yes. If the men don’t win something on the stalls for their ladies to take home then they have to purchase them a gift or their lives wouldn’t be worth living. Then there are the children who want to spend their precious pennies on rock or barley-sugar twists,’ he grinned.
Pleased to have something useful to do to pass the time, Colenso pulled out the little table and settled down to making the cones. It was an easy enough task, even within the confines of the little van and with all the noise and kerfuffle going on outside.
As the pile grew, she found her mind wandering. She thought of Kitto and wondered how he was getting on. Had her mamm given him her necklace yet? And if she had, what would his reaction be? Would he be able to get time off from work to follow after her? His family were reliant on his wage after all.
With a shudder, she thought of the Ferret, recalling what her mamm had heard about his first wife. Would he really try and find her? He would have been furious at having had a wasted journey to their cottage. But no doubt her father would have made up some story to cover his tracks. However, there was no getting away from the fact that, without her accepting his proposal, there would be no promotion for her father or new cottage for her mamm. Her father wasn’t one to let an opportunity like that slip through his fingers, so perhaps Mara was right and he would come after her.
She shivered in the dying light. As shadows crept slowly round the little van, the extent of the danger she could be in finally sank home and she vowed to lie low until they reached this place called Zennor, wherever that might be.
‘Sorry, dearie, but you’ll have to get out and walk. Ears can’t manage these hills with you in the van.’ Colenso looked up in surprise to see Mara peering down at her.
‘Is it safe?’ she asked nervously, her dreams having been haunted by images of the Ferret and her father coming after her.
‘Put your cap on and keep your head down,’ she ordered. ‘Come on, look sharp or we’ll never make it to Zennor in time.’ Colenso looked at Mara with her red scarf tied elegantly round her head then glared at the itchy, woollen hat she’d come to hate. Still, it was worth suffering the discomfort if it meant she could be outside, she thought, ramming it on top of the tufts of her hair.
Used to the confines of her little hidey-hole now, she climbed up quickly and put her head out of the top part of the little stable door. Blinking in the bright light, she jumped down the step, wincing as the stones pierced 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
