Up With the Larks Read online

  It had to stop.

  One night after a particularly bad day for both of us – children ill with nasty coughs, Ben just getting over the flu, me struggling not to succumb to illness during a particularly sensitive turnover at work – we began to talk seriously of change. We were slumped in the living room, on edge because Amy's cough was particularly bad and we were afraid it was about to turn into rather nasty croup.

  'Ben, I've had enough.' I leaned back against him on the sofa, trying to relax but still listening intently to any sounds coming from the bedrooms.

  'You're just tired.' He began to massage my shoulders in the way I loved, loosening the knots of tension.

  'Not just tired. Totally exhausted. But that's not the problem. I'm not happy at work any more. I've been thinking loads about it.'

  'I know you said the job's changed a lot.'

  'Enormously. You know how the company's grown from the small cosy firm I started with to this huge multinational. I don't speak its language any more, Ben. Don't particularly want to.'

  'Is it getting that bad?'

  'Starting to. I'm fed up with London too, with the commuting, with everything.'

  'Tessa, we chose this way of life, remember? You loved your job and wanted to keep it on.'

  'I know. But the heart's gone out of marketing for me. It used to be creative and exciting. Now it's like looking in a rearview mirror.'

  He dug his fingers deeper into my shoulders, trying to massage me out of what he saw as a temporary mood.

  I was starting to unwind but I kept on talking. 'And the kids. I hardly see them. They're growing so fast – I want time with them. And with you too.'

  He stopped kneading the tight muscles in my neck and flopped back against the cushions, closing his eyes. I could see the tension, the tiredness, in his face too. 'Oh Ben,' I wailed. 'Is this as good as it gets? Don't you feel something is missing? Maybe we should be doing something else, something entirely different from this crazy life we're living.'

  'It's the life we wanted, Tessa. There are problems, I know, but nothing's perfect.' Ben was sympathetic but firm. 'You're just having a bad patch. It'll pass.'

  Before I could answer, we heard Amy begin to cry. Forgetting everything else, we both ran upstairs to her.

  I brought up the possibility of change again and again, but we never got very far. The problem was, I didn't know then what the change should entail. Changing my job? Moving abroad? My sister lived in France so perhaps that was a possibility, but what would we do there?

  And then we went on holiday.

  Luckily, spring half-term was coming up and I had some time off from work. We decided to go to Cornwall, as we had so often in the past.

  Though we'd stayed in various parts of the county before, we felt most at home on the South coast where we would holiday again this time. Cornwall, like Devon, is composed of many different landscapes, we had discovered as we went back year after year. There's the central backbone running up the middle with the unique and exotic landscape created by the old mining industry: around the Eden Project it looks like the craters of the moon; and all the way down to Cape Cornwall, amongst the heather and the little Methodist chapels, are fantastic old mine workings and industrial ruins.

  And then there's West Penwith, the area below St Ives and around Lamorna, with the stone circles and wild moorland that some people think is the real Cornwall. Not for them the rugged North coast with its tremendous seas, surfs and trendiness; the Cornwall 'Posh Rock' and restaurants run by Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein cheek by jowl with caravan parks and Newquay. It is surfy heaven and a favourite venue for hen and stag nights.

  Our favourite place for years now has been the South coast which is another Cornwall altogether. Here, there are gentle beaches sloping down to a usually tranquil sea, perfect for swimming or sailing. There are dozens of small green creeks meandering through lovely ancient forests that stretch to the water's edge. It's so unspoiled that you can imagine you're on a tributary of the Amazon, especially with the fertile soil and micro-climate that nurture the vast tree ferns and palms that grow nowhere else in England, only in the West Country.

  Since the Bronze Age, this area has been a place of farming and fishing, and also the perfect area for smuggling, with its little inlets and creeks hidden by the lush foliage and woodlands. This was the area that inspired Daphne du Maurier to write books, like Rebecca and Frenchman's Creek.

  It's an area that has always inspired me as well. I always returned from visits feeling calmer and yet energized, ready to tackle again the job of working mother back in London.

  So as usual, we headed for the South of Cornwall, finding self-catering accommodation in a village called Poldowe, up the hill from the sea with a tiny harbour and beach. The village had one small post office and shop and to me it was perfect, like stepping back into the 19th century.

  It was early spring, and though in London not even the daffodils had managed to emerge from their winter covering of grime, here it was almost summer. The camellias were exuberant: they seemed to be everywhere and so colourful that my eyes seemed permanently dazzled after the grey of winter. Even the primroses were out, blooming alongside the snowdrops that no doubt had appeared weeks earlier but refused to go, rather like a white cat curled on a favourite chair in a sunny room. South Cornwall was at its best that spring. It was as if, knowing our dissatisfaction, she was luring us to her.

  The night we arrived at Poldowe, there was a thick fog. It enveloped the nearby harbour village of Morranport and crept up the hill to envelope the houses, the trees and the old church in the centre of a square. It was late when we got in so we unpacked the night clothes and the bag of provisions we'd brought, had a makeshift supper and piled into bed, relieved to be off the busy holiday roads and into our own cottage.

  The next morning the sea mist still clung to the harbour and village like fine dewy cobwebs. I woke early and walked down along the footpath to the harbour then down the beach to the sea's edge with Jake our spaniel. My face and body were being moistened and moisturized by the clean, fresh sea-mist, better than by any of the potions and scented oils I dealt with.

  I stood for ages at the edge of the sea, Jake jumping in and out of the waves like a lunatic dog from some kiddies' cartoon. The mist was beginning to lift, and sharp shafts of sunlight pierced the opaque whiteness like dozens of golden needles, darting on the smooth undulations of the sea and changing the colour from a dull grey to deep blue and turquoise.

  I stood, mesmerized. My senses were being bombarded: the earthy smells of sea and stone and damp, the sounds of waves churning over the pebbly beach and of sea birds calling to each other overhead, and I could almost taste the salt in the air, it was so strong and pungent.

  I was oblivious to Jake and his splashing, to his odd bark at the seagulls that landed too close. I watched those golden streaks on the sea, the mist snaking around as if it were playing hide and seek with the sun, and I knew, knew with all my heart, without a shadow of a doubt.

  This is where we must go. This is where we belong, by the sea, in this place.

  The knowledge, the certainty of my feelings made me suddenly wild and exhilarated. Jake, sensing my excitement, began barking and circling as I stood at the water's edge, daring me to go in. I didn't hesitate. I wanted now to feel the sea on my body, I wanted to actually taste the salt water on my lips. I wanted a baptism too, although I didn't form that thought till later. I wanted to immerse myself in my new certainty.

  There was no one around as I tore off my clothes. I'd only worn jeans and underpants, hurriedly throwing on a pink sweatshirt without bothering with a bra. My jeans were boot-legged and wide enough to pull off with my trainers and socks still on, and I was in such a hurry to get into the water that I didn't bother to take them off, plunging stark naked into the icy sea whooping and shouting, Jake barking and splashing beside me. Together we created holy mayhem, both of us manic in our separate joy.

  I didn't stay in long
– it was freezing. The mist had gathered again as I staggered out, feeling like the first creature to crawl on dry land, looking around me at the awesome world I had not truly looked at before. I hadn't had the time to look before, or, if I had a rare moment to myself, the whirling voices in my head – planning, worrying – kept me from seeing anything.

  So there I was, dancing about in my shoes and socks and nothing else but a goose-bumpy skin, still delirious with happiness. Then I looked down the beach and in the distance saw people walking along the sea's edge, coming quickly towards me. It was time I got dressed.

  I came back to earth with a whoosh when I tried to get back into my clothes. Not only was I wet, they were too, for I'd left them too near the incoming tide. My flimsy, see-through red knickers had nearly washed out to sea, floating in a rock pool like an alien jelly-fish. I grabbed them and pulled them on, but there was no way my tight wet jeans would go on to my wet body, especially over the soaking shoes and socks that I hadn't had time to take off. I didn't come out of the house with a bra, but where was my sweatshirt? I couldn't find it anywhere.

  Jake was barking again, trying to bully me into going back into the water to play. A sudden horrific thought went through my head. Jake had taken Amy's shoe once on the beach and carried it into the water; he was a dog who always had to have something in his mouth when he was larking around. Sure enough, there was my sweatshirt, a big pink blob, floating out to sea, too far away to retrieve.

  What to do? The walkers were approaching fast, and I had to walk past them and through the waking village on my way home. So I improvised. So what if my creative skills were no longer needed at work, I said to myself, they're bloody well needed now.

  As I walked past the post office shop on the harbour, a heavy-set man with grey hair wearing a postman's uniform was helping a lorry driver unload boxes of fishing tackle. 'Morning,' I glittered at them, smiling brightly and quickly moving on. 'Lovely morning for an early swim,' I called back, catching the looks of stunned disbelief on their faces.

  I might have looked strange, but at least I wouldn't be arrested for indecent exposure, not quite anyway. Before I'd left the beach, I had taken the belt from my sopping jeans, tied it around my hips, and hung masses of green and brown hunks of seaweed from it so they hung down nearly to my knees. This hid enough of the sheer wet bikini panties to prevent my immediate disgrace.

  As for the top half of me, I'd flung my jeans across my shoulders, so that one leg was draped modestly, if a bit drippingly, across each breast, tucking the flapping boot-legs into the belt around my hips. I was so pleased with my attire that I'd completed the outfit by placing dozens of shells in my hair, which by that time was so tangled and curly with salt that only a half dozen fell out as I made my way nonchalantly up the street and home to my still sleeping family.

  I woke Ben with the news. 'We've got to move to Cornwall.'

  A few seashells fell onto his face and the duvet. I'd shed the wet jeans but the seaweed was still clinging to me. Somehow he wasn't surprised. Not by my appearance or by my announcement. I guess he knew me too well.

  'Are you crazy or what?' Ben tried to sit up to see if I'd completely flipped, but I was rolling about with him on the bed trying to shed the seaweed. He was half shrieking at me to get off as I was soaking him and half laughing hysterically as I tickled him mischievously.

  'I've had an epiphany. We're moving to Cornwall,' I said again.

  'Don't be daft.'

  'We've always loved it. The kids love it – it'll be a dream come true for them, living near the sea. We'll sell up, move here. To the South coast, our favourite place in the world.'

  'It's completely impossible, you know that.'

  'Nothing's impossible, Ben,' I muttered, stopping my tickling and beginning some kissing.

  His voice got a bit huskier. 'And what about work, about jobs? What in God's name would we do in Cornwall?'

  'Time enough to think of that later. For now, just hold on to that thought – we're moving to Cornwall! Forget about the rest. Now, are you going to start kissing me back or not?'

  We moved to South Cornwall in the autumn, less than six months after that momentous epiphany by the sea.

  Amy and Will were delighted from the start, but it took some convincing to get Ben on our side. Having put his acting career more or less on hold during the period when my work kept me away from home for so many long hours, his was the practical voice of reason in the midst of our wild fantasies.

  'What will we do in Cornwall?' he continued to ask. 'You'll never get a high-powered job like you've got now.'

  'I don't want one any more. You know that.'

  'And what could I do? It's hard enough in the London theatre, where will I get an acting job in Cornwall?'

  'But Ben, you'll have more time, as I'll have sole responsibility for Amy and Will. There are films and television – actors have to travel all over the world these days, so it shouldn't matter where you live. And you've said yourself that in some ways, regional theatre has more exciting opportunities for actors than the London theatre now.' I took his hand. 'Look, we'll find something. Both of us are willing to work, to do anything.'

  He still wasn't convinced. 'It's not just work. What about our family and friends? How can you bear to leave them?'

  But our families didn't live nearby anyway and as for our friends, I knew we'd probably see more of them in Cornwall, when they visited us for weekends and holidays, than we saw of them now in London.

  We talked it over, until finally Ben succumbed to the idea and we made the decision to move. Once he'd decided, Ben was as enthusiastic as I was and, like me, eager to get on and start our new life.

  We made plans. We would sell our house and use the proceeds to buy another one in Cornwall as well as starting our own business. The idea we finally hit on was a paint-your-own-pottery business. There were several of these in our area in London and they were immensely popular; our own children and their friends loved to go to them and we'd heard that it was a lucrative business. It was something we could do from home too, converting a shed or a garage into premises.

  Before we moved, we prepared, determined to do this right. We read everything we could about starting a small business and being self-employed. We drew up our own business plan, wrote letters asking for advice, talked to others and wrote out charts and projected goals. We were so well-prepared for our new Cornish life that the reality of it, when it hit, was doubly hard to come to terms with.

  At first, everything went swimmingly. I didn't even have to quit my job – by a wonderful quirk of luck, I was made redundant before I handed in my notice. Pretending to be grief-stricken at the news that a restructuring meant my job would have to go, I phoned Ben at once to celebrate. The redundancy pay would help cover the cost of the move and even some unemployed time as our new business took off.

  And then our house sold, quicker than we'd expected. Now all we had to do was find one in Cornwall, to make into our new home. How smoothly it was all going, we thought smugly. How simple it all was, once we'd thought it through and made our decision. And how wrong we were. How terribly, horribly wrong.

  To begin with, finding a house in Cornwall was mindblowingly difficult. It seemed everyone had suddenly fallen in love with the place and wanted a second home there, which made house prices go ballistic. It was happening everywhere else too, but in Cornwall it seemed even crazier.

  As houses on the market were snapped up within twenty-four hours, before we had a chance to even look at them, we heard dire tales. Buyers were throwing up to £70,000 over the asking prices at properties. We heard that 5,000 folk a month were moving into Cornwall and we nearly got side-swept away in the rush.

  We soon learned that it's a lot different living in a place than holidaying. Many of the lovely seaside villages we'd adored on holiday were empty ghost towns in winter with most of the properties owned as holiday homes. There were other villages inhabited mainly by the retired who had sold their pro
perties Up Country (the Cornish label for just about every place across the Tamar River) to follow their dreams of living by the sea. Some of these second-home and retirement villages seemed to have no heart: no school, a pub empty except in summer, no shop, no post office. Others were 'drive-through' villages which seemed to have nothing but the road leading in and out, with not even a pub or a newsagent, only a cluster of houses to call themselves a village.

  We wanted more. We had two children who needed more, as did we and we were determined to find it. They were out there, those perfect Cornish towns and villages but properties there were scarce, pricey and didn't often come on to the market.

  We spent a fortune driving up and down every weekend between South Cornwall and London, looking at houses. We viewed eighty in all and were gazumped twice. The final contracts were signed on our old house which meant we had to move out and spend more money on rented accommodation. We wanted to do this in Cornwall but the kids were still in school and, since we didn't know where in the county we'd end up, we thought it best to leave them where they were until we could move permanently.

  'We've got to start thinking outside the box,' I said to Ben one night, just before yet another weekend of house hunting. 'Talk to people in the community who might have inside knowledge of properties for sale. It's the only way we'll ever get a house.'

  The next day we raced down to Cornwall again, this time to look at a property in Treverny, one of the villages that had all the things we wanted and was charming as well. The place we viewed was far too small, despite the estate agent trying to convince us that a cramped, dark, walk-in cupboard would make an excellent bedroom for one of the children.