Up With the Larks (29 page)

I'd have to report it. The frustrating part was, whatever I
said, it would still be Jamie who got into trouble. Whatever
fear made me do, the authorities would say he still shouldn't
have touched me.

I walk glumly into the post office. Margaret picks up my
mood, asks what's up. I shake my head. 'Nothing.'

'You sure? Has anything happened?'

I take a breath and look her in the eye. 'No, honestly, I'm
fine. Just tired, that's all. Late night last night.'

Without thinking, I've made up my mind. No one, not even
the village crazy, is going to suffer for my over-reactions. Feeling
much better, I make my way to the Sunflower Café. Ben's on
today and if it's not busy maybe he can grab a coffee with me.

Passing the grocery shop, I see Lulu standing in the doorway,
gazing out towards a yacht setting out from the harbour. 'Ah,
Mrs Posh Post Lady, how are you?'

I assure her I'm just fine. 'And how are you, Lulu? How's
the English going?'

I know it's practically flawless now, clever girl that she is,
but I also know she likes being asked, takes an understandable
pride in her new knowledge. 'Oh good I think.' She frowns,
worried that this is immodesty on her part. 'But of course I
know improvement can always be made.'

'Your English doesn't need any improvement,' I say and her
whole face dimples in smiles.

'Yes and now I can go back home. Soon.'

'For a holiday? To see your parents?'

'Oh no. For good.'

Surprised, I say, 'But all that serious study you've been doing,
learning the language and the culture. And now you're leaving?
What made you change your mind?'

'Oh, I always am planning to go back.' She frowns again.
'Or I should say: I always did plan to go back. Or should it
be, I always planned to go back?'

'Either one, Lulu. Did you?'

'Yes, to teach English to the village children so they have
something for the future. Your language, Mrs Posh Postie, is
world language now. Children in my country need to learn
English, even poor children like those in my village. Only then
can they help make a future for themselves.'

I wish her luck, impressed at her intelligence, her dedication.
I can't help comparing Lulu to Jamie. They must be
about the same age, but how different life is for the two of
them. Not only a world of difference in backgrounds but in
their futures too. There is one similarity, and it's the one of
community solidarity. Jamie, in a loose sort of way is protected
by his community, and Lulu is going back home to do all she
can to help hers. This thought cheers me immensely. I skip
once or twice as I say goodbye to Lulu and head towards the
café and Ben.

'Mrs Posh Postie,' Lulu calls after me, laughter in her voice.
'Be careful. Remember how you fell that time, before Christmas,
when you hopped too close to the edge of the path.'

Hopped?
I have a fleeting vision of how she sees me, how
she'll describe the local post deliverers in England to her charges
back in her tiny Asian village.
Like jumping rabbits,
she'll say,
making the little kids laugh as she gives a demonstration.
Little
bunnies. Or like kangaroos, children. Now, do you remember where
kangaroos live?

I skip into the café, which is thankfully empty. Ben kisses
me, and I'm pleased to see how well he looks, and how content.
He's realized, since we talked about moving back to London,
how very much he too loves our lives here. Making the
decision to stay has somehow liberated him, and his face, his
body language, reflects this.

He says now, 'I see you've had a good day.'

'Oh I have. An amazing day.'

We sit down and I tell him all about it. Predictably,
he's worried about me, about Jamie. I say, 'Ben, if he'd wanted
to hurt me, he could have done it easily. He grabbed my arm
but was aiming at his post. Even in his wild state, even with
the booze in him he still wasn't violent. In fact, I'm kind of
glad it happened. I don't think I'll ever feel so frightened of
him again.'

Ben is still worried, but he accepts my judgement, after
warning me that if anything like that ever happens again, I'd
have to report it, or
he
would.

I agree, and we spend the next half hour talking about the
things that have become important to us: the rhythms of the
sea, the seasons, our new life. Though we don't yet feel fully
integrated into our Cornish community, and sometimes wonder
if it'll ever happen, we're going with the flow, taking on the
tempo of life here and trying not to rush things. We've learned
you can't force anything in the countryside and it hasn't been
easy at times adjusting to a rural life. As we lapse finally into
silence, looking out through the glass front of the café onto
the harbour, our minds still and hearts at rest, I know. For this
moment anyway, we're part of it all.

The first week of the month is perfect. The temperature is a
steady 70 degrees with no wind or clouds, just a gentle sun.
It's a glorious perk before the winter months looming ahead.
Bookings are suddenly up in the guest houses and B&Bs for
the autumn school break and I marvel at the optimism of the
English. Just because it's perfect weather now doesn't mean
it'll be like it tomorrow, let alone in another few weeks.

The fine weather brings many of the second homers down
for an unplanned weekend but during the week Cornwall is
fairly quiet, the visitors sparser. The locals are settling down
to think of autumn carnivals, Hallowe'en, school fund-raising
fêtes and all the activities leading up to Christmas.

The leaves are slowly beginning to change colours, the
beeches glowing yellow in the sunlight, adding to the golden
haze that seems to be caressing the countryside. The oak, ash
and birch trees start to add their tinge too and every shade of
bronze, orange, yellow and red appears.

One midweek day the peace in St Geraint, dozy after the
frenzy of summer, is shattered by the boom and roar of four
Harley motorbikes, their guttural engines revving through the
little place like the Hell's Angels everyone thinks they are.

It takes about five minutes for every shopkeeper, postie,
fisherman, baker and local resident to hear about the
newcomers, as they park their bikes in the car park at the end
of the village. St Geraint doesn't do bikers, or rather bikers
don't do St Geraint, so everyone is askance and in a tizzy. Eyes
peer behind shop windows as the bikers strut through the town
in their black leather jackets and heavy boots.

When they go into the Sunflower Café and order basil and
mozzarella salads with olive ciabatta, the locals there realize
they can't be Hell's Angels, not with those accents. The waitress,
a local woman (Ben's not on duty) spreads the word around.
'Talked posh,' she whispers. 'Asked if there be sun-dried
tomatoes in the salads.'

This intrigues the locals so one of them begins a conversation.
It turns out that the Harley tearaways are middle-aged
men having a mid-life crisis, though of course they don't admit
to that. They've rented the bikes and are roaring through
England on them. 'If we don't do it now, never will,' one of
them says.

'Trip of a lifetime,' adds another.

They nod solemnly. The locals wish them luck, then chuckle
behind their backs. I listen to it all and remember a trip I took
across the States on the back of a Harley, from Miami to San
Francisco, courtesy of an old boyfriend. How he'd laugh if he
saw me now, driving about in clapped-out Minger and a postal
van that's seen far better days.

Coming out of the café I see Harry going to the bakery. I
haven't seen him to chat for a while, so I run to catch him up.
We both have time, so we sit at the rickety table for two outside
the bakery on the harbour and order tea and Millie's delicious
scones.

After we've chatted to both Millie and Geoff about the
bikers, and Geoff brings us tea and Millie the scones, Harry
and I settle down to talk.

I find myself telling him about Jamie, and his reaction is the
same as Ben's, worried for me and warning me to be careful.
But Harry knows Jamie; he and Charlie live in the same village
as the care estate. I tell him about my feelings about the local
community, how I think they keep an eye on their own, even if
their own is a bit odd.

Harry agrees with me, 'When I first moved down here with
Charlie and we set up house together in the village, I know
there was talk. We're the first gays openly living together there,
so it caused a stir. But because it was Charlie, whom everyone
knew from a kid, it was OK. I feel more or less accepted now,
probably more than you do, only because Charlie's a local. I
think they're proud that even after going off to the big city,
becoming a successful stylist with a top salon, he still wanted
to settle back home.'

'Except his dad,' I say, biting into my jam and cream layered
scone. 'Ironic isn't it, that his own father is still fuming at him.'

Harry puts down his own scone without taking a bite, 'Oh
Tessa, I forgot, we've not talked properly for ages. I think
Arnie is coming round at last.'

'What?'

Harry nods, 'He stopped by Charlie's workshop a while back,
said he wanted to have a look at what his son was up to.'

I've stopped eating too, so surprised by this news, 'What
brought that on? He's never done that before.'

'No, never. Refused to even talk about Charlie's work. Charlie
did a double take, he told me later, seeing Arnie standing there,
watching him for a few minutes without him realizing.'

'Did Charlie find out what caused the change of heart?'

'Not sure what did it. Arnie said something about thinking
things over, about being lucky enough to do what he's loved
all his life and maybe he shouldn't be so pig-headed about
Charlie only wanting to do the same.'

I'm stunned. I think of my conversation with Arnie a month
or so ago. It never occurred to me that it might influence his
own thoughts in any way.

A few days later I'm delivering in Morranport. Though the
weather has held until now, I feel it's changing. Just as birds and
animals seem to know when a storm front is on its way, I do
too, after nearly a year in this job. I don't exactly start to ache
in the joints, as some of the older folk do, but my body feels
different. It feels tenser, almost electric. It felt like that when I
left the house this morning, so though it was still warm and the
sky cloudless, I grabbed my waterproofs.

Good thing too, for by the time I reach the Grenvilles' house
at the end of the village, I see a black mass looming on the
horizon. The wind has whipped up and is blowing the storm
this way fast, driving the rain with it. When Jennifer Grenville
opens the door and asks me in for a cup of tea, I nip inside
gratefully.

As usual, Archie is sitting at the kitchen table with his books
but he leaves them to watch the storm with me as Jennifer
brings out the brown teapot and some Rich Tea biscuits.

'It's come up so fast,' I say, still awed at the power and speed
of these flash storms that lash and flood the village, then
disappear without a trace leaving the sky a clear rinsed blue.

'Typical autumn storm,' Jennifer says, pouring out the tea
and handing it around.

'I'd hate to be a fisherman,' I muse, thanking her as she
offers me a biscuit. 'Can you imagine being caught in that?'

Archie says, 'I can remember my grandfather and uncles out
in storms like these, the women at home praying. Then the worry
getting stronger as the weather got worse and they'd all set off
out of the house to stand on the shore in the driving rain, us
kids huddled alongside not larking around for once, looking out
and waiting for our fathers, older brothers and granddads to get
home safe.'

I munch on a biscuit, 'What kind of fishing did they do?'

'Oh, anything. Years ago, just about anyone, no matter how
poor, could manage to own an old boat, find a hidden cove,
catch some fish. Not all fished full time; they did it for extra
cash, to feed the family whenever they had spare time. Even
the farmers hereabouts often had a little boat to get about in,
then.'

'And your grandfather?'

'He was full time all right. Did all sorts, in all weather. But
of course the big catch in Cornwall used to be for the
pilchards. The sea was rife with them, years ago.' He goes
quiet, remembering.

Jennifer and I sip our tea, listening to the rain hurling against
the big window, watching the sea froth and foam.

Archie goes on. 'My granddad often spoke of the great days
of the pilchards, the ones he recalled from his own childhood,
in the 19th century that would be. They used nets, the seine
nets. You'll have heard of them, no?'

I have but didn't know much about how they were used.
Archie explains. 'They used huge nets that were kept down
with weights at the bottom. It took several large boats and
many men; it wasn't easy, believe me. When a shoal was spotted
the boats set out with the seine nets and circled the pilchards,
tried to herd them into the shallows. They had to be really
skilful, each man knowing his stuff, working together . . .'

He pauses again, for so long that I think his reminiscences
are over and I make a move to go, but he goes on, barely
noticing me. 'Pilchards provided the livelihood for years, for my
family way back, and for nearly all the fishermen in Cornwall.
All the houses had fish cellars where they stored the pilchards
and cured them. Matter of fact, our spare bedroom downstairs
used to be the fish cellar.'

'I've seen some of the pilchard lookouts,' I say, as he seems
to have stopped again. 'Old sheltered places with wooden or
stone slabs to sit on, high up on cliffs and ledges.'

He nods. 'A few of them were left, saved from dereliction
and preserved as a tiny reminder of the past. I remember
Grandfather talking about being sent on pilchard duty in the
summer months, he and the other kids sitting at the lookouts,
staring out to sea until they spotted a shoal. They'd race like
maniacs to be the first into the village to cry out the news.
The men would dash for the boats and the women and children,
the old men, all ran down to see them off, to wish them luck
with the catch.'

And now I see that Archie really has finished talking. Along
with his memories of the fishing, the tales heard at his grandfather's
side, are his own stories and those of his long-dead
parents and siblings. I know Archie is the last one of his family
still alive.

Jennifer and I exchange looks as I get up to go. At the door
she says, 'You've got to forgive us old dears, Tessa. We get a
bit nostalgic now and again.'
I tell her truthfully that I love to hear Archie's stories.
Thanking her for the tea, I set off again, amazed to see that
the storm is already dying out, the rain stopping, the sun shining
and a brilliant rainbow arching across the sea.

It is Hallowe'en and there's a party on the village green. It's a
cold but clear night, happily for all of us, especially for Will
and Amy, dressed as pirates which is apparently all the rage
this season.

But ghosts and spirits, the proper kind, are even more prevalent
in the days leading up to Hallowe'en, or so I'm told by
some of my customers. These are the spirits of all those poor
souls shipwrecked over the centuries, their bodies never found,
their souls unable to rest. They call out over the sea at this time
of year, even venturing inland to sigh and moan and scare poor,
innocent folk nearly to their death.

There's many a vicar too, I'm told, still haunting old rectories,
churches and graveyards. Some were as odd in life as they
seem to be in death. One apparently hated his parishioners so
much that he chose never to see them, except in church where
he had no choice. Ordering his food and other provisions to
be left in a box at the end of the rectory path, he managed
never to see anyone at all except at the church services.

He soon stopped seeing his parishioners there too, for
naturally folk got fed up and refused to go to church. As they
tailed off, the vicar made life-size figures out of wood or cardboard
and placed them in the pews, to replace his vanishing
congregation.

It's said that when the bishop finally got round to visiting
that isolated village, he found his vicar preaching to rows and
rows of life-sized effigies, without a real human being in sight.
Even the organist was made of cardboard, her stick fingers
stuck for ever on the organ keyboard.

'That ole vicar, he still come out every Hallowe'en, I heard
tell from my ma, not just in his own church but in every church
in Cornwall. He wanders around from one t'other all night
long, looking for his lost congregation.'

This was Nell, adding to the story that morning in the post
office. The Grenvilles had heard it, of course, and Archie added
a story of the supernatural of his own. Or rather one handed
down by his family, he told me.

It was about a smuggler, one of his great-uncles – or
maybe it was a great-great one – who did a spot of harmless carting
of illicit tobacco and brandy to earn a little spare cash. There was some
kind of a tussle with another smuggler, this one part of a larger ring that
thought great-uncle was muscling in on their business. There was a quarrel,
knives were drawn and great- uncle's body was washed ashore the next morning,
his chest still harbouring the knife that killed him.

'He's supposed to come out and roam the coast this time
of year, on the first of November, with all the other unhappy
spirits,' Archie had said. 'Even my grandfather claimed to have
seen him. Scared the bejesus out of him, he said. Threw him
a cider apple to placate his spirit.'