continue.

When she was a child, there was a legendary captain-Captain Reseigh-of the steamship Scillonian, which sailed between Penzance and the Isles of Scilly. He sailed the Scillonian in such ferocious weather that even today, if the modern Scillonian stays . in harbour when the weather is bad, a local will comment: "Captain Reseigh wouldn't have feared the weather."

It was the same mood of pride that

reflected Jeannie's wish to pick the daffodils in the cliff meadows.

"I don't want, after all these years," she said that Spring, "passengers in the Scillonian passing by and seeing we have left our meadows to go wild like the rest. I don't want them to think we've surrendered to modern commercial pressures."

Dear Jeannie, I so often have had to talk to her in sensible fashion, bringing her dreams down to reality.

"But," I said, "I can't go on forever carrying baskets up the cliff or scything the bracken and undergrowth from the meadows every autumn, just for the sake of passengers on the Scillonian."

The two boxes fetched £18 each, and we rejoiced. Within a week the price was down to £9 a box, and we were miserable. The weather had turned mild, daffodils in our fields had been encouraged to leap into market readiness. No longer could Jeannie and I cope on our own, and our helpers of past daffodil seasons, Margaret Smith and Joan Johnson, had to be enlisted. Margaret gave up riding her horse in the morning, Joan gave up her other work. Their presence was infectiously happy, both were so enthusiastic, both were as happy as we were when, at the end of the day, we had picked and bunched a record number of boxes.

But there was the cost of sending those boxes. I calculated that the cost of each box . . . the commission, ··the freight, the box itself, other items like rubber bands and the petrol taking the load to Long Rock, the other side ofPenzance, the wages of Margaret and Joan, and for that matter the wages of ourselves . . . all this totalled more than £7 a box.

'JEANNIE," I said one day as we worked bunching daffodils, "what would you do if I were run over by a bus?"

She was at the other end of the bench by the door. One of the cardboard flower boxes which I had stapled together was on the bench in front of her.

"You know very well what I would do. I would stay here. I will stay here forever and forever. I will be here when I die, my spirit will be everywhere. I will love all who live here and love Minack, but if any philistine misuses Minack, I'll turn into a witch and haunt them! What would you do if I were run over by a bus?"

"I would be terribly unhappy." She laughed. "Seriously, I mean." "I would become a hermit. Never move

out. Welcome people yes, but I would never go away unless I had to."

"How lucky we are to have roots." Her daffodil clothes were slacks, roll-neck

jersey and anorak; and she wore gumboots.

22 Jeannie: A Love Story is published by Michael Joseph on 20th June 1988, price £12·95.

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the year at Minack moves out of winter into the mild, daffodil-bright spring

Above: Picking daffodils on Merlin Cliff. Right : New arrivals at Minack!

Practical but not elegant. She was wearing the same type of gear, years before, when she received a telegram from the BBC, asking her to appear on the famous Tonight programme. Arnold Bennett's Imperial Palace, the novel based on the Savoy Hotel , was being serialised on televis:ion, and Jeannie was wanted to make her comments on the production.

Within twenty-four hours, slacks, roll­neck jersey and gumboots were exchanged for Jeannie's other ego, the very sophisticated ego in a Savoy Hotel suite with windows overlooking the Thames. What was so remarkable about her was that she took the switch so naturally. She was as at home there as she was at Minack. She was basically intuitively sure of herself wherever she was.

I T WAS Jeannie who realised our destiny. We had seen the cottage, nestling beside a wood, from the heap of rocks known as

Carn Barges. It reached out to us, held our hands, as if it was pleading with us to realise that here lay our destiny. We were drawn towards it, and we hurried along a track, then crossed a field , climbed over a hedge, and there was this long-ago-built cottage, walls climbing out of rocks, a mud floor, rat droppings, a pool of rain water in a corner, tiny windows, a wafer of a wood wall making it appear that there were two rooms . . . and yet exultation was in both our hearts. How to rent it? Here the calculating side of our characters came to our help.

We found the cottage and the land surrounding it belonged to the Lord Falmouth Estates, but the property was let to a popular, buccaneer farmer called Harry

Laity, who, in turn, let it , and the neighbouring farm, to a dairy farmer who had no use for the cottage. So Harry Laity, it was clear, was the man to win over. A meeting was arranged at his farm near Land's End called Bosistow. We took a bus from Lamorna Cove to Poljigga, and found ourselves standing at the entrance to a lane which stretched towards Bosistow, far in the distance. As we walked we discussed our tactics.

"I'm going to leave it to you," I said firmly . "Oh, Derek, you know I'm no good at

being business-like." "Just be feminine," I replied. " Just be

your natural self. You look so young and pretty with your long dark hair, and Harry Laity will find you irresistible. If I do the talking it will be market-place talk, I'll be out of my depth, and he' ll be suspicious. 'What is he after? ' he will ask himself. 'Am I missing

out on something I don't know about?'" The farmhouse was now in sight, granite­

built with pine trees incongruously grouped behind it.

I knew Jeannie would not fail. She had this aura of integrity and naturalness and courage. She would not appear to Harry Laity as a London butterfly, trying to find a crevice where temporarily to hide.

But the tactics we had devised were of no value. It was to me, to me alone, that Harry Laity's questions were directed. A question, an answer, and I found myself gushing to fill the silence.

"Of course," I remember saying, "we'll pay for all the improvements necessary, and we won't ask you for anything."

A long interval this time. "I'll think about it," said Harry Laity at

last. We were to become close friends of his and

there came a day when he confessed as to why he finally decided to rent us Minack.

"You remember when you said you would renovate the cottage at your own expense?"

" Yes," I replied. "Well," he said, "I looked at this very,

very pretty girl beside you and said to myself: 'She won't stick it for six months before deciding to go back to her glamorous London life . . . and then I'll have a renovated cottage which has cost me nothing' ."

We were in the Old Success pub at Sennen Cove at the time.

" There you are," I said, turning to Jeannie. "Didn't I tell you as we walked down that long, long lane, that all you had to do was to be feminine, and Minack would be ours?"

JEANNIE wrote Meet Me at the Savoy during our first two years at Minack. Danny Kaye wrote the foreword. He had

become a close friend of hers during the time he made his first sensational appearance at the London Palladium. Jeannie gave him the manuscript to read, and he loved it.

I adopted the role of a bossy taskmaster while she wrote the book.

I was well aware that Jeannie, like most of us, was only too ready to be sidetracked from her task; and so when she went into the room where she was writing the book, I took the precaution of locking her in.

Sometimes I would hear a cry. "Let me out! Let me out!" Ruthlessly I would reply that she had only

been at work for an hour. " Let me out!" And I would then comply. The book, at last completed, had now to be

sold to a publisher. We had confidently believed that there would be no difficulty in doing this. It was a surprising experience, therefore, when one solemn publisher after another said the book was unsuitable. After all the years the book has proved to be a classic, and yet at the time no one wanted to know. At last a small publisher accepted it, and gave an advance of £50. Jeannie, resilient Jeannie, was so delighted that she said she would buy something special for Minack with the money. The special something proved to be a number of Ganwick Cloches. Ganwicks were the vogue at the time; and by buying them Jeannie and I believed that we had started upon horticultural prosperity.

The dazzle about Jeannie attracted people, quite apart from her delicious looks. Once,

Continued overleaf

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JEANNIE Continued

when we came to London from Minack, we were invited down to Pinewood Studios where Charlie Chaplin was directing Sophia Loren and Marlon Brando in the film he had written, and for which he had also composed the music, called The Countess from Hong Kong. We went into the studio; suddenly Charlie Chaplin stopped the scene. Apparent­ly he had caught sight of Jeannie, because he came hurrying across the studio floor to where we were standing, and began to talk to her as if they had known each other all their lives. They had never previously met, but he seemed to have realis~ instinctively that there was a special glow about her. A week later she was offered a contract to be the publicity officer for the film. A wonderful compliment for which she was grateful, but she had no hesitation in refusing. She was happy in the life she had chosen.

ONE DAY, and I cannot remember which year, Beverley Nichols (the author) was sitting after lunch in the

corner of the sofa, quietly watching Jeannie as she fussed over the washing-up in the galley of the kitchen.

"Jeannie," he said, "you had the whole world open to you, a great career waiting for you. There was not a country where you did not have friends to give you a marvellous time. You were loved. People felt so much better just being with you. Why did you turn your back on that world?"

She stopped fussing over the washing-up, and came out of the kitchen. She was wearing an apron, the large head of a donkey printed on it, which somebody had given her.

"Darling Beverley ;• she replied, and there was a teasing note in her voice, "you know about the fickleness of that kind of life . . . "

Then Jeannie went on: "I was lucky enough to fin.d out early that there is no happiness to it except in fits and starts. And I was lucky enough to have Derek who felt the same.

"We both wanted to create our own roots, be independent of employers, never have our future at risk by takeovers. And we had to start creating those roots in time."

THE DAFFODIL season was over, and we were free; the March morning was soft and warm, and the air had the

miracle mixture of sea scents, daffodil scents, primrose scents, and the growing · sce~ts of juvenile platlts and grasses. I went out m my dressing-gown to give chocolate biscuits to Merlin the donkey, who was leaning over the fence by the stables, and when I returned I said to Jeannie: "Let's have breakfast down the cliff beside the sea."

She agreed. "Give me ten minutes," adding, "I've got ham and I'll cut bread and butter, and put the percolator on for the coffee."

We were ready to go. Ham and bread and butter wrapped in foil had been placed in a basket; so, too, the Thermos of coffee; so, too, a couple of cups and knives ... when there were cat problems.

A rattlesnake sound from Ambrose. "Ambrose wants something," I called out

to Jeannie in the spare bedroom. "Give him something out of the tin," she

called back. Continued on page 33

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JEANNIE Continued from page 24

"But there isn't anything in the tin," I replied.

"There are spare ones on the second shelf in the kitchen."

I found one, and as soon as the scooped portion was on the small plate in front of him, he was ravenously eating it.

"All's well," I called out. "Ambrose is satisfied."

A moment's silence. Then Jeannie's voice from the spare room.

"Did you give him any milk? He'll want fresh milk."

I love cats, but I so understand my other self which hated them, and which writhed at the way cat lovers fussed over them. My other self thought they were mindless and cruel and selfish and, because they would not come running to you, as a dog will come in natural friendliness, they were incapable of affection.

I did not believe Jeannie in our early days when she said that cats had a natural desire to give love; I laughed at her. Cats give love? These vermin which were cruel and selfish? My future mother-in-law, after hearing one of my outbursts on the subject, remarked to her daughter: "I don't think, dear, that such an anti-cat man will be suitable as a husband for you."

But I have learnt that a cat can give you such true love that you begin to worry what would happen if you were run over by a bus. I have learnt, since my anti-cat time, that a cat can love a person, exclusively, although the person has to earn the love by developing an uncanny sense of union with the cat.

Sad to think there will be those reading this who will say I am writing sentimental rubbish. Yet love, from whatever direction it may come, is the only true generator of happiness. So why throw scorn on it, whether it comes from a cat, a budgerigar, a dog, a hamster, a guinea pig, a donkey?

WE SHUT the front door and sauntered down the path, Annie's Folly on our right (the macrocarpa

which we had acquired as a three-foot-high Mediterranean heather was now a thirty-foot­high tree), the newly acquired waterbutt on the corner ofthe cottage on our left; and then down towards the gate which opens on the path that leads to the sea.

We came to the top of the cliff, and to the steps, earth-made steps, which led to the first of our small, sloping meadows, and to a particular one called by us the Jack Train meadow.

Jack Train was a radio star in his time, a pivot of the famous Tommy Handley programme. A gimmick he had was to pretend he was always seeking an alcoholic drink, and he had a famous catch-phrase in reply to anyone who asked him whether he would like to have a drink.

"I don't mind of I do." This catch phrase had inevitable results. Whenever Jack was at a function or just

enjoying himself by a visit to a pub, there were always a number of people who would offer him a drink, just to hear him say: "I don't mind if I do."

Jeannie and I had known him for a long time and, as it happens, he was a very moderate drinker. He was a lovable, gentle person.

Continued overleaf

33

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ROBIN FAMILY --------,

Party time admire it this afternoon," Sophia explained to her as she carefully packed the cake and handed it to Mr. Robin to take home.

Sophia Swallow was quite right. That afternoon, the parlour and the garden of Tree Stump House were full of little birthday guests laughing, chattering and playing games-and everyone was only too happy to stop, to enjoy the delicious tea which Mrs. Robin had prepared. In the middle of the table stood the birthday cake-and how it was admired.

A twin deserves a very special cake!

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY to you, happy birth­day to you, happy

birthday, young Robins, happy birthday to you," sang Postman Starling, as Roley and Rosemary Robin opened the front door of Tree Stump House to his knock. "Lots of post for you two," he added with a smile, as he handed them a plump bundle of cards and two parcels ...

to collect ." Roley and Rosemary couldn't think what it could be-but their cousins Richard and Rowena knew!

Mr. Robin led the way along the winding village street to the Swallow Tea­rooms.

Opening their presents and looking at their cards was very enjoyable. ~~oh, isn't it lovely!" squeaked Rosemary, as she opened her biggest parcel-and took out quite the most enchanting dress she had ever seen.

"Why, hello," said Miss Sophia Swallow. "Many happy returns, Rosemary and Roley. I know what you have come for!" And with that she disappeared into the kitchen and came out carrying a delicious-looking birthday cake, decorated with pink and white icing.

"It is almost too pretty to cut into slices," said Sally Sparrow. But when Rose­mary and Roley-with the help of their mother-did cut the cake, so that all their guests could have a piece, everyone agreed it was the nicest birthday cake they had ever tasted.

Later that morning, Mr. Robin took Roley, Rose­mary, Richard and Rowena to the Woodland Shops. "Now," he told them, "there is something very important that we have got

The two little Robins thought it was lovely, and baby Rowena was really rather disappointed that the cake was going to Tree Stump House in a box­and not being carried along so that everyone could have a look at it!

"But your cousins' party guests will be able to

JEANNIE Continued from page 33

The daffodils in the Jack Train meadow were old-fashioned ones called Irving. I remember him standing there one afternoon.

"Go on," I said, "pick some and take them back to London."

A pause. Then: "I don't mind if I do." At all times it was Jeannie's enthusiasm,

her never-doubting confidence in our life together at Minack that kept me, so often, from financial despair. Jeannie was carefree about money. Her sister Barbara tells how, if she herself was given a pound when she was a child, she would cherish it. Jeannie, when given a pound, would quickly spend it. On the other hand, when she was broke, when we both were broke, she never moaned. She was perpetually propelled by an optimism that convinced her all would soon be well. There was never an occasion when she was tempted to say: "We must go back to London where we can earn a decent living."

T HE entrance into the spare room at the cottage is carved out of the massive end wall. It was a great occasion when we

decided this had to be done. We had already bought a chicken-house next to the cottage, and converted it into a living-room where we used to bunch our violets for market ... and we were soon to add a bathroom at the far end. But there was no contact with the cottage, and so, if we wanted a bath, we had to walk outside to reach it.

This belonged to the innocent, pioneer

days when such inconveniences did not matter. The joy of each day lay in the freedom we relished. Walking in the rain to our bathroom, at the time, seemed to be part of the happiness that we were living.

Nonetheless, we succumbed in due course, to more logical behaviour. A door-sized hole was carved which enabled us to walk to the spare room, walk to the bathroom, without an umbrella or a mackintosh.

The first person who experienced this luxury was my mother, who came to stay witt us soon after the work had been completed.

My mother, an unswerving supporter of our adventure from the beginning, appeared on her first evening, elegant in evening dress, paused at the new entrance between one- time chicken-house and cottage and said: "Oh, my dears, I'm so glad for you. Now you've got everything."

I remember Jeannie saying joyously: ''Yes, we've now got everything!"

We had no electricity. No fridge. No freezer. No dishwasher. No washing machine. No vacuum cleaner. Lighting was by candles and paraffin

lamps. But, then, as now, Jeannie and I were

sharing one of those halcyon moments that reached into our souls. No intellectual turmoil disturbed us into feeling guilty because we were happy.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK ©Derek Tangye, 1988.

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