Up With the Larks Read online

  He didn't ask many questions, just the usual ones about work experience to begin with. I tried to make my executive job sound relevant to the Royal Mail but I saw him shake his head in disbelief as I spoke.

  Then he asked the inevitable, 'Why exactly do you want this job, young woman?'

  He sounded so stern that I couldn't think for a moment what to say. And then it came out. 'Because I'm desperate. Because we've just moved here and we love it and want to stay and I can't seem to get a job anywhere.'

  There, I thought, I've blown it.

  He looked at me thoughtfully then smiled. 'Fine. The job's yours.'

  I froze. I couldn't smile back, couldn't move, couldn't think or speak. Finally I began to burble my thanks which he waved away with his hand. He came around from behind his desk and shook my hand.

  'Sally my secretary will give you all the details, forms to fill in, when to start and so on.'

  I thanked him again. But as I walked out I couldn't help asking. 'Why me? Sorry if I'm speaking out of turn but I can't help being curious. Why, out of all the candidates, did you choose me?'

  He gave a small, embarrassed shrug. 'My dear, there weren't any other applicants. Five others were scheduled for interview, but you were the only one who showed up.'

  There was euphoria in our home for days. I had a job, a permanent one. Ben also had work, work he loved in the theatre, and though it was temporary, maybe something else would come up in one of the rep companies. If not, at least with my job, he could look for something else without feeling frantic and stressed.

  After the euphoria came the doubts, naturally enough. Could I do the job? It would require a lot of physical stamina that I wasn't sure I had. My friends in London never thought I'd last till Christmas. Annie, one of my dearest friends, hooted with laughter down the phone when I told her the news. 'Darling, I've known you forever. It's just not you for goodness sake. I give you a month before you come to your senses.'

  Though he didn't say it, I think Ben thought the same, though once I got the job he encouraged me in every way, never letting on his doubts.

  Now it is Christmas Eve and I have made it up to the cut-off point that was predicted for me. It has not been a great fortnight and there is a part of me that wants to go with the flow of predictions and simply quit the job. If we weren't so strapped for cash I probably would.

  I have my own round now. Ten days ago Reg had to leave suddenly because of back trouble and I was given his round. He's not coming back, so a new relief post person will have to be found. Luckily I know his route quite well, already having done it when he was off for nearly a month.

  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 jus
t 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 sur
prise 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.

  First there's another small village to deliver to, this one still fairly full of permanent residents. Everyone here I speak to asks where Reg is. I tell them he's left his job for good and their obvious disappointment at losing Reg and gaining me doesn't exactly make me feel cheery. I know Reg has been around a long time, but still . . . As I drive down a long tarmac road to my next customer, I'm relieved that it's my next to last stop.

  Trelak Farm has been a B&B for a couple of years now but before that the land had been farmed by the Rowland family for generations. Small farmers, they couldn't withstand the falling prices for their stock, rising costs of feed and the masses of paperwork necessary as one new EU directive after another was issued in the last ten years. It's happening all over Cornwall now. Small farmers have nearly become a thing of the past, like so much else.

  Susie told me that Emma and Martin Rowland didn't want to stop farming and go into the tourist trade at Trelak but they had no choice. It was that or move out of the farmhouse and they couldn't bring themselves to do that.

  Martin hates doing B&B, I've heard, and seems to have modelled himself on John Cleese in Fawlty Towers. But it's not an act. He loathes strangers in his house and resents every minute they are there.

  As I get out of the van at Trelak Farm a sharp gust of wind slaps me in the face and makes me lose my balance and I nearly topple over into a muddy pool of rainwater in the old farmyard. It's a lunatic wind, whipping around the skeletal trees and bowing them down with its fury. A common sight here in Cornwall, trees bent permanently in one direction, away from the constant gales from the wind.

  'Fresh,' one woman told us when we were looking around for houses to buy, standing on the hillock behind the garden of a cottage near the sea. ''Tis healthy air. Fresh,' she repeated as we were nearly bowled over by a gale of nearly cyclonic proportions.