Up With the Larks (20 page)

We walk down past the harbour to find a quiet stretch of
stone wall to perch on. The tide's out and there's a mass
of seaweed on the wet rocks being pecked over by oyster
catchers. The last two days have suddenly turned hot, way too
hot for April. I mention this obvious fact to Susie as we settle
down on the wall.

Susie says, 'That's what be doing it. It all be too soon, making
people do daft things.'

'What? I don't understand.'

'It be this heat. Near 80. Unnatural.'

'Hmm. Nice though.' I turn my face to the welcoming sun,
close my eyes before saying, 'What daft things exactly?'

'That Eleanor. I get up to her place, all set to stop for a
cuppa and a good natter. She be out in the garden, fussin' away
with her azaleas. I be admiring 'em when all of a sudden she
whispers in my ear, in that bossy headmistress-y voice she uses,
"Susie, I have found the solution to my problem with that tree."'

She mimics Eleanor's voice so perfectly that I have to giggle.
Susie doesn't join me, though. She goes on, 'The tree she was
talking about ain't just any ole tree, y'know. It be a handsome
forty-year-old copper beech and that Eleanor be killing it dead.
And it don't belong to her either.'

I turn to her, intrigued. 'Why? I can't imagine Eleanor doing
something like that.'

'HAH.' Susie says this in such a thunderous voice that the
near-by oyster catchers fly off warily. 'Well she is. Killing it
dead.'

The last three words are spoken so loudly that some daytrippers
sitting near-by turn to look at us.

'Start at the beginning, Susie. I haven't followed any of it yet.'

She does. Apparently the copper beech is in Eleanor's back
garden; that is, many of its branches are and now some of its
roots are beginning to creep under her greenhouse. But the
tree itself is firmly planted on her neighbour's side of the fence.

'He be that ole boy Perkins, the one always in overalls.
Widower fer years, he be, decent enough bloke but stubborn
as Eleanor be herself. They two been fighting over that tree
for years. Eleanor says the shade be blocking the sun and her
greenhouse is practically useless. Perkins says she be exaggerating.
Been going on for years, their bickering.'

'So what's happened now?'

Susie tells me. It seems Eleanor confided to her the fact
that she had furtively encircled the trunk of the tree with a
thin copper wire. 'It's so thin that Perkins will never see it,' she
had told Susie gleefully, 'but it'll cut into the bark, stop the
tree breathing. Get rid of it once and for all.'

'Oh dear.' I am all attention now, and so are the day-trippers
next to us. Susie hasn't thought it necessary to lower her
voice. 'Does that really work? Could a bit of wire really kill
the tree?'

Susie shrugs. 'Never heard tell whether it works or not, though
I've known a fair few folk who've tried it. I doubt if Eleanor
knows for certain either, but she sure be giving it a try. Anyway,
that's not the point. The fact is, she's giving it a go. I told
her that it's attempted murder, what she be doing, that it be an
underhanded and nasty thing to do.'

'And she said – ?'

'She said what about her greenhouse!' Susie practically snorts
with indignation.

'Oh dear,' I say again. Then, 'Well, what about her greenhouse?
I mean, of course I think it appalling that she's trying
to kill the tree, especially as it's not even hers, but Eleanor does
love her greenhouse I know.'

Susie looks at me scornfully. 'She could move her greenhouse.
And I told her so. She told me to mind my own business and
get off her premises if I didn't like what she's doing. I said I
be going straightaway as I be wanting no truck with a tree killer
anyhow. She said if I ever came back she'd call the police and
I said if she did I'd expose her to all of South Cornwall as the
tree-killer she is.'

I'm quite stunned by the vehemence of Susie's anger, as well
as such an unfortunate outcome to this long-standing battle
between neighbours. I say, 'Well, however you both feel, you've
still got to deliver the post there.'

'No way. Either she puts a postbox on top of her lane, or
she be getting no post from me, for sure.'

We are silent for some time. The day-trippers, sensing there
will be no more colourful stories of life in rural Cornwall, get
up and move away. I feel languid in the heat, despite being
upset by Susie's story. Finally I say, 'Are you going to tell
Perkins?'

She stares at me in some surprise. 'Tell him what?'

'Why what Eleanor has done to his tree.'

'You be getting as daft as everyone else in this hot sun.
Course not. T'ain't my conflict now is it? Nothing worse than
getting involved in someone else's feud. Just ain't done, bird.'

On Susie's day off a few days later, I start to drive up
Eleanor's lane and there, tied haphazardly to a branch of a
beech tree at the edge of the track, is a plastic container. On
top of it are the words POST written bluntly in red letters.

I saw Susie this morning at the Truro sorting office and she
said she'll never forgive Eleanor for attempting to kill the beech
tree, even though it seems that Perkins discovered the sabotage
and removed the wire.

Now, seeing the new postbox, I doubt if Eleanor will ever
forgive Susie for telling her what to do in her own garden. I
have a sense that this new breach will not be mended for a
long time.

Another lesson I've learned about rural communities
, I think as I
put Eleanor's post into the precarious box. Feuds can flare up
without warning and last for ages. People can hold grudges
for just as long here as they can in the city, or maybe longer,
with less busy-ness to distract them. Already I've heard of
families at odds with neighbours because of some squabble
their parents had years ago.

I wonder if I should go to see Eleanor Gibland, try to plead
Susie's case, tell her the good things Susie's said about her. Or
try and remind Susie of how much she has always meant to
Eleanor. But even as I think this I know it's an idiot's thought.
As Susie said, there's nothing worse than getting involved in
someone else's feud.

Before long I'm whistling again, thinking that on a warm day
at the end of April, there's no better place to be than driving
down a rural road in a postal van in Cornwall. There's a blue
sky above with a couple of buzzards circling, there's the sea
to my left, and on my right, a mass of rhododendrons blazing
pink and purple. I'm happy as a skylark, and if this is
being bovine, as Annie accused me of being last time she
was here, I'm the most contented creature on God's good
earth, and that's a fact.

I'm having a clothes crisis this month, thanks to the bizarre
weather. Some mornings I wake up to freezing rain and a sharp
wind that makes me grab my heavy Royal Mail waterproof and
wear it over a thick woolly. Then by the time the first light
breaks, the sun is gloriously warm and I'm sweating in my
wintry gear for the rest of the day.

Often it goes the other way, when I wake up to a balmy
dawn and think:
Hurrah, summer is here
. Tugging on nothing
more than a red polo shirt and a pair of ghastly Royal Mail
shorts which reach my knees and make me look like a bag lady,
I skip outside merrily humming jolly songs about summertime
and the livin' bein' easy. Then of course the wind shifts, clouds
snarl over the horizon and the temperature drops twenty
degrees.

I'll be glad when the weather turns warm and stays warm
for a bit, not just for my sake but for the sake of my whole
family. On these unspring-like days when a cold wind blows,
we've got to put on extra layers as we read or watch telly or
relax in the sitting room, for we can't close the main window.
A swallow has made a nest there and if we shut the window
we'll crush the three speckled eggs we've spotted. Already the
newly painted wall is dappled with swallow guano but we don't
care; all of us are thrilled that this delightful family is making
a home with us.

Luckily the windows are tall, and high up, so that Jake
can't get to the nest. The mother bird seems oblivious to
his noisy presence both inside and outside the house;
she seems totally at home here. I wonder if perhaps our
window has been a favourite nesting place for generations
of swallows. I hope so. I tell Amy and Will that we must
make them as welcome as we can, to keep them coming
back to us.

Annie came down for a very brief weekend after the swallows
had made their nest. Shivering as a blast of cold wind
came through the open window, she pulled her cashmere
cardigan tightly around her. We were all huddled in thick fleeces
and blankets, watching the late news on telly. Annie, her teeth
clattering with cold, muttered, 'This is why I come down here
so often, y'know. To get more stories about you barmy people
to dine out on.'

Annie's not the only one who has taken to coming down
often. To our consternation, Morgan and Glenda, and their
two children, came back for a second time. When Glenda rang
to inform me of the impending visit, I didn't know how to
say no. She didn't exactly ask, I realized when I got off the
phone, but had informed me they were coming down, in such
a way that somehow I couldn't demur.

This time they hadn't forgotten the wine, though it was a
far cry from the 'exquisite' wine Morgan had promised us (but
never delivered) last time. It was actually cheap plonk from
Tesco, which still would have been fine if Morgan hadn't
ordered a very expensive Chianti at the Italian restaurant he
took us to in Truro. 'The dinner is my treat,' he'd said expansively.
'I looked the restaurant up on the net, supposed to be
good.'

It wasn't bad – cheap and cheerful – and Morgan did pay.
We only had one course, because Glenda said, 'I've heard they
do huge portions here, so we mustn't order a starter.' And after
we'd finished, Morgan boomed, 'That was filling! You'd have
to be a glutton to want dessert. Shall we go back to your place
for coffee?'

When the bill came, Morgan paid for the food but seemed
to expect Ben to pay for the wine, even thanked him profusely
for offering to do so. Rather than making an awkward scene,
Ben let it go, but with the exorbitantly priced wine, of which
we'd had two bottles, plus the babysitter I'd booked to look
after the four children (who were squabbling even more this
time than they had last visit), it was the most expensive night
out we'd had for months.

The really galling thing was, Morgan and Glenda kept referring
to 'that great little restaurant we took you to' for the rest
of their stay, making sure they didn't have to open their wallets,
or help with the preparation of any of the other meals for the
rest of the weekend.

Never again,
I think, remembering that visit. I forget them,
and everyone else, as I drive around the quiet lanes. This
morning the dawn seems earlier than ever, the light haloing
the pale, delicate green of the new leaves, glittering on the
spider webs still wet with dew on the fresh grass.

It's so beautiful, so tranquil, that I stop the van and open
the door to feel the early warmth, smell the damp grass, hear
the skylarks. They're out in full voice today, their harmony and
song as pure as the new morning.

I sit and listen for ages, until I can hear the sound of a
tractor approaching and know I must move; he's probably going
into the gate I'm blocking. But the larks will be here tomorrow,
I think as I drive away. And so will I.

When I worked at The Body Shop, we had to do a community
project – called Walk the Talk – which entailed some kind
of social service, like working with the young, or the elderly,
or with animal rescue groups. Anita Roddick believed strongly
in keeping communities alive; she used to say that loneliness
would be the number one disease if communities fell apart.

I think of her words now as I go about my rounds today.
Already in my time as a postie I've helped an elderly woman
who's broken her arm to put on her cardigan and sat in a
young mother's kitchen for ten minutes guarding her sleeping
baby while she ran down to the corner shop for milk. I've
helped wash out cuts, put plasters on elbows, looked through
old photo albums with isolated, lonely pensioners. I've rushed
ill people to hospital and made cups of tea for semi-invalids.
I like this part of the job. I've had so much myself, I feel lucky
to be able to give some of it back.

Right now I'm delivering the post in Poldowe. There are a
sheaf of cards addressed to Mrs Taylor, whom I know only
slightly; she and her husband have always seemed a bit reclusive.
I noticed there were batches of greeting cards yesterday
too, so today, when Mrs Taylor comes to the door, I say brightly,
'Happy Birthday!'

She looks at me blankly. Her eyes are red; she looks as
though she's been crying. 'Oh dear, sorry to intrude,' I say,
flustered. 'Uh, these are for you, I thought it must be your
birthday. Sorry to disturb you.'

I thrust the cards at her as she says quietly, 'My husband
died a few days ago. These are sympathy cards.'

I slink away feeling miserable and embarrassed. There is still
so much to learn.
I must never assume,
I mutter to myself as I
drive away. After all these months I still make mistakes and
often they occur when I'm feeling smug with myself and with
the job.
Serves me right,
I say to myself when another one of
these incidents takes place.

Yesterday I was feeling wonderfully smug because I'd figured
out who a letter was for. It was addressed to 'J-J and Wuffle
the Mongrel, St Geraint, Cornwall.'

'Not another one with no proper address,' Margaret sighed
a few days ago, handing it to me. 'I haven't a clue who this
one's for, nor does Susie. D'you have anyone called J-J, with
a dog called Wuffle?'

I studied the envelope, puzzled, 'Can't think of anyone off
hand but I'll take the letter. Maybe it'll come to me.'

As I delivered to my regulars, I asked a few if they knew
who J-J was, or a mixed breed dog called Wuffle, but they were
as perplexed as I was. It wasn't until I called in at Trescatho,
my Brigadoon village, the one with the spooky werewolf (or
just an ordinary man with exceptionally large canine teeth) that
I remembered. One of the houses, an old stone cottage that
had been empty for ages, had been sold. I had been so surprised
to see someone walking around the deserted place that I'd
stopped, shocked, to stare.

The woman who stared back at me was middle-aged, smartly
dressed and obviously from Up Country – a second homer, I
thought dismally. Up until now this hamlet had been spared.
The people who lived here might be reclusive but they lived
here all year round.

I had my baggy, ugly Royal Mail shorts on, my Dr Martens
boots and a red polo shirt, my hair pulled up in a tight band
on top of my head. I know I looked a sight but that was no
reason to look through me, turn her back and go into the
house. I made a face at her retreating back.

As she went inside, I heard her call a name which, thinking
back, was definitely Wuffle. And sure enough, following her
into the house from the back garden was a funny looking
mongrel type dog with big paws, black shaggy fur and floppy
ears.

Miss Marple, eat your heart out,
I thought as light bulbs went
off in my head.
I bet she's the one the letter is addressed to.
And sure
enough, there was a bank statement to be delivered to the
house and the name was Mrs J Jackson.

I looked at the by now scruffy envelope addressed to J-J
and Wuffle the Mongrel. It all fitted. I couldn't wait to tell
Margaret and Susie how my sterling detective work had solved
the Problem of the Mysterious Letter, how the Royal Mail got
through yet again.
All in a day's work,
I said modestly in my
head as I was praised by the Postmaster General.

My reverie was broken by J-J, or Mrs J Jackson, or Granite-Face
Woman as I was addressing her in my head as she stared
coldly at me. I'd followed her into the garden to hand her the
post and now she was frowning and saying something to me.
She looked cross; I couldn't think why.

Her voice was over-the-top posh. 'What's this?' she demanded,
giving me back the grimy envelope addressed to J-J.

'Oh, why, I think it's for you. In fact I'm sure it must be,' I
gave her my most endearing (I hoped) smile. 'You're Mrs
Jackson and your first initial is J.'

'That might be so, but no one, ever, has called me J-J. They
wouldn't dare. And I don't know anyone in Australia,' she thrust
the letter back at me again.

I didn't take it. 'But it must be yours,' I blurted out. 'Because
it's addressed to your dog too. Wuffle. I'm sure I heard you
call him that. And it looks like, well . . .' I began to grope for
words. It looks sort of like a . . . wuffle.'

I couldn't say mongrel. Something in this woman's face
forbade it. She looked at the envelope again then at me with
her scary stare. She had pale skin and pale unsmiling eyes, and
looked terrifyingly forbidding. 'My dog is called Truffle.' Her
voice was the opposite of pale. Black, actually. 'He is a pedigree
Labradoodle. Will you please take this envelope away now?
And leave all future correspondence in the letterbox I will have
installed at the bottom of my path.'

I took the letter and scarpered.

'Did you ever find out who Wuffle and J-J are?' Margaret
had asked when I walked back into the post office that day.

'No, not yet. But I'm working on it.'

I'm back in Trescatho today, hoping the stony looking Mrs
J-J (she'll always be that to me) and her scruffy wuffle dog
(he'll always be that to me) aren't in the garden. They're not,
despite the lovely day. But to my horror, there is scaffolding
up on another house with a SOLD sign and painters are already
hard at work. This wonderful house, in this idyllic village, is
being painted an atrocious bright salmon pink.

I groan out loud. My lovely mysterious Brigadoon is
vanishing, taken over by the pink house brigade.

May Bank Holiday, and the emmetts are flocking into Cornwall.
The continuing fine weather has brought not only the second
homers but the spur of the moment holiday makers, getting
into their caravans, taking out their tents or frantically phoning
every B&B and guest house in the country to see if they can
book a last-minute place.

Glenda phones to say they'd be happy to spend the May
Bank Holiday with us. Since I never asked her, and indeed
haven't heard from her or Morgan since their last visit a couple
of months ago, this is slightly surprising. But I'm on to her
now. I say, sweetly, 'I'm so sorry but we've already got visitors,
I'm afraid.'

This is true. Seth is coming down again but with a different
girlfriend. 'I think Samantha had a bit of an alcohol problem,'
he says on the phone when he asks if he can bring his new
woman, Philippa, for an overnight stay.

'I hope you've learned your lesson,' I say, a bit briskly I
know, but I've known Seth a long time. And I haven't forgotten
how wimpy he was over Samantha.

So Seth and Philippa are already here when, despite being
told we couldn't see them this weekend, Glenda, Morgan and
their children appear unannounced at our kitchen door just as
we are sitting down to a lasagne lunch.

'Oh, don't mind us,' Glenda trills. 'A cup of coffee would
be fine. I'm sure we can find somewhere to eat in St Geraint.'
She says this doubtfully. 'Though I know how crowded all the
pubs get on a bank holiday.'