Up With the Larks (27 page)

I nod in sympathy. 'So many people have to do that, down
here. Even your son Charlie, he's such a brilliant artist he should
be doing it full time but instead he has to cut hair to earn a
crust. Luckily he likes doing that, too.'

Arnie frowns.
Whoops
, I think,
I've done it again, spoken without
thinking
. I had completely forgotten about his wrath over his
son not being a fisherman.

'Charlie's just messin' about, not settling like he should. He
could of had me boat all to hisself in a few years, when I
retire.'

I risk more wrath by saying, 'But you just said the profession
is dicey. Fishing, that is.'

He's about to yell at me, I can tell, his face is getting all red.
I hate confrontation and curse myself for getting into this fix,
so before he can speak I say, 'Look at me, happy as a lark these
days, being a postwoman. I used to have a fancy job, loads of
travelling, great salary, but in the end I wasn't happy. So I gave
it all up to live in Cornwall. Hasn't been easy, but I love what
I'm doing now.'

His anger has cooled but he looks at me as if I'm a weirdo,
wondering what this has to do with Charlie and the fishing
profession. I go on, 'Isn't that what's important? Doing what
makes you happy?'

He doesn't say a word so I plunge on recklessly.
What the
hell, you might as well get hung for a sheep as for a lamb, Tessa.
'You love fishing, you just said so, earlier on. Well, Charlie
loves making his wonderful boxes and paintings and installations
and sculptures – and all of the sea too, which he loves
just as much as you do. How could any father want to take
that away from his son?'

I've gone too far, I can tell. Cursing myself for opening my
big mouth in the first place, I say, 'Omigod, look at the time,
I'd better get on. Bye now, enjoy your anchor!'

I jump in my van and don't look back in case he's throwing
something at me.

The August heat wave settles in. The beaches are packed, as are the seas
and harbours, full of boats of all kinds, the sailboats colourful with bunting
on regatta days, the sky full of fireworks to celebrate a good day's boat
racing. On each of my days off I take Minger, rush to the beach with Amy and
Will, and Ben if he's not working, and we spend lazy hours swimming, paddling,
snorkeling, making elaborate sand castles and in general idling the lovely
hot days away. And the beauty is, this is not a holiday. When September comes,
we'll still be here. What a delicious thought that is.

The summer days of the last week of August linger into
September but after the Bank Holiday, Cornwall begins to
empty. When school starts again the next army of holiday
makers arrive, composed of those not tied down to terms and
timetables. This seems to be a favourite month for retired folk,
many of whom have been babysitting the grandchildren most
of the summer while the parents worked and are now taking
a well-earned break for themselves. It also seems to be a month
for babies and toddlers not yet school age. The beaches are
full of them, the parents fondly holding them in the water for
their first experience of the sea.

Annie visits again, only this time it's not just me she's coming
to see. She and Pete have been emailing each other and plan
to meet again. I invite him to dinner the day she arrives. Pete
comes with two bunches of flowers, yellow roses for me and
crimson ones for her. These are totally unexpected and it's the
first time I have seen Annie flustered. She's touched, embarrassed
and speechless, so unlike her that I stare rudely at both
of them as she buries her face in the flowers, pretending she's
taking in the scent. The look on Pete's face is one of delirious
delight.

It looks to me like their emails have already gone far beyond
friendship. And then Annie sneezes. And does so about ten
times in a row.

'It's the roses,' I say to Pete as I take them away and lead
her upstairs to find tissues.

I hear him say to Ben, 'Is she allergic to
everything?
'

Ben says, 'Afraid so. Especially in the country. That's why
she hates it, only comes to see Tessa.'

Pete's voice is uncertain. 'She hates the countryside?'

Ben nods. 'Just doesn't understand how we can live here.'

I can't give him a kick under the table or a pinch in the
elbow to keep him quiet because the two men are downstairs
in the corridor and I'm in the bedroom with Annie,
eavesdropping. I swear at myself for not telling Ben about
her and Pete's relationship but then I remember they don't
have a relationship; they've only met once briefly and
exchanged some emails.

Ben obviously hadn't seen the way they'd looked at each
other, though, when Pete arrived. I needn't have worried. By
the time we sit down to eat, Annie's hay fever is under control.
She's looking ravishing in a skimpy, clinging top, a chunky-knit
cardigan thrown over her shoulders and stone-washed jeans
that look absolutely made for country living.

Even as I think this she says to all of us, 'Oh, it's so good
to be back in Cornwall. You don't know how much I miss it
when I'm away.'

Ben looks at her open mouthed and this time I'm close
enough to give him a swift soft kick beneath the table before
he says anything. Luckily the penny drops. I see sudden realization
hit him as surely as if a cartoon balloon had appeared
over his head saying, 'Aha, so
that's
how it is.'

He smiles at me, a secret, knowing smile that I return.
Then I turn guiltily towards my guests, wondering if they've
seen our little exchange. No chance. They're too engrossed
in each other, with Pete telling Annie all the beautiful places in
Cornwall he'd like to show her and Annie radiantly nodding
her head as if I've not dragged her around those same places
months ago.

I'm thinking of this a few days later, after Annie leaves. She
and Pete spent every minute together when he wasn't working
and both seem to be wild about each other. She left this
morning in tears, wishing she could stay longer, saying she'll
be back as soon as she can.

I'm so thrilled at this bit of romance that I'm whistling as
I trot into Mrs Pappy Apple's house. Her real name is a nightmare
of consonants about five syllables long, compliments
of her Bulgarian husband who is in his nineties. I've nicknamed
her because every day, rain or shine, she waits for me
in the window of her house to give me an apple from the
fruit bowl on the deep windowsill. Usually the apple is wrinkled
and soft but of course I take it anyway, thank her profusely
for her gift. She's a dear sweet old lady, struck with Alzheimer's,
being cared for by her loving husband, and I feel quite
protective of the two.

Mrs Pappy Apple's front room looks over the garden, where
she sits all day watching the birds feed from the dozen or more
feeders crammed onto a tiny lawn. There are also gnomes of
all shapes and sizes, green ceramic frogs, pottery cats of a ferocious
ginger colour, china flower pots and ornamental figures.
It's like a child's toy box, so colourful and bright.

As with many of my customers, we have a daily ritual.
When she sees me, Mrs Pappy Apple opens the window,
hands me – or any other postie delivering to her – an apple
and we have a bit of a chat. In fact it's the exact same chat
every day – the weather, my health (fine, thank you), hers
(not doing too badly, dear), her husband (he's so good but
she does so worry about his joints). I have a little game with
myself, to see if I can make her smile, for her face is usually
solemn and weighed down, understandably, by life. When I
succeed, I feel such pleasure that it invariably lifts my mood
a notch or two, no matter how high or low it was to start
with.

Today, my loud whistling entices out that smile even before
we start our conversation. I'm so delighted that it doesn't even
register until I'm back in the van, that for the first time ever,
she hasn't given me an apple but a banana.

I panic. For months I've had what I think is a brilliant routine,
a solution both to the apple disposal and to the harassment I
was subjected to from the flip-flop family – a half dozen geese
at the next house on my run, whose feet, rushing towards me,
sound like flip-flops on tarmac. Discovering quickly that the
apples were inedible, yet hating to merely throw them away as
they were such a kind gift, I hatched a cunning plan. As the
geese came charging at me, honking their blasted heads off,
when I ran from the van to the front door I threw the apple
as far as I could in the opposite direction. By the time they'd
got to it, squabbled over it and demolished it, and were ready
to have a go at me again, I was safely back in the van.

Not only did this save me from a nasty peck or two, it also
made good use of the apple, ensuring that it didn't go to waste.
But today, I have a
banana.
Do geese eat bananas? I have a
feeling they won't be thrilled at the idea.

Since I've been at this job, I've handled bad-tempered
domestic cats lying in wait to sink claws into my unsuspecting
hand, I've dealt with demon dogs – Batman comes to mind –
and lived to tell the tale, I've been chased by a cockerel, and
by that bad-tempered pheasant, and even once, a turkey.
But the geese are my real nemesis. They are big, can be vicious,
attack together, and are seriously scary.

I drive up to the house and sure enough, there they come,
honking for postie blood again. Will the banana work? I've got
no option but to give it a try. Thinking ahead, I peel it, in case
they're dumb geese and don't recognize a treat when they see
it with the skin on. As usual, I leap out of the van before they
get to me and fling my sacrificial fruit as far away from the
house and van as possible.

You can almost hear the screeching of their heels on the
tarmac drive as they stop their pursuit of me and turn abruptly,
then run as fast as their goosey legs will carry them in the
direction of the banana. I don't stop to see their reaction but
dash like a demented woman to the door, shove in the letters
and race back to the van.

As I drive away, I'm whistling again. Whatever they thought
of the change of fruit, they fell for it and I reached the van
before they did. Making a triumphantly rude gesture to the
honking geese now following my van down the drive, I head
for my next drop.

A week later, the weather's changed; it's still warm, but
thunderstorms have rolled in again from the sea. One minute I'm
engulfed in waterproofs, splashing through puddles in potholed
tracks to deliver the post, the next minute I'm in my baggy shorts
and polo shirt, my sun visor on to keep the glare out.

I've been issued with an adapted old golf cart by the Royal
Mail to lug the post around St Geraint. When I first use it,
I feel I could be mistaken for a serious golfer on holiday until
I remember the unflattering shorts and my sturdy boots.

The bad weather has driven many of the holiday makers
home a few days early. I arrive at the Rowlands' B&B and stop
for a drink of cold apple juice in between storms. Dave is
down again from Bristol and is in the garden helping Martin
pick a load of spinach to freeze. Emma and I sit on the front
doorstep sipping our juice, soaking up some sun while we can.
Around us there are rumbles of thunder and in the distance
streaks of lightning emanating from black clouds fast
approaching.

I incline my head towards a couple of nanny goats in an
enclosure near the house. They are a new acquisition, as are
the dozen hens pecking around the new chicken house Martin
built. 'Are those for the guests, to give them that farmyard
feel?'

Emma shakes her head. 'We got them for us, to have some
animals about. When we had to get rid of the dairy herd, it
nearly broke our hearts.'

Dave's girlfriend, Marilyn, who's also here for the weekend,
comes out from the house to join us. Grinning, she says, 'Good
thing Dave's not like his dad. He'd be a God-awful physio if
he couldn't bear the hassle of dealing with people.'

Emma agrees, then says, 'But like Martin, he's not happy in
a city.'

'I know how he feels,' I murmur. 'I couldn't bear it now.'

Marilyn nods, 'It was cool at first, leaving Cornwall, the only
place I'd ever known. But I'm like Dave now. I'd love to come
back but . . .' She shrugs, tailing off.

I leave after another few minutes, despite Marilyn's offer for
me to stick around a while. 'I've made some scones, they're in
the oven now and ready in a minute. Wait and sample one.
Not as good as Dave's mum's but not too bad.'

I get back into the van regretfully, wanting to be around these
friendly people longer. Marilyn is the sort of young woman
Cornwall shouldn't be letting go. Dave too, belongs here.

Still brooding about the couple, I don't notice at first that
Mr Hawker is taking a long time to get to the door. The rain's
started again and I'm huddled inside my waterproof, waiting
for him to answer. He's normally there at the first knock and
opens it eagerly. We do our usual ritual of my handing him
the post with one of the tiny KitKats tucked away between
the junk mail, and he solemnly thanks me and tells me I
shouldn't have done it. Then we stand in his doorway discussing
the weather, my family and his health – he always says he's fine
– until I make a move to go. He never detains me, rarely asks
me in except when it's pouring and then we always stand no
more than a foot or two inside the door, but equally he's never,
ever, the first to make the move to go.

I'm worried, now. No one in the village and surrounding
area can remember when Mr Hawker last left his cottage, not
even Emma and Martin. I try to open the door and peer in,
but it's locked. Uneasily, I go around to the back but there are
so many nettles and brambles covering the concrete path, that
I don't even attempt to get through. Besides, it'll be locked too
– it probably hasn't been open for years.

I try peering in through the grimy windows but can't see
anything through the dust and filth and the driving rain making
streaks on the outside. Cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning
aren't helping my unease. None of the windows are even
slightly open. I try to prise one up but it's solidly embedded
into the window frame. Frantic now, I knock on the window
again but the only sign of life is a thrush warning me to get
off its patch.

I remember Mr Hawker's cough then sigh with relief.
Of course
,
Martin and Emma had told me last week that they were going
to overrule his protests and get him to a doctor. I'm sure now
that's what has happened. The doctor, rightly concerned, must
have put him in hospital to make sure the chest infection cleared.
Because Mr Hawker gets very little post, I don't see him every
day. It's probably been three or four days by now.

The Rowlands didn't mention that Mr Hawker was in
hospital, but I assume that's because they forgot, with Dave
and Marilyn there and their guests only leaving today. But I
need to make sure, so I drive back up the road to find Emma
or Martin.

All four of them are in the garden now, oblivious to the
rain which lasted no more than ten minutes then suddenly
stopped. They're inspecting the courgettes and having a good-natured
argument about whether they should be picked today
or allowed to grow a tiny bit more. I refrain from getting
involved, saying I'm far too diplomatic a postie for that, and
ask about Mr Hawker.