Up With the Larks (11 page)

There are no turn-offs, no buildings, nothing but this winding
road through the wooded valley. I've lost all sense of direction
and don't know where I am, or where this road is heading.

And then the woodland disappears and I'm on a marshy
plain, the road crossing a little stone bridge over a rushing river
where a single swan is floating slowly and elegantly, framed by
the sudden expanse of purple and yellow sky.

I have to stop. It's so breathtaking, this scene. I get out of
the van and stand below the old bridge, looking at the wet
expanse of grass and moss on either side of the river. It's like
a vast marshy meadow right out of a fairytale, with what looks
like an egret in the distance standing pale against the dark
lavender-grey of the sky.

Is it really an egret? I've seen them before, but only in Florida.
I've heard they're appearing in Cornwall but no one I know
has seen one. It's smaller than a heron and pure white, startling
against the green moss of the meadow. The swan, unafraid
and unthreatening, swims up to the edge of the water just in
front of me as if trying to grab my attention away from the
egret. I feel I must give it something, in honour of the season.
I've just received a special gift, a fifty pence piece from an old
pensioner, and I want to give something in return.

I search my jacket and trouser pockets for a biscuit or another
titbit but nothing is there. 'Wait a minute,' I whisper and run
back to the van.

The swan waits as if understanding every word. The storm
seems to be waiting too, for it has not yet broken despite the
blackening sky.

I find the remains of a cheese sandwich I had for lunch and
throw it to the swan. It seems to nod its head in acknowledgement
before consuming the bread and looking at me
expectantly. 'That's all,' I murmur.

The swan appears to accept this and begins to swim silently
away. I stand for several minutes, savouring the moment. The
egret is still there too, poised like the statue of some ancient
nameless god. It is so silent. I can't remember ever feeling a
silence so intense, so moving. It is, after all, Christmas Eve.
Silent Night, Holy Night.

Finally I go back to the van, decide to carry on further along
this strange road before giving up and turning around to go
back the way I came. To my surprise, I find I've driven a
different way to the neglected church outside the village which
was my first stop this morning. I know where I am now.

I pass the overgrown churchyard, the broken side door, the
cracked windows. But this time there are lights inside, shining
through the stained-glass windows. Out front several men and
women are hanging coloured lights on a tall Christmas tree
which wasn't there earlier. The wind is blowing them about
like paper cut-outs and it seems to me to be a crazy thing to
do, with such a ferocious storm brewing, but they are laughing
and determined, shouting instructions and encouragement at
each other as they struggle to keep the string of lights from
blowing away in the wind.

I love their spirit, their optimism in the face of all odds. I
slow down to watch them and as I pass that ancient dereliction
of a church, a trick of the lights in the windows and shining
through the cracks in the battered door, makes it seem like the
old church is smiling, grinning like the carved face of a jack-o-lantern. I smile back and make my way home.

There are primroses out in the lane behind our house. It's a
sun trap there. On the coast and hills the weather is still Arctic
with freezing winds, but along our lane, and in little pockets
all over Cornwall, it's summer.

The daffodils have been out for ages, appearing not long
after the New Year and of course there are snowdrops everywhere.
The rain of November and December has stopped, at
least for now, and we've had days of blue sky interspersed with
gentle, floating clouds.

The older farmers on my round, when I comment on the
rare fine weather, suck in their cheeks, purse their lips and take
a sharp intake of breath. 'We be paying for it later, me handsome,'
they say ominously.

At the post office in St Geraint, Margaret has more time to
be chatty, as we all do. I haven't had a chance to talk properly
to Margaret since the Christmas rush began. Now, there's a
lovely, relaxed feeling amongst all of us, with our busiest season
over. We're taking more time to gossip and dawdle. The great
weather makes it easier too.

I'm glad I haven't quit the job – well, today I'm glad. I'm
not naïve enough to believe either the good weather or these
gentle post-Christmas weeks won't end, but I've stuck through
those awful early weeks and I'm starting to feel at ease with
my colleagues and with the job. Not entirely, after all I've not
been at it long, but I'm getting there.

I'm collecting my post as Margaret and I talk, about nothing
in particular. I have to leave our conversation for a minute as
another customer comes in to buy stamps. I carry a load of
parcels and letters to my van parked outside and go back into
the shop as the customer leaves. 'Such a relief, Christmas being
over,' I say idly.

She looks up at me. 'Must be for you especially. Tough time
to start this job. You done well enough, though.'

This compliment sets me up brilliantly. I smile radiantly at
her but she's already dealing with another customer.

Later I'm in the post office at Morranport, talking to Nell.
'It's going to be odd, you not here,' I say to her.

'Me? Not here?' Nell stands up straight, her bosom facing
me with indignation.

'Yes, well, you leaving and all.'

'Who's saying I'm leaving here?'

I'm confused. 'Actually, Nell, it was you who said it. Before
Christmas. You said you're retiring.'

'Oh that,' she waves her wrinkled hand at me, brushing off
such a ludicrous suggestion. 'Changed me mind, I did. Now
why would I do that, you be saying to yourself. Well, a woman's
got a right, true? And I be thinking, now what in the good
Lord's name would I be doing, at home?'

Standing there with her formidable eighty-odd year-old
bosom, clad in a scarlet pullover today, with her short
scruffy white hair all over the place, Nell looks indomitable.
'You're right, Nell. What indeed
would
you be doing at home?
I'm delighted you're not retiring. Royal Mail needs you, that's
for sure.'

She looks keenly at me to make sure I'm not mocking
her. She's no one's fool. Finally, satisfied that I meant what
I said, her look softens. 'Well, maid, I could of said they be
needin' you too. You done well in the mad rush up to
Christmas.'

Two compliments about my work in one day: I'm overjoyed.
I've passed the test, I've arrived, my colleagues are happy with
me. I'm a true proper efficient postwoman at last. It's
ridiculous how much satisfaction this gives me.

It's not just the rare January sun and the compliments that
cheer me this month but the fact that all our London visitors
are gone. Since we've moved to Cornwall, we've had a rash of
guests. It is a well-known fact of life that whenever one moves
to an idyllic place, both friends and acquaintances descend like
magpies. This is fine in the case of good friends, like Annie
and numerous others who have visited us, but we soon learn
that people we thought we knew are quite different when actually
living in our house. We'd had a couple of colleagues from
The Body Shop visit in the autumn as well, and that was fine,
but then there were the others.

Seth and I had worked together for my last few years with
the company and we'd got on well. When he phoned to say
he'd like to visit us and bring his girlfriend, I thought it would
be a fun weekend.

They arrived by car at noon the day after Boxing Day. To
our surprise, Seth, who is usually outgoing and gregarious,
seemed distracted. Introducing us to Samantha, he hardly
responded to our greetings, being too busy fussing over
the slight but curvy woman wrapped in a white, fake fur
coat, her long, shiny, blonde hair hanging over it artfully.
'Samantha's ill,' Seth whispered, his tone hushed as a priest
announcing the Pope is dying. 'She needs quiet.'

I was solicitous – at first, until it soon became clear that
Samantha was hungover in a major way. I wouldn't have minded
if she'd got that way at our house, it wouldn't have been the
first time that friends appeared slightly the worse for wear at
the breakfast table, but the fact that she'd brought the hangover
with her to inflict on us rather irritated me.

However, trying to be sympathetic, I showed Seth the guest
room and together we got Samantha under the duvet. Throwing
her arm weakly over her face, she mumbled something to Seth.
'What is it?' I asked.

He didn't even look at me. 'D'you have any Alka Seltzer?'

Luckily, we did. I brought her up a glass of the fizzy stuff.
Seth, still sitting at the side of her bed, tried to coax her to
drink it. I started to creep out of the room but Seth called me
back. 'Er, Samantha feels cold.'

I brought blankets – not enough. And filled a hot water
bottle.

'Oh, Tessa, d'you mind making it a bit hotter? Samantha's
shivering, poor thing.'

After sending Ben out to the shop to get some sparkling
water as Samantha didn't drink plain tap water, and me to make
peppermint tea when the sparkling water left her feeling cold
again, the invalid finally fell asleep and Seth came downstairs.

'Well, that's a pity,' I said. 'I suppose she doesn't want lunch?'

Not only did Samantha not want lunch, she didn't want
dinner either, though she sent Seth downstairs around six for
'some brown toast with just the tiniest sliver of butter.' A few
minutes later, he was back down with it untouched, asking if
the bread could be slightly less toasted and with a bit more
butter and perhaps some cheese?

Seth pulled himself away from Samantha's bedside long
enough to scoff the special seafood risotto I'd made for them,
then rushed off without offering to help with the washing up
so that he could make sure Samantha was comfortable.

We never did meet her, for they left at noon the next day
as planned and Samantha hadn't once come downstairs. Seth
made a half-hearted apology, but he was far more concerned
about her than he was with inconveniencing us. All evening,
when he wasn't upstairs, he sat moping. Ben, the lucky one,
was back at the pantomime, so I had the brunt of Seth's
company. He drank copious amounts of wine and got tipsy
and maudlin, telling me how wonderful his new 'beloved' was,
but how fragile she was too, like a hothouse flower. Yes, he
actually said that. Seth, my old workmate, my colleague, once
full of fun, drooping over a hungover hothouse flower.

When they left she managed to flutter her fingers at us and
say something that might have been thank you, or sorry, or
more likely, just plain old goodbye. I couldn't hear as she was
muffled up with scarves and a furry hat and didn't even turn
around to look at us.

'She's feeling so much better,' Seth called out from the open
car window as they drove off. 'Isn't that great?'

All our holiday visitors are now gone and it's an exceptional
January day. I take my postbag and walk along the seafront at
Morranport. I love delivering on this street, with the sea on
my left and a row of Georgian fisherman's cottages on my
right. At this time of year the wrought iron balconies are empty
and the tidy neat gardens which are bright with buddleia and
palms in summer look wintry and rather desolate. I try to
imagine what they were like when the fishermen still lived in
them. The last ones to fish here had to move uphill away from
the sea to Poldowe where house prices were cheaper, years ago
when the small harbour village was first discovered by holiday
makers. Now they're all gone from there as well. People I've
talked to in the houses up the hill are worried about this,
wondering what it will mean to their children and for the future.

My bag is light as most of these cottages are empty, their
owners back home after the holiday break. I walk briskly, revelling
in the cold but windless fresh air, the tangy smell of sea
and stone. It's strong today. There are mounds of dark brown
and green seaweed swept up on the rocks and beach after the
last high tide. Gulls squawk in the sky and on the ground, bickering
with each other over snippets of food. The small boats
in the tiny harbour cling to the sand like limpets. Some are
quite scruffy and in need of a good coat of paint, worn out
after a hard winter of being pounded by sea and storms. In
between the boats a couple of young boys are prodding the
rock pools with small nets attached to long sticks.

Winter's not over yet, though. Despite the deceptive sun
and pockets of warmth in sheltered spots, there is a wintry
feel still in the air. And over the horizon, black against the
bright blue sky, there are clouds looming, biding their time but
gathering strength.

I shiver despite the sun as a tiny breeze begins, as if to
remind me that it's not spring yet. I walk even more briskly.
I've lost half a stone since I started this job, and that's over
the Christmas holidays too, when I didn't stint myself on food.
It's hard to believe sometimes that I'm actually getting paid to
exercise, when back in London I had to pay a personal trainer
to get me into the shape I'm in now. I feel fitter and healthier.
The lingering cold has gone, vanished without a trace by Twelfth
Night. I've got more energy than I've had for years.

Ben does too. The pantomime is over but it was a great
success, the seats sold out every night. He's enjoying acting
again enormously and is now feeling that wonderful glow of
having done a job you love well.

What he'll do now, we're not sure as my postie job is not
enough for us to live on. There's the café to fall back on, and
the aromatherapy, and I'm optimistic now, sure something else
will turn up. We'll worry about it when the time comes. We're
learning to live day by day and not get stressed about the future.

I walk on, feeling jaunty and spry. At the end of this row
of houses, the village peters out into the coastal path. There's
a small, whitewashed, stone cottage on a promontory jutting
out over the sea; a salubrious romantic place for a cottage if
there ever was one. It gives me great joy that the couple who
live here are locals, even though they are not fisher folk. But
they come from generations of fishermen. The owner, Archie
Grenville's father was one and so were his grandfather and
great-grandfather. This was the house he was born in.

Archie and his wife are retired teachers, having met and
married in Truro where they both taught at the grammar school.
Often on my rounds I see them together in their front room
which overlooks the sea. If I climb the stile into the fields and
the coastal path, and look back at the village, I can see into
the side window of that room, see them sitting on the sofa
either reading together, or animatedly chatting while they look
out over the water.

I feel like a voyeur when I'm standing watching them but
sometimes I can't help it, for a minute or two anyway. They
look so calm, so contented, this couple in their seventies, still
together after fifty years. And what do they have to say to each
other with such enthusiasm on their faces, after all this time?

I watch, fascinated. Jennifer Grenville is standing at the
window and Archie comes up to her, puts his hand on her
shoulder, points with the other hand to something out at sea.
They stand motionless, watching whatever it is, as I watch
them.

Suddenly, I'm punished for my nosiness, for intruding on
someone's private moment. As I stare into the Grenvilles' house
a sudden gust of wind takes me by surprise and the letter I
was about to deliver to them flies over the stile, over the stone
wall at the side of their house and into the sea.

I shriek and run after it. The noise brings the couple
scurrying to the door. I'm shaking my head, gabbling something
inane, telling them I'll be back in a minute with their
post, while I scurry over the low wall onto the rocks below.
Luckily the tide is out. I'd probably have jumped in anyway
and killed myself in the process.