Up With the Larks (8 page)

'It was so embarrassing,' he told me later, 'for both of us.
Michael hadn't a clue that I'd moved to Cornwall; we'd lost
touch ages ago.'

'What did he say? What did
you
say?'

'First neither of us could think of a thing, then we both
started talking at once. Then there was another awkward silence
until Michael started going on about what a coincidence it was
to meet in such circumstances. I nodded my agreement and
suddenly he looked stricken and started to say how sorry he
was to . . .'

'To what? Go on, Ben.'

'Nothing. He just trailed off. I think he was going to say
how sorry he was to see me reduced to living in Cornwall,
doing what I was doing. Michael's the kind of guy that thinks
anywhere other than London is unspeakable.'

Ben grew quiet after he told me this. I knew it had affected
him, this chance meeting. I said, 'It must have been awkward.'

'It was, a bit. I asked him if he still wanted the massage and
I could tell he didn't, that it would be embarrassing for him,
but he insisted anyway. He didn't relax at all during it, though
he'd said he needed to unwind, that's why he was in Cornwall
for a few days. He's got the main role in a West End revival
of a Pinter play.'

Ben was far away, no doubt thinking of the theatre and his
acting days. They must have seemed very far away and unobtainable
at that moment, especially as he had received a 'Dear John'
letter from his London agent soon after we'd moved. Because
he now lived in Cornwall, the agent regretfully could no longer
keep him on the books.

'Horrid for you, Ben,' I said quietly.

He focused back on me. 'The worst of it all was that he
gave me a huge tip. Far too much. That was the most
embarrassing part.'

Ben carried on with the aromatherapy work but it didn't come
often enough to pay our way in Cornwall. He managed to get
a part-time job in a coffee shop in St Geraint, but the wage
was low and the hours too few, so he was still looking for yet
more work. Like most Cornish people, we were beginning to
realize that to survive economically, sometimes it was necessary
to have four or even five part-time jobs.

I desperately needed to find a job of my own. If Ben and
I both worked, we might just manage to keep our heads above
water. But I was beginning to despair as I was turned down
by a supermarket in Truro (overqualified for a job as cashier);
a dental assistant (no experience); and a waitress at a smart
Italian restaurant (no experience, overqualified and also not
Italian, or Italian-looking anyway).

Meanwhile our expenses were mounting. The water leaking
through one of the outer walls that we'd seen on our first night
in the new house turned out to be a sign of a crack in the
bricks that needed professional mending. There was always
something – except jobs. We were learning the hard way just
how impoverished Cornwall still is, how hard it is to find work,
to live.

Our golden dream was slowly turning to dust as we worried
ourselves sick night after night. By this time we didn't even
know if we could afford to move back to London, where we
could at least find work. A move costs money and that was
something we no longer had. As each job possibility fell through
and our financial state grew increasingly dire with our debts
mounting, we began to seriously despair.

Then, miraculously, I overheard a conversation which
probably saved our lives – our lives in Cornwall, that is. It
was afternoon on a balmy, early autumn day and I was waiting
to pick up Will and Amy from the village school. As usual,
a gaggle of mums sprinkled with a few dads were chattering
as if they'd known each other for years, as they had, of
course. And as I hadn't. I knew it had only been a couple
of months since we'd moved to the village, compared to the
lifetimes the others had lived here, but there were days when
I felt as if I were not merely someone from Up Country but
a creature from another universe. It's not that people were
deliberately unfriendly, for they were all scrupulously polite
to me, but nevertheless I got the feeling that they saw me
as one who was definitely not on their planet and never
would be. Luckily Will and Amy were fine, having merged,
as children can do, seamlessly into school and village life. I
liked the Cornish – we wouldn't have moved if we hadn't –
but I was beginning to wonder if they really, truly, deep down
would ever accept me, or Ben, or anyone who was not
Cornish.

I felt it today as I greeted the other parents. Not wanting
to be pushy and barge in on their conversations, I hovered
around the edges. And that's when I heard the following:

'Did you know Ryan is giving up his job as relief postman?'
this was from a short, exceedingly plump redheaded woman.

'No, really? He's only had the work these six months. Why?'
The redhead's confidante was a vivacious young woman with
hair in a long brown plait. She didn't look old enough to be
anyone's mother but she had a baby in a pram with her.

'Bad hip, needs an operation. Said it wasn't his thing
anyhow.'

'Shame. He's looking so much better since he got that job.'

'Too right. Lost tons of weight. He was getting right fat,
sorry to say, but never would diet,' the redhead snorted disapprovingly
for this lack of self discipline. 'All that weight'll
go right back on now, you wait and see.'

They both looked grim, thinking no doubt of poor Ryan
getting right fat again since quitting his job.

The redhead said, 'Means another postman coming again.
Have to lock up Harriet. She eats postmen.'

I hoped Harriet was a dog and not some kind of Cornish
carnivore I'd not read about yet. By now I was listening
unashamedly.

The young mother tucked the baby's blanket tighter around
her legs. 'Harriet's a right troublesome thing. Oh look, there
she be now, the naughty beast.'

I looked down the path in the direction they were pointing
expecting to see the Hound of the Baskervilles. Instead, a tiny
Jack Russell terrier trotted into view. The redhead said, 'Harriet,
you wicked dog, got out'a the shed again.' She held her affectionately
by the scruff of her neck as the young mother went
on talking.

'But not to worry, Ryan be around for a fortnight. New
postie not hired yet. Margaret at the post office told me
applications out now.'

I couldn't sleep that night. A postwoman, me? It was the
most ludicrous idea I'd ever had in my overworked head and
I've had some humdingers. Yet something had clicked when I
heard that conversation. The pros and cons darted in and out
of my brain like tiny arrows.

I was not a morning person. I could hardly bear to look
at my beloved family first thing in the morning so how
would I face strangers? I was not a physical person, not jobwise.
I wasn't that fit and I knew post people did loads
of walking, up and down hills. I'd never be able to do a job
like that. But it was a job. A vacancy at any rate. A steady
income, which could mean the difference between staying
in Cornwall or whimpering back to London, broke, shamefaced
and disillusioned.

I started to get excited. The timing was right too. I knew
post people started early and usually finished around midday
or shortly afterwards. We'd already had our first stroke of luck
employment-wise – Ben had just got the role of Captain Hook
in
Peter Pan
, the forthcoming pantomime at the theatre in Truro.
He could get the kids up, breakfasted and to school before he
had to go off for rehearsals and I could be home in time to
pick them up.

In the midst of my excitement I started to despair. There
had been so many jobs I'd applied for and none of them had
materialized. Why should this be different? But maybe our luck
was changing, first with Ben's acting job, now with this. Though
the pantomime would get us through the next few months,
the future was still bleak unless one of us, preferably both,
found full-time employment.

The next morning I was at the St Geraint post office at nine
o'clock. Margaret was at her usual place behind the counter. I
knew her vaguely from buying stamps and other sundry post
office business. I told her I'd heard there was a vacancy for a
post deliverer and asked if she had application forms.

'You?' she stared at me incredulously and with more than a
hint of suspicion.

'Yes, me,' I retorted. I hardly knew the woman; we'd barely
exchanged any words except about the weather and here she
was looking at me as if I'd said I wanted a job as a lap dancer.

'You want to deliver post?'

'Is there a problem?'

'Uh, no, no,' she slid an application form through the counter
window. 'You'll need to take a written exam first. In Truro.'
She said it triumphantly, as if the whole exam would be in the
Cornish language and that would show me for being so pushy
and presumptuous.

An exam? Written? The last test I'd taken had been for a
driving licence when I was seventeen. What if I failed even
before the interview stage? I'm sure she smirked as I took the
application, folded it carefully and slipped it into my bag.
I didn't tell anyone, even Ben. I couldn't. For a start, we had
been so positive when we'd started looking for work, so sure
a job would be easy to find. We'd had so many disappointments,
I didn't want to trouble him with yet another and what
if I failed the exam? However the day came and I passed the
first hurdle, the written test, which was basically no more than
to see if I could read English, match up post codes, and work
out times so that I could fill in my time sheet correctly.

When I was called for an interview, I finally told my family.
There were howls of disbelief and laughter. 'Mum, you'll have
to be outside all the time,' Amy said.

'I love being outside.'

'When it's nice. You hate the rain. And wind drives you
crazy. And you're always cold in winter,' this was Will.

Ben asked, 'Do you really want to do this, Tessa?'

'Why not? It'll be fun!' I was trying to convince myself.

'You'll never stick it. It's not your scene.'

'I'll probably not get it anyway.'

'Probably not.'
I'll show him,
I thought.
I'll show them all.

The day of the interview finally arrived. I dressed soberly
but not formally in a longish skirt, boots and a roll-neck
pullover. My family, still disbelieving I could ever go through
with this, nonetheless wished me luck and off I went back to
Truro, wondering how many candidates I'd be up against and
how experienced they were.

As I waited, my confidence began to ebb. Why on earth did
I think that anyone would find me right for this job? No one
else in Cornwall seemed to feel I'd be right for any kind of
job, judging from the last few months. I was making a fool of
myself even applying. No wonder Margaret had smirked when
she gave me the application. Even the smartly dressed receptionist
at the postal centre seemed to be smirking at me behind
her computer as I waited for my interview.

I nearly left. I worked myself into such a dejected state that
I was considering walking away before the interview when an
older man in a suit and red tie called me into his office.

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.