Up With the Larks (9 page)

Today I am in the van. It is sleeting, though it shouldn't
last long, it never usually does in these parts. I have several
rural deliveries to make, at farmhouses or isolated homes
which were once thriving farms or workmen's cottages. I'm
tired today. Too many late nights with some London friends
who have been visiting for a few days. Hard as it is to combine
this job with any kind of social life, I've enjoyed their company.

These dark cold wet mornings are beginning to get to me
even when I go to bed early, which I do most nights. In fact
the children and I go to bed at the same time. I wake at
4.30 a.m., sneaking quietly out of the bedroom so as not to
wake Ben who is now busy every night with the pantomime.

My clothes are all the Royal Mail uniform so I don't have
any problem deciding what to wear. Everything is ready and
waiting for me in the kitchen where I wash and dress as silently
as I can. I can't even use the bathroom as it is too close to my
sleeping family in the bedrooms. There's no mirror here so I
tidy my unruly hair using my reflection on the back of a soup
spoon. Even Jake, from his basket bed in the corner, ignores
me now, looking at me with one eye then going back to sleep.
He knows he doesn't get his run outside until Ben is up with
the children. All I have to remember is clean underwear which
I slip on in the bedroom before rushing out to jump into my
uniform. Will and Amy have made up a song which they sing
when I'm getting my clothes ready for the morning:

Postman Tess, postman Tess,
Wears her own pants, socks and vest . . .

It's sung to the tune of Postman Pat, of course, and it sticks
in my mind going round and round in my head as I dress.

I drive my car to the post office car park in St Geraint and
pick up my van, glad I'm not driving to Truro. I only have to
go there when I'm on the driving round, and today I'll be doing
the walking one in Morranport. The van is behind the old boat
yard, not a very salubrious place at 5.30 in the morning when
it is dark and creepy, the old boat house creaking in the wind.
It's a good thing I don't scare easily. These midwinter mornings
there is a howling in the air that blows rain in from the
sea and a kind of throbbing, pulsing rhythm to both land and
sea which is eerie and almost primeval. I look across the estuary
towards the river and the sea beyond, and can almost see those
Celtic tribes arriving in their boats to conquer the Bronze
Age settlements on the peninsula. I feel as if I'm losing myself
in time, slipping back a few thousand years and I lean against
the van for a moment to steady myself. My cheeks are burning
and feverish from the wretched cold I've had for days.

I force my tired, aching body into the van and begin the
day. After collecting the post at St Geraint I drive to
Morranport. The tiny square wooden post office stands on its
own at the sea's edge. When the tide is in, it looks as though
it too is bobbing in the sea, just like the boats moored in the
small harbour. Right now the tide is out and the assorted
rowboats, small yachts and dinghies are dotted along the wet
sand, nestled into the seaweed like exotic sea creatures. Once
these were sturdy fishing boats but now there are no fishermen
in Morranport, their cottages transformed into B&Bs and
holiday homes. Small seabirds are hopping their way around
the stranded boats, sometimes flying away in a rush when the
larger gulls come in to land and to bully.

Nell is there already though it's long before opening time.
She spends more time here than she does at home. She is
plucky and robust, with great breasts as magnificent as any
ship's prow, and she's been working here at Morranport off
and on for years, stepping in for the owners who travel extensively.
Others have sometimes held the job when Nell gives up
for a time, but now she's back.

Nell is small-boned and not very tall, with slender hips and
shoulders, and skinny legs, all of which makes her grand, full
bosom seem even more prominent. She reminds me of a
plucky bantam hen.

'I've seen more than one retired major or ex-diplomat from
Up Country be givin' Nell the old come-on when the wife's
not been looking, though Nell don't give 'em a thing back,'
Susie told me after she'd introduced us. 'And more than a fair
few locals,' Susie had winked knowingly.

I'm sure some of those old badgers tried it on with her too,
for Susie's a pretty woman in her mid-forties and a flirtatious
one too. She's never married, but she's never without a
boyfriend, or so Reg tells me. I think Reg would like a go
himself, confirmed bachelor though he claims to be.

But now I'm asking Susie about Nell. 'Isn't she married?'

'Widow some twenty-odd years.'

Today Nell is wearing brown cord trousers and a white
mohair turtle-neck jumper which shows off her bosom to
advantage and matches her snow white hair which frizzes
messily around her wrinkled face. Instead of looking unkempt,
it makes this octogenarian look trendy.

'Morning, Tessa. All right, me handsome?'

'Just fine, Nell, and you?' I sidle by her to where the post
is stacked.

She sighs. 'I be poorly.'

I look at her. She looks ruddy and healthier than most
women half her age. 'What is it?'

'Feeling rheumaticy these days,' she stares out of the window
at the sea. The light half-sleet, half-rain is falling and dissolving
into the waves which look black and unfriendly.

'Sorry to hear it.'

She turns and looks me sternly in the eye. ''Tis too much
for me now, this job. After Christmas I be off. Retiring. 'Bout
time, you be saying.'

I know Nell enough now to realize she's not accusing me;
it's just her way of talking. 'Don't be daft, Nell. You run this
place like a sea captain runs his ship.'

'Be that as it may. I be poorly. Some younger bloke or maid
can take over come January.'

She looks so determined, standing there with her frizzy
hair, chin up and bosom heaving. Poorly she does not. But
what do I know? She could be in agony with her rheumatics.
I'm sorry she's leaving, though. I've not known her long, but
I've grown to like her in this short time. She's feisty, honest
and fun.

'I'm sorry, Nell, that you're not well, and that you'll be going.
But if that's what you want to do, fair enough.'

She narrows her eyes at me. They are deep green, like the
sea in autumn or early spring when the sun comes out briefly
but the air is still bitterly cold. ''Tain't what I be wanting, 'tis
what must be. You'll be saying I be a quitter now.'

I have to smile at this, it's so outlandish. 'Nell, that's the last
thing anyone would say about you and you know it.'

She snorts. ''Tis enough talkin' 'bout me. Now let's be getting
back to work. Got the parcels? Oh, and there's another in the
fridge.'

'The fridge?'

'Aye. You be thinking I should of put it in the freezer, but
'twould be foolish as you'll be delivering it today.'

I stare at her snowy mohair back while she rummages in
the big shop fridge. 'Nell, I'm not thinking anything. I don't
know what you're talking about.'

She turns and thrusts a large, damp, limp parcel into my
arms. I shriek and nearly drop it. 'Yiii . . . iiikes! What the devil
is it? Feels like dead flesh. Yuck.'

'Dead fish. Same sort o' thing. 'Tis the sea bass.'

'What?'

'From old Joe Yeovil. His mum's the one looking after the
great-grandson's dog.'

'Oh, the one with the vicious dog with the daft name,
Batman.' Much to my discomfort, the little hamlet with all the
dogs and the feral cat is now on my regular beat, not Susie's,
after some minor route changes have been made by the post
office.

'Aye? Daft name, you say? I think it be a good name meself.
And
I
never had no problem with Batman.' She plants her feet
firmly apart and looks ready to debate the issue all day. Solidarity
amongst the Cornish is a frightening thing to be up against.

'Never mind the dog's name, Nell. Why is her son sending
her a frozen fish?'

'Not frozen, fresh. Wouldn't of put it in fridge if it was
frozen but in freezer. Had it come the weekend mebbe I'd of
put it in freezer instead of fridge. Keep 'im fresher in freezer
than fridge, if you know what I mean.'

'Yes, well, sort of. So why does he send a fresh fish by post
when she lives so near the sea?'

She looked at me as if I were the dotty one. Maybe I was.
Maybe I was missing something here. Finally she said, slowly
as if explaining to a dunce, 'He be a fisherman.'

'Well, couldn't he just give it to her?'

Now Nell sighed, a great sigh that shook her bosom and
made the waves behind the post office quiver. 'He be living at
other side of county. 'Tis easier and cheaper to post than to
drive it clear across Cornwall.'

The fish, wrapped in slimy plastic and soggy brown paper,
was oozing seawater and fishy secretions down my arms and
onto my uniform. It was also smelling a bit, well, fishy. Nell,
noticing, said, 'Better get on then, afore he goes off.'

I went out of my way to deliver the fish first, which meant
picking up the van again. Batman luckily was locked inside
the house, his owner out, so I left the fish in the garden shed,
as Nell had told me. 'She'll find it, don't fret; she knows it's
coming and twill be looking every day for it.'

The roads are slippery now, wet rather than icy, thank goodness.
I drive out to my first drop, a tiny village with a stunning
view overlooking the sea. It has a pub that doesn't seem very
welcoming but then again I only see it in the morning.

I slow down near the 13th century church which, unlike the
other churches in the area, looks unkempt and almost derelict.
The churchyard is neglected and overgrown with weeds. Ivy
scrambles over everything, climbing the scrub oaks, the crumbling
tombstones and old broken mausoleums. I've never seen
the church open, even later in the day, though I've peeked
inside the windows. It looks plain but still in use, despite a
cracked window or two.

The church which, unusually, stands outside the village on
its own, is a stark contrast to most of the old stone Cornish
houses which I drive to now. They're all smartly painted and
recently renovated. A few still look a little careworn but no
doubt when, or if, the owners sell they will be tarted up and
modernized just like the others and probably bought by second homers.
A week ago most of the houses in this village were
empty but now, on Christmas Eve, some are lit with fairy lights
and candles as the residents leave their primary homes Up
Country to holiday in their second homes.

Those who are up and about greet me civilly, wishing me a
Happy Christmas. No tip though but then why should they?
They're not here most of the time. One young couple come
to their door flushed and excited. 'Just tried to light a fire but
the chimney keeps smoking,' the man says, laughing. He's handsome
in a prosperous, polished way in his casual cashmere
pullover.

'We just got here,' the woman tells me, laughing too. I feel
like a grump but I can't help wondering what's so funny about
a smoking chimney. Maybe because to them it's not real, they're
just playing house. Their real life is somewhere else.

The woman goes on, 'Drove all night. God, it's good to be
out of the City.'

I make a sympathetic face but secretly I'm envying her
clothes: trendy, stylish, 'Toast' country clothes. She has swinging
hair so well cut I instinctively put my hand up to my straggling pony tail. I used to look like that, I want to tell her. I
used to get my hair styled at the best salons in London and
buy my clothes at the trendiest boutiques. And I gave it up for
this
I want to add, just to see the expression on her face. But
even as I think this I feel wistful. And then I remember just
why we did it, and what we're striving for here in Cornwall,
and the feeling goes.

Behind the woman I see a couple of kids, a boy and a girl
of about six or seven. They are squabbling furiously. The girl
is holding something orangey which I think at first is a stuffed
toy and the boy is pulling on it trying to get it away. 'Keep it
down, twins,' the woman yells at them good-naturedly.

There is an almighty screech coming from the stuffed toy.

'Jamie, let go of Marmalade. You too, Anna.' The man lunges
at the kids and grabs a ginger cat from the girl's arm. The cat
is hissing and snarling and the twins are crying now.

When all calms down, the cat having run into the kitchen
with the children following, now shrieking with laughter, the
man turns back to me. 'Sorry about that. They're over-excited.
So is Marmalade, he hates long trips in the car. Do you know
anything about chimneys? My name is Adam, by the way and
this is my wife, Elizabeth. We're fairly new here. Live in London,
only bought this place last summer and haven't had a chance
to use it much.'

Smoke is hurtling out of the front room and into the corridor
where we're standing. The couple seem kind enough but I can
tell I don't register as a person to them even though they
politely invite me in for a 'Christmas drink'. I wonder if that
means coffee or a Bucks Fizz, given that it's still morning, but
I don't ask, say I'd better be getting on. I notice my voice is
hesitant but they don't insist or perhaps I'd have changed my
mind. I could do with a bit of warmth, a hot drink and some
cheery company for a few minutes, but I know the invitation
was not meant to be accepted. They wish me a Merry Christmas
and close the door before I've barely turned around.

As I leave I see Marmalade in the front window, no doubt
wishing he'd been left behind in the peace and solitude of
London. In my febrile mind he seems smug, there in the warm
if smoky house and me out in the cold on this Christmas Eve
morning.

Though it's stopped sleeting, the wind is nearly gale force.
My face is stinging with it and my nose is running. I rummage
about in the van for some tissues, unable to stop sneezing.
This cold I've got is worsening and I hope it doesn't turn
to flu. Just what I need, being ill at Christmas. Ben is cooking
me a surprise meal, a special Christmas Eve supper when
the children are in bed, as the theatre is closed tonight. It's
to be our night, just the two of us, before the pandemonium
of the big day itself. The way I feel now, I just want to go
to bed with a Lemsip.