Up With the Larks (14 page)

Soon I'm on my way home driving along the same road
where I started my round this morning, thinking about all the
old Cornish stories of magic and witchcraft, a slight smile no
doubt on my lips as I ponder the gullibility of people. Just
when I'm starting to feel most rational, I see a black cat lying
dead near the centre of the road.

Once again I pull over. I'm shaken not so much by
the fact of the dead animal – I see more road kill than
I care to remember on these lonely tracks – but because it's
exactly the spot where the owl flew into my windscreen this
morning.

I get out of the van and pull the cat into the grass at the
roadside. It's not that long dead either, the car that hit it cannot
have been far ahead of me. The creature has no collar and I
don't recognize it; there are no houses on this stretch of the
road either.

The owl is still there, the camellia petals stuck to its feathers
like tiny drops of pink and red blood. I drag the dead cat next
to it, cover it with petals as well and stand for a moment,
feeling a bit goose-bumpy as I wonder whether this is a message
from the spirits of old Cornwall warning me not to be such
a sceptic.

The Owl and the Pussycat
. I know it is a bizarre coincidence,
hitting the owl then finding the cat in the same place on the
same day but that poem has long been Amy and Will's favourite.
I used to read it to them before they learned it by heart. Even
now we still sometimes recite it together as we're driving along
somewhere.

All the way home, the beginning of Edward Lear's poem
about the owl and the pussycat goes round and round in my
head until finally I turn on the radio and blare up the volume
to drown it out.

Annie arrives in a whirlwind of city scents, tastes, sights. As
she tumbles into the house I think I can detect, underneath
the delicate perfume she wears, a whiff of London – a mix
of diesel fumes, Indian takeaways and the damp of thousands
of woolly winter coats. She's looking great as usual, her short,
dark hair sleekly cut, her trim figure clad in a crisp, white shirt
tucked into belted, well-cut jeans. The soft, oversized, woolly
cardigan she's wearing is a Donna Karan piece of knitwear
that makes her look both sophisticated and feminine.

She's as excited to be here as I am to see her, going from
room to room commenting on the changes we've made to the
house since she saw it last autumn. 'It's looking terrific, you've
been so busy!'

The first thing Annie wants to do is see my van. 'You, a
postie, I can't believe it,' she cries, yelping with delight. 'Why
aren't you in uniform? I'm dying to see you in it. Are you really
a postwoman or are you making it all up?'

I assure her that it's all true and to prove it, on Monday I
take her to work with me. I can show her the Cornish countryside
while she helps me on my round.

'Oh, this is so funky, wait'll I tell everyone back in London,'
she shouts above the van's roar. Then she begins to sneeze.

'What is it?' I look at her anxiously as her whole body shakes
with sneeze after sneeze. I suddenly remember that I've sometimes
had Jake with me in the van. And of course Susie's cat
rides in here too. I apologize but Annie makes light of it.

'I'll just take another antihistamine,' she says, groping about
in her handbag.

I drive her to the sea, to the thin strip of sandbar on the
estuary where I often stop for lunch. 'This is my canteen,' I
tell her, parking the van on the hard sand at the edge of the
shoreline which overlooks the bay.

It's an idyllic day. The cold winds of last week have eased
and a warm front has enveloped the country. February and it's
a spring day, balmy and blissful. The water is a deep blue-green
and I look out across the rocks for seals. Surely they'll be
sunning themselves on a day like today.

No seals but there's a cormorant, nose-diving into the sea.
The sun flashes on the patch of white feathers on its face as
it hits the water. I wait, and watch, and sure enough, it's been
lucky this time and bobs up with a small fish. Further on,
standing with one foot in the shallows, is a heron, and closer
to us about half a dozen sandpipers are strutting about.

I start to point out these things to Annie but she's deep in
a reverie of her own, so I keep quiet. She's standing next to
me facing the sea, inhaling deeply. She's wearing her Ugg boots
and a nifty little, skintight rollneck jumper tucked into those
marvellous jeans. She looks terrific with her new hair-cut. 'Toni
& Guy?' I'd asked her last night when I commented on it.

'Yeah, new stylist at my branch,' she touches her short, sleek
hair which I notice has deep red streaks in it. 'But yours looks
good too.'

I grin, 'Model night at Toni & Guy's in Truro. They need
to get the experience and I need not to spend a fortune on
hair. Great compromise.'

Standing here facing the sea, Annie looks like a telly ad for
some posh new shampoo with her slim body and good looks.
In fact she works for the BBC, in research and programme
development. She's bright, sophisticated, talented and also more
allergy-prone than even I, her best friend, knew when we lived
in the city. She's started to sneeze again and to cough as well.
'Sorry,' she mutters between gulps of air. 'Something's tickling
my throat. Must be the salt air or something.'

'You're not allergic to the sea,' I say. 'You can't be, nobody is.'

She can't answer as her nose is blocked and her sinuses
stuffed, the coughing and sneezing goes on and on. I hand her
another antihistamine as we climb back into the van.

Annie raves over the countryside in all its spring glory but
her allergies are getting worse. After stopping to picnic in a
grassy meadow, she breaks out in an itchy rash all over her
legs. After smelling an unidentified wildflower in a hedgerow,
her eyes swell up.

We drive into St Geraint to buy eye drops, nasal sprays and
more antihistamines. After our purchases we stop at the café
on the seafront where Ben is now working part time. It's called
the Sunflower Café, an appropriate name on days like today,
with the sun shining in through the large picture windows and
the sea sparkling right in front. We're the only customers there
so after he's made and served our cappuccinos, Ben sits down
with us. While Annie takes herself off to the loo to repair the
damage done to her face by the Cornish countryside, I ask
Ben how things are going.

'Slow,' he says. 'But then that's the way it is, in winter. My
hours might be cut even more till things pick up in the spring.'

Another worry. My salary is certainly not enough to keep the
family going; we need Ben's as much as mine. Thank goodness
for my postal job, though, at least it's full time and I've got a
contract. I've even signed the Official Secrets Act – how much
more job security can a person need?

After our coffee Annie and I wander onto the jetty. The
ferry for Truro is about to leave so we listen to its horn as it
chugs away, watching it disappear into the distance. A few
seagulls watch too. 'I guess Paul and Paula have already gone,
on the early ferry,' I say.

'Who're they?'

'Didn't I tell you? Paul and Paula are seabirds, turnstones,
and a few years back they began commuting on the ferry. They
catch the 8.15 from here every morning and come back every
evening.'

Annie turns to me and stares, 'You're making that up.'

'Not at all, it's true. The locals noticed it first and named
them. Paul and Paula always get the last ferry back, every day,
and the next morning they're on that first ferry again.'

Annie still looks disbelieving. 'I suppose you're going to tell
me that they have a great day in Truro, getting their feathers
done at Toni and Guy's and buying knickers at Marks and
Spencer before coming home for the night.'

I grin, 'Don't believe me if you don't want to, but it's perfectly
true. Ask any of the locals.'

She actually does. We go into the tiny bakery right in the
middle of the harbour. It's no bigger than a garden shed and
looks like one too. After I buy my bread and a few cakes, Annie
asks Millie and Geoff, the elderly couple who have owned the
bakery for years, about Paul and Paula.

'Oh, 'tis true alright,' Geoff says. 'Every mornin' we see 'em
on that 8.15 ferry.'

'And every evening, back they come,' Millie adds. 'I'd be that
worried if they wasn't on that last ferry home.'

Annie searches their faces for signs that this is an elaborate
joke that country folk play on innocent city visitors, but their
kind homely faces assure her it's not. She takes out a thin
moleskin notebook from her oversized Mulberry bag and
begins to write. 'I've got to remember this, to tell all your old
friends back home,' she mutters while she scribbles.

My week with Annie goes by too quickly. Despite the allergies,
Annie plunges into country life, treating it like a rare
adventure to a lush but alien landscape. She's determined to
make the most of it.

Because she can't have a dog of her own but loves them,
she takes Jake for long walks while I'm working. The chemist
in St Geraint must be running out of allergy medicines as she
continues to sneeze, swell and itch at an alarming rate, but this
doesn't deter Annie from fussing over Jake. He adores her and
tries to sit on her lap in the evenings, clawing at her posh jeans
as he tries to kiss her. She reaches for the tissues and takes
another pill.

And then one day I come home from work to find Annie
in a state. 'What's up?' I ask.

She's looking dishevelled and sweaty and a bit grimy, so
unlike my immaculately groomed friend. 'I've had quite a day.
I've just got back from the police station.'

'What?'

'You wouldn't believe it, what people do. Some people just
shouldn't keep pets, shouldn't be allowed. I think I'll write to
my MP.'

'Annie, calm down.' I make a big pot of mint tea and sit
her down at the kitchen table. 'Now drink this and tell me
what happened.'

'Well, I was walking down to the shop and on my way back
I saw this dog, this beautiful apricot poodle, wandering along
the road.'

I am busy pouring tea so don't reply. She goes on, 'No owner,
no collar, nothing. Just
wandering.
' She says the last word as if
wandering were a synonym for doggie drug abuse.

'Yes?' I'm becoming a bit distracted, thinking of how I need
a hot shower after the day's work before I get going on dinner.

'Well, I was absolutely appalled. I marched right out, gave
the poodle a few of Jake's biscuits then got him into my car
and took him straight to the police station.'

'What!' All my attention is focused right back on Annie.
'You
what
?'

'I knew you'd be upset too, you're an animal lover like I am
and it breaks your heart too to see stray dogs wandering the
streets. Imagine, such a gorgeous dog and her owners letting
her get away like that. Why she could have been killed or
abducted or . . .'

I didn't wait to hear the rest. 'Annie, that dog is a bitch called
Annabel. She's not a stray, she belongs to one of our neighbours
on the other side of the church.'

'But she didn't have a collar.'

'No, she's got a skin allergy. You should know about that.'

'And she was just wandering . . .'

'Annie, this is the
country
. That's what dogs do. If they're
docile and friendly, they wander about the village and nobody
takes any notice. Sometimes Annabel has even come inside
our garden when the gate is open. Jake loves her. I'm just
surprised you haven't seen her before.'

'Oh dear,' Annie looks chagrined.

'Never mind, you can't help having a city mindset.' I pat her
hand kindly. 'I suppose Annabel is home now?'

'Ah, no. Actually not. I took her to the police station in
Truro and left her there. I don't know what they've done
with her.'

I race out of the house, behind the church and to the
neighbours. They're not in. I phone the police station.
Yes, Annabel is still there and no, they haven't found the
owner yet. I explain everything and say I'll be right over.

I leave a note for the owners in case they get home before
we do. Forgetting my shower and tonight's special dinner I was
making for Annie's last night, I drive to Truro in heavy traffic
and a heavier mist that has suddenly fallen. Annie, crestfallen
and quiet, goes with me. Annabel licks us both all over when
she sees us and Annie reaches for the new inhaler she's acquired
since coming to the countryside.

'I'll take us all out to dinner tonight,' she announces when
we return Annabel to her rightful place in the village. 'To make
amends.'

She does and after a glass or two of wine, we're all laughing
hysterically over the incident. But not as much as I laughed
when, sitting in the car, I watched and listened while Annie
apologized to Annabel's owners and tried to explain her actions.
The bemused look on their faces, the tolerant rolling of the
eyes and shaking of their heads as Annie turned to walk away
from them, had me in stitches all the way home.

The last week in February is half term, and once again most
of the second-homers are in residence. When I get to Adam
and Elizabeth Johnson's house, I'm relieved to see them. 'Good
to see you back,' I say to Mrs Johnson when she answers the
door.

She looks distracted. Behind her, there are the shrieks and
hollers of two children seemingly murdering each other. 'So
sorry, it's the twins,' she says and shouts at them to stop whatever
they're doing at once.

I hand her the post and she takes it, thanks me and starts
to shut the front door. 'Er, Mrs Johnson, about Marmalade?'

'What?' she's hardly listening to me as the noise inside the
house starts again.

'Marmalade?' I repeat.