Up With the Larks (26 page)

Emma agrees. We're standing outside their front door
enjoying the morning sun for a few moments and she says
now, 'Folk around here can sense the times changing. We all
lock our front doors now. No one used to. Sad, isn't it?'

As she finishes speaking a man in khaki shorts and a white
tee-shirt comes out, accompanied by a woman dressed exactly
the same. They look sour faced and don't answer our 'good
mornings'. The man says, 'We've been waiting for our
breakfast.'

'We've been in the dining room for ten minutes, waiting.'
The woman's voice is as brusque as her husband's.

Emma starts apologizing, says she didn't realize they were
downstairs and she'll get it straight away. But Martin says, 'You
said last night you wanted breakfast at 9 o'clock. It's not even
8.30.' His voice is dangerously soft.

The couple ignore him but Emma, recognizing his tone,
gives him a warning look as she ushers the guests back inside.

'Wouldn't hurt to say please now and again,' Martin says but
luckily for his business, they don't hear him. 'Bloody rude
bastards. I hate working with people. At least animals have an
excuse for bad manners, not being able to talk an' all.' He looks
wistfully towards the vegetable garden. I notice that he's cultivated
a bit more of the grassy field next to the one where he's
planted potatoes.

I say, 'Martin, are you planning on feeding an army?'

His face brightens. 'Well, would you believe, Baxter in
Morranport says he'll buy whatever we grow, in the summer
months. We're thinking of expanding even more next year, the
garden has done so well so far. It beats dealing with paying
guests, that's for sure.'

'Oh come on, they're not all that bad. Are they?'

'No, not all. Most guests are nice enough. But the bad'uns
put you off folk for life,' he sighs. 'Better go help Emma
get the breakfast but if they be rude to her, don't know what
I'll do.'

I brood on this decent, kind couple, once farmers now
B&B proprietors. They're so out of their depth in their
new job.

Emma had told me they might just sell up and move. 'Not
worth the hassle, Tessa. Trouble is, it's a no-win situation. We
either run a business so we can keep the family home, or else
sell and move to town somewhere, though lord knows what
we'd be able to afford.'

I sympathized. She went on, 'Trouble is, we're selfish I guess.
We don't want to lose our home, but we also want to do a job
we like.'

Isn't that what we all want?
I think as I drive away.

My next stop is in Creek to have my lunch. The tide is in,
and the few boats moored in this part of the old harbour are
bobbing about on the quiet sea. Even now at the height of
summer, this spot isn't too crowded, not at this time of the
morning anyway. I see a young man fishing from a rowboat
and a couple of dog walkers along the lane parallel to the water
but that's all.

I'm munching on a homemade pasty I picked up at Baxter's
shop and sitting on the sea wall, breathing in the ozone. I feel
so much a part of it: the sea, the two cormorants diving into
the water, even the tiny molluscs clinging to the rocks at the
edge of the water. I feel it more and more as I go on my
rounds, noticing ladybirds and stick insects, stopping to watch
ducks and moorhens at the edge of rivers.

As I finish eating, my thoughts turn to my morning's
customers. After the Rowlands, I saw Mr Hawker, who has a
nasty cough. He's had it a few weeks now but won't see a
doctor, not even Martin and Emma can persuade him. He's
terrified of being admitted to the hospital, feels he'll never
come out if he does. I tried to tell him that just seeing a doctor
won't necessarily mean being carted off to hospital but he
wouldn't listen.

Afterwards I commiserated with a woman whose only
daughter had moved permanently to New Zealand, gave her
a tissue and tried to comfort her as she shed a few tears.
Another woman gave me a recipe for runner bean chutney and
still another rushed out to tell me she was pregnant after years
of trying and wasn't life absolutely wonderful?

Comparing these conversations with those I used to have
at work with my colleagues at The Body Shop, I realize that
already I've got to know my postie customers on a much more
personal basis than I did in my last few years in the other job.
Of course we talked there but it was mostly work-related. We
were far too busy to do otherwise.

I finish my pasty and watch the man in the boat pull up a
great mass of seaweed on his line. I'm feeling serene and
tranquil as the sea is today. I realize I never once felt this way
working in London.

My lunch finished, I stand up and get ready to go back to
work. It's so still you can hear the whoosh of a bird's wings
flying overhead. In the distance I can hear the cry of a pheasant.
Bliss,
I think.
Pure bliss.

I change my mind about the blissfulness of pheasants an
hour or so later. I'm delivering to an old farmhouse at the
end of a dirt track when a cock pheasant rushes out from
the foliage at the side of the road and flies towards my van.
At first I think he's ill and confused but I suddenly realize
the bird is actually trying to attack me, for he's coming
towards the open window. I shriek and the pheasant retreats,
making dreadful, aggressive noises. Then he does it again
but this time I get the window shut just in time as he brushes
past it.

He must have stunned himself for he doesn't try again. I've
stopped the van, trying to calm my beating heart, and roll down
the window cautiously when the farmer's wife comes out to
get the post. 'I saw 'im, that pesky pheasant, going for you.
He don't be likin' red vehicles, y'know.'

'What?'

She nods, 'He don't bother us in they ole blue car, but when
we be off in the red pick-up, he be after us just like he did
with you.'

'Oh great. Maybe I better tell them in Truro that they'll have
to paint my van navy blue.'

She doesn't get irony. 'Best be doin' that, maid,' she says
solemnly.

I say goodbye and as I drive away, the blasted pheasant is
at it again, following the van, attacking it from behind and
squawking like a demon bird until I'm finally on the main
road again. Maybe I really should try to talk the Royal Mail
powers-that-be to get me a different coloured van, to protect
their poor harassed postie.

My next stop is the mysterious hamlet of Trescatho-
Brigadoon. Only it's not that any more. Over the last few
months the place has been taken over by second homers and
there are only the two near-derelict and slightly creepy farmhouses
left, whose owners I still haven't seen.

I spot the latest second homers, outside giving orders to
the painters and decorators on the scaffold. When the
newcomers started encroaching on the village, a few months
ago now, I noticed the proliferation of Farrow & Ball colours
and now each time I come up I try to identify another one
from the colour chart. The house on the end I'm sure is
'Dorset Cream' and last time I was here, I spotted an
'Ointment Pink'.

The Ointment Pink has post today so as I put it into the
swish new letterbox outside the new door, I peek inside (the
door luckily has a window).
Aha! That's 'Porphyry Pink' in the
hallway, or I'll eat my post bag
.

Another of the cottages is being renovated now. This was
the old schoolhouse once. Now there's scaffolding up here too
and the outside walls are being painted. Thank goodness it's
not pink this time or the whole hamlet will look like a giant
candy floss. Oh good, it's a stone-y colour. I'm convinced it's
'Elephant's Breath'.

Only my precious red mail box is safe from being sold to
second homers and decorated in Farrow & Ball. It's still
concreted into the wall with the snail family safely inside. The
day I come here to find it painted 'Middleton Pink' is the day
I quit my job.

Nell is fuming again when I return to Morranport. She's
fuming a lot lately, mostly with good reason because once again
the Royal Mail is being threatened.

'Look at this,' she says without a preamble, her indignant
bosom thrusting out at the world in a ruby red tee-shirt.

I read the newspaper article. It states that the £2 billion
lifeline the government was supposed to hand over to the Royal
Mail, to replace aging equipment and reduce a growing pension
deficit, might be in jeopardy.

'This isn't conclusive,' I say. 'Doesn't even say why the money
might not come through. Just a rumour, Nell, I shouldn't worry.'

She heaves her shoulders and bosom up then down in a
massive melodramatic sigh, surprising me by saying, 'You be
right, y'know. 'Tis too many other things to be worried about.'
Her fury seems to have evaporated completely. Then she
catches my eye and I know it's been redirected.

I dread asking but know I must, 'Such as?'

She points out over the harbour, 'Look at all them boats.
More every year.'

'Yes, well, it happens. That's why lots of people come to
Cornwall, for the boating.'

'Ain't good.'

I'm surprised at this. Nell hasn't minded the pink shirt brigade
before, not in general, as they bring business to her shop.
They're nice to her too; even the thoughtless ones don't dare
to complain in her post office about the pong when the local
farmers are muck spreading, or being woken up by cows or
lambs mooing or baaing in the middle of the night. Those that
tried in the past got short shrift from Nell.

'What's the matter with the boats, Nell?'

'Nothing, if folk can drive 'em. Too many think that driving
a boat is a piece of cake. And too many drink and drive too.
'Tis dangerous. Why only last night poor Arnie, out doing some
evening fishing, was nearly hit by a speedboat. Could have been
another fatality but Arnie was luckier than t'other poor lad last
month.'

'Arnie? Charlie's dad?'

'That's the one. Came in this morning, all shook up and raging
at the boat that hit 'im. Brand new it was, fancy like, must of
cost the earth. Arnie said the bloke couldn't drive the thing, was
either drunk or blind. Poor man's still shook up about it.'

The whole community is rightly worried about this. The sea
is getting crowded just like everywhere else.

Next day Nell's gloom is gone. I go into the post office and
find her in the sorting room, laughing her head off.

'What's up?'

I'm starting to giggle myself without knowing what it is
that's so funny. Nell's laugh is infectious, great deep chuckles
that shake her chest and echo throughout the shop.

She says, 'Hope that gig rowing back along gave you some
arm muscles, my handsome. You sure be gonna need 'em
direckly.'

She points to the large canvas sack where the parcels are
put before being sorted. I don't see anything unusual. Nell goes
on, 'Not in there, too heavy for the bag, maid. Look over next
to it, on the floor.'

There, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, is a huge
package. The shape is familiar; in fact you can't mistake it, as
bits of the metal ends are poking out between the wrappings.
'It's an anchor!' I exclaim.

'The look on your face. Just like I imagined it. Oh, shouldn't
laugh, not funny really. You got to carry the thing.'

I peer at it, trying to see who it's addressed to. To my surprise,
it's for Arnie, the fisherman. Charlie's father.

I'm flummoxed. 'Doesn't his boat have an anchor then? I
don't get it, Nell.'

But Nell knows everything. ''Tis a special sort of anchor.
Fancy like. Arnie's wife got some cousins or nephews up
Scarborough way, fisher folk, found the anchor for him.'

'Lucky old Arnie,' I say with a sigh, wondering how I'm
going to cart the anchor into the van and then to the house.

It's solid metal, heavy and bulky. I can't believe someone
has sent an anchor through the Royal Mail. I can't believe I
have to deliver an anchor to a fisherman.

Nell has already picked up one end. 'Here, maid, I'll help
you toss it in the van.'

I shriek at her to stop. 'Why?' She looks genuinely puzzled.

Because you're old and might injure yourself,
I nearly say but
manage not to. Nell, reading my mind, says, 'You be thinking
I be old, is that it? Do meself some harm, you be thinking?'

She sounds so belligerent that I lie quickly, 'No, of course
not, but let's face it, a thing like that could injure anyone
trying to pick it up from the floor, no matter how young or
fit they are.'

'So we do it together.'

Which we do and manage to get it into the van. I decide to
forego my routine and head for Arnie's cottage first to get rid
of it. He and his wife live in one of the villages about a dozen
miles inland. I don't usually see them as Arnie is either out
fishing or sleeping after a night on the sea, and his wife works
long hours cleaning houses for the holiday makers. Today,
though, instead of putting the post in the box attached to the
front gate, I have to knock on the door as someone needs to
sign for the parcel.

Arnie, surprisingly, is home and awake. After we make suitable
comments about his anchor (a beauty, in'it?), the weather
(hot today already), the emmetts (more than last year for sure),
I commiserate over the near miss in his boat a couple of nights
ago. He's still shaken up about it and tells me, 'The bloke was
drinking, no doubt about it. No sober bloke would be driving
like he be driving.'

From there we talk about the fishing and the difficulties of
his profession: the scarcity of fish and the huge trawlers taking
the best pickings; the price of fuel going up and the price of
fish (to the fishermen anyway), going down.

When he winds down I say, sincerely, 'I don't know how
you lot make a living. It's tough I know.'

'Might have to take on somethin' else, part time mebbe.
Hate to, me life's always been on the sea, but might have no
choice.'