Up With the Larks (4 page)

It is cold in the van, the rain starts to pick up outside and I
have a long delivery route to complete, much of it in the dark,
in a rural isolated area. My eyes are sticky with lack of sleep
and I can feel water dripping from where it has collected in my
rolled-up sleeves onto my trousers. Time to move on, I say to
myself. I need this job and the money I'll be bringing in.

So far, moving to Cornwall has not been the idyllic move
we'd hoped it would be and even now, if I lose this job, we
might still have to give up and move back to London. Today
I am doing Susie's route, on my own for the first time. I've
got a list of quirky requests and instructions a mile long. It's
a van run today not a walking one, in some isolated rural
hamlets and farmhouses. I drive to the sea's edge to drop off
the bag of mail for the Morranport post office on the harbour.
Another postman, Reg, is there already, preparing for his round.
'Wish me luck, Reg,' I say brightly. 'I'm on my own today.'

He nods in his usual taciturn way, his equivalent to a good
luck wish I suppose. Reg is getting on, as he keeps telling us.
He's slow as well as laconic, slow physically that is. I feel like
a hare on speed next to his tortoise-like crawl.

He is quite a contrast to Nell, who runs the Morranport
post office and shop. She's either about to be eighty, or just
past it, depending on whom you talk to. She's got the energy
of four twenty-year-olds and puts us all to shame.

'You be fine, Tessa,' Nell calls out from behind the counter.
'Good luck, maid.'

I stand to attention, click my Dr Martens heels and salute
smartly. Nell laughs and even Reg manages what could possibly
pass as a tiny smile. I jump into the van and am off and away.
My nervousness is gone and I feel fearless. I am the Royal
Mail, getting through come thick or thin.

I manage the first few farmhouses despite the dark morning,
the potholed dirt tracks that lead up to the houses and the
many farm gates I have to open and close. Relieved that I have
found them all without getting lost, I set off for another rural
spot, the house of a woman named Eleanor Gibland. I feel I
know her, though I've never met her. Susie has been delivering
post to her for nearly eighteen years and they have become
close. Although they rarely see each other much outside of
Eleanor's house, they talk for ages on days when Susie is not
in a tearing hurry. Sometimes they sit in the tiny front garden
and chat; other, colder or wetter days, Susie accepts a cup of
tea in Eleanor's pristine kitchen. They have become good
friends in an odd sort of way.

I'm feeling almost euphoric now. I've managed to get through
the prep and the sorting with no more mishaps than losing
the van temporarily. I've negotiated a few tricky isolated homesteads
and now the rest should be easy. The rain has stopped
and in the lightening sky with only patchy cloud, I can see the
faint outline of a rainbow arching over the sea and the cliffs.
Before I get to Eleanor's house, I pull the van to the side of
the road to marvel.

The sea is a heaving hulking mass of churning foam. The
rainbow is coming right up out of the water and curving over
harbour and beach. I turn my head and see it has made a
perfect half circle, ending, it seems, at Eleanor's place. I wonder
if I'm imagining it, this bit of pale colour in the early morning
sky. Opening the window to see more clearly, a blast of icy
wind hits me in the face like a wet glove. I shut the window
quickly. I'll have enough walking my rounds in this kind of
weather, no need to get carried away.

Besides, there's a rainbow to follow. Isn't there supposed to
be a pot of gold at the end of it? I haven't thought of pots of
gold since childhood. Cornwall, with its legends and myths,
charms and magic, has got to me already. If owls are bearers of
bad news and hares can turn into witches if you're not careful,
then why not a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow? And look,
the rainbow seems to be ending right at my next delivery point!

The drive up to Eleanor's neat cottage is flanked by woodland,
trees shorn of leaves, glistening with raindrops and draped
with pockets of mist which are pierced with shafts of light from
the rising sun. The colours of the rainbow are stronger now as
it cuts through the woods and seems to end at the edge of a
tiny creek which flows past the top of the small front garden.

The house looks quiet and there are no lights on anywhere.
I know Eleanor is an early riser as Susie has told me she is
often dressed and ready for her elevenses at 8 a.m., and it's
way past that now. She must be having a lie-in, I decide seeing
no one about.

I can't resist. I stop the van, jump out and rush over to the
creek's edge. The earth here is damp and marshy. I love these
little streams and rivers of South Cornwall, the tiny waterfalls
and wetlands. They seem to be everywhere: running behind
gardens, alongside tiny rural roads and appearing as if by magic
in the least expected places. When the Cornish call something
'a moor-y spot', they mean something damp or swampy.

This is definitely a moor-y piece of ground and my sturdy
postie boots are squelching as I walk. If anyone sees me I'll
feel a fool, mooching around someone's little stream in the
middle of winter. I don't believe in fairies or pots of gold at
the end of rainbows but Cornwall is such an enchanted place,
so different from anywhere else I've been and so full of folklore.
After being here a time you can't help feeling that there's
something in these stories about elves and fairies, about ghosts
and spirits. The sea, the mist, the rocky shoreline and the inlets,
hills and foggy moorland, all contribute to the feeling of
mystery, of things unsaid and unknown. Besides, the rainbow
feels like an omen after the last few weeks when everything
seemed to be falling apart. So, knowing I'm being ridiculous,
I try to pinpoint the rainbow's end. This is where it looked
like it was ending, this squidgy hummock of grassy marsh
where I'm standing, with the creek gurgling over the tops of
my boots. Luckily they are waterproof. I can see it, just eluding
me every time I try to reach out and touch it. The early
November light seems brighter, or is it a false dawn, or even
the remnants of moonlight? The early winter sun through a
low black cloud casts a sudden eerie light on a cluster of rocks
half in, half out of the shallow creek, lending it a shiny, yellow
glow.
My pot of gold
, I think, squatting down to take a closer
look. I feel crazy with excitement. It's like finding a hundred
four-leaf clovers, all at once.

A booming voice scares the wits out of me. 'What in the
name of God do you think you are doing down there? And
who are you, anyway? Where's Susie?'

I am too embarrassed to answer for a second or two. Before
I can recover my wits she snaps, 'Whoever you are, will you
please get out of my creek?'

I scramble out of the water, where I'd fallen on my knees
with the surprise of her voice. It must be Eleanor Gibland,
dressed in the kind of housedress women wore in the fifties,
slip-on gardening shoes and holding a pale blue umbrella over
her head even though the rain has stopped.

'I'm Tessa, the relief postwoman. We haven't met. The day
I came here with Susie, you weren't in.'

She stares at me disdainfully. She is a woman of indeterminate
age, with permed grey hair surrounding a circle of a face
and a short round body. Susie had told me that Eleanor is a
Cornish woman but had been sent away to the Home Counties
as a young girl to become a nanny, returning twenty years ago
when her mother died to take over her house.

'You have only answered one of my questions. Do you have
a surname or were you born without one? If so, why?'

I tell her my full name and she repeats, 'Where is Susie?
And what were you doing paddling about in my creek?' She
gives me a steely stare, as if I were a very naughty child.

I lie. I have no choice. How can I tell this formidable woman
the truth, that I was chasing a rainbow? 'I lost something.
It blew out of the van and I had to retrieve it.' I give her my
best, friendliest smile. 'Susie's day off today.'

'I hope it wasn't the Royal Mail property that you lost. That
would be unforgivable.' She gives me another of her looks.
'And I hope you are telling me the truth. I would be very cross
indeed if I thought you were fishing in my creek. It is private
property as you must be well aware.'

I hang my head in what I hope looks like a chastised manner.
'No, m'am,' I say humbly. 'I certainly wasn't fishing. I wouldn't
dream of it.'

This at least is true. I hand over her post from the van. She
takes it without a word, looks at it suspiciously, then back at
me again.

This short squat woman is making me feel like a five-year-old.
It's starting to rain again but I don't feel able to go without
her permission. Perhaps she is going to rap me on the knuckles
for fooling about in her creek. I wait to be dismissed. Glancing
away from her while she makes up her mind what to do about
me, I see a robin sitting on a nearby gate post. It's looking at
me with great interest, as if it too is wondering what to do
with a recalcitrant postwoman.

After a long pause Eleanor says, with a long-suffering sigh,
'You'd better come in for a cup of tea. You'll catch a chill, else.'

It is a command not an offer, as is the cup of tea she puts
in front of me. She commands me, like a brusque nanny, to
drink it while it's hot. I'm wet and cold enough to do so gratefully,
looking around at her kitchen as I do so. It is as it should
be: a place for everything, and everything in its place. Eleanor,
whom I address as Miss Gibland of course, makes tea with
loose English Breakfast leaves in a round brown teapot and
doesn't ask if I take milk, just pours it into the cup first from
a blue-and-white striped jug. As we drink our tea she asks me
several pointed questions, such as my marital state, my background
and my origins of birth. She wants to make quite sure
that Susie's relief postie is of the right sort. I answer without
going into too much detail. I am trying hard to be friendly and
pleasant, though it's starting to be something of a struggle.
Though she's drowning me in tea, she hasn't once smiled.

When I finish my tea she says abruptly, 'Will Susie be back
tomorrow?'

I assure her that she will. 'Oh thank goodness for that,' she
exclaims, smiling for the first time. It's definitely not a smile
for me, though. She's already standing up, snatching my empty
cup away.

I leave with a mega sense of failure. The fact that she's
known Susie for eighteen years does nothing to stem the tide
of inadequacy drowning my modest ambition to be a really
good postwoman.
I'm just not cut out for this
, I think sadly as I
plod back into the rain. Eighteen years, Susie's been a postwoman.
At this point I doubt if I'll stick eighteen days.

As I climb back into my van and set off, I start musing
about where I was all those years ago. I didn't even know Ben
then, I think as I drive on to the little hamlet down the road.
It's hard to remember how it was before I met him. The way
we met, though, is unforgettable. Not because it was romantic,
but just too bizarre to forget.

I was in London, on a diploma aromatherapy course. Working
for a cosmetics firm, having learned about the benefits of various
plants and oils not just for cosmetic purposes but also for
therapeutic ones, I wanted to learn how to use them for healing
and massage.

I'd read the blurb about the course, stating that on the first
day there would be background lectures, theory, history and
so on. This was fine by me and I came dressed accordingly,
wearing a new, casual white tracksuit.

When I got there I felt relieved that I'd worn something
fairly flattering. The white of the outfit set off the tan I'd
acquired on a recent work related week in Florida. I'd worn
my hair down, as we wouldn't be doing practical work, and it
tumbled around my shoulders, even blonder than usual because
of the sun streaks. There were mostly women on the course,
already waiting when I arrived, and a handful of men.

One man caught my eye immediately. Dishy but with an
open, intelligent, good-humoured face that I instantly liked.
As if he knew I was looking at him, he turned to me and
smiled.

I by-passed the others and sat in the chair next to his. 'Hi,
I'm Tessa.'

'Ben.'

We eyed each other appraisingly. This was going to be a
good course, I thought.

All went well until the lunch break, when our tutor
announced that we should choose a partner to do some
practical work in the afternoon. Ben turned to me. 'Can we
work together?'

I panicked. There was nothing I'd like more but there was
a huge problem. I had nothing on under my track suit bottoms.
Because they were white and fitted snugly, there was a visible
panty line if I wore them, so I did without. How was I to
know that we were required to shed our outer garments in the
afternoon session, so that we could start working with the
aromatherapy oils?

'What's the matter?' Ben looked confused. 'Would you rather
work with someone else?'

'No. Uh, no, no, not at all.'

I couldn't explain, not then. He went on, 'Then should we
grab a sandwich? We've got a half hour before the practical
and there's a café on the corner.'

'No!' I realized I was shouting and toned down my voice.
'I mean, no thanks. I've got a few things to do during the
break.' I was thinking fast.

I ran outside. The course was being held in one of those
residential parts of London where there wasn't a shop for
miles, not the kind that sold women's lingerie anyway, but an
ex-boyfriend of mine, Tony, lived only a street away. While I
got his number on my mobile, I crossed the fingers of my
other hand and prayed that Tony was home. He was.