Up With the Larks (10 page)

First there's another small village to deliver to, this one still
fairly full of permanent residents. Everyone here I speak to
asks where Reg is. I tell them he's left his job for good and
their obvious disappointment at losing Reg and gaining
me
doesn't exactly make me feel cheery. I know Reg has been
around a long time, but still . . . As I drive down a long tarmac
road to my next customer, I'm relieved that it's my next to last
stop.

Trelak Farm has been a B&B for a couple of years now but
before that the land had been farmed by the Rowland family
for generations. Small farmers, they couldn't withstand the
falling prices for their stock, rising costs of feed and the masses
of paperwork necessary as one new EU directive after another
was issued in the last ten years. It's happening all over Cornwall
now. Small farmers have nearly become a thing of the past,
like so much else.

Susie told me that Emma and Martin Rowland didn't want
to stop farming and go into the tourist trade at Trelak but they
had no choice. It was that or move out of the farmhouse and
they couldn't bring themselves to do that.

Martin hates doing B&B, I've heard, and seems to have
modelled himself on John Cleese in
Fawlty Towers
. But it's not
an act. He loathes strangers in his house and resents every
minute they are there.

As I get out of the van at Trelak Farm a sharp gust of wind
slaps me in the face and makes me lose my balance and I nearly
topple over into a muddy pool of rainwater in the old farmyard.
It's a lunatic wind, whipping around the skeletal trees and
bowing them down with its fury. A common sight here in
Cornwall, trees bent permanently in one direction, away from
the constant gales from the wind.

'Fresh,' one woman told us when we were looking around
for houses to buy, standing on the hillock behind the garden
of a cottage near the sea. ''Tis healthy air. Fresh,' she repeated
as we were nearly bowled over by a gale of nearly cyclonic
proportions.

I'm thinking of this and of something I read in a book
about Cornwall by Daphne du Maurier where she quotes a
writer in the early 1600s speaking of the climate here, 'The air
being cleaned with frequent Winds and the Tides, is pure and
healthful, so that the Inhabitants are rarely troubled with
infectious Diseases.'

So far so good, but the writer goes on, '. . . yet the wind
being sharp and piercing, such as have been sick, especially
Strangers, recover but slowly.'

Exactly. How long have I had this wretched cold? I sneeze
again and I blow my nose, feeling my icy fingers touch my
burning cheeks and feverish face. I feel the gale hammering
against and through my Royal Mail waterproof jacket,
chiselling through my flesh to get to my very bones.
Such as
have been sick, especially Strangers, recover but slowly.
Terrific. No
wonder whatever I've got refuses to go away. I'll be lucky if
I'm better by spring, especially if this weather keeps up.

There's a letter slot in the door at Trelak Farm, or Trelak
Farmhouse Bed & Breakfast as it now is. I stuff the one last
lone Christmas card into the slot and turn to go but the door
suddenly opens in my face. 'You're early,' the voice is gruff,
accusing and loud.

'Sorry?' I step back. Martin Rowland, tall and lanky just like
John Cleese, is breathing fire like a dragon over my head.

Or so it seems – it's probably just the sudden blast of heat
coming from the open door. It makes me long for home, for
our own warm house, for Ben and Will and Amy.

We stare at each other until he takes in who I am. 'Emma,
'tisn't them, tis only the postman,' he bellows over his shoulder.

'Post
woman
,' I say but he's not listening.

Emma, tall and lanky like her husband, joins him at the
door. She's wearing a quilted raincoat, boots and hat. Martin
too has a jacket on. 'We're just off to get a few last-minute
things in Truro before the shops close for the holidays,' she
says. 'Martin thought you were the guests, arriving early.'

'You're open on Christmas Eve?'

She nods, looking stressed. Martin says, 'Can't believe she's
letting a room out on Christmas Eve.' He looks belligerent.

'They were desperate, Martin, I told you. Everywhere else
is shut, and they're having some kind of family reunion in
Morranport. Some long lost cousin or other, only there's no
room in the house for any more relatives.'

'No room at the inn,' Martin mutters.

She puts her hand on his arm. 'Exactly,' she says softly. 'How
could I turn them away?'

He nods. There's no answer to that one, not today.

I like this couple, whom I've only met twice before while
doing Reg's round. He's blustering and loud, but I think that
hides the pussycat inside. From what I've heard, Emma knows
how to handle him. She seems down-to-earth, kind but practical.
She's not Cornish but she's lived here twenty-five years,
since she came as a young teacher at the local primary school
then met and married Martin almost immediately.

I know they're in a hurry to get out so I say goodbye, wish
them a Merry Christmas and get back into the van. As I open
the door it nearly blows off its hinges, the wind is so strong.
When I try to shut it, it doesn't seem to close properly. I must
remember to report it when the holiday is over.

My last stop is down a potholed dirt road to the smallest
house on my beat, a tiny stone cottage that looks as though it
belongs in a storybook for children, one about wicked witches
living in a deep, dark, spooky forest. I stop in front of a broken
wooden gate, get out of my van and walk the short distance
to the front door. The garden is brambly and neglected. An
old apple tree, some unpruned shrubs and a couple of ancient
scrub oaks grow wild and unruly in the tiny space.

I knock on the wooden door as there is no letterbox or slot
anywhere. The door was once painted a cheery blue but it has
long faded and begun to peel, as have the window frames. I
stand in the wind which is making a weird sucking sound in
the tall pine trees behind the house, the kind of sound that
can drive a person mad.

It seems I'm waiting at the door forever. Hooray for the
Royal Mail waterproof, windproof tent coat that I was so
disparaging about at first. It flaps around me like the sails of
a boat in a storm but at least it's kept me dry from the earlier
sludgy sleet. And now it's raining, great fat heavy drops that
are not quite snow but not far from it.

Finally the door creaks open and Mr Hawker, whom I've
never met, is greeting me with his wobbly smile. It's a strange,
sad smile, sincere but tenuous, trembling too. It's as if he's not
sure if he really has the right to smile.

I can't blame him, not in his circumstances. I know a lot
about Mr Hawker, from Susie, Reg, Nell and the others. He
lives alone, has never married and has no family as far as anyone
knows. He came here from Penzance years back as a ten-year-old
lad, looking for work. He got a job on Trelak Farm, working
for Martin Rowland's grandfather, sleeping in a room no bigger
than a closet and then, when he was grown and had some
importance on the farm, he was given the farm cottage he lives
in now.

'Managed to buy it eventually, years and years back,' Reg said
when telling me about Mr Hawker. 'Guess he had nothing else
to spend his money on. Good thing too for 'im, cause when
Martin and Emma had to sell up the land, the cottage would've
had to go too and no way he could of afforded it then.'

Mr Hawker opens the door wider. 'Come in, come in. You
be saturated standin' there. I heared tell that there be a new
post maid, with Reg ill and all.'

I step inside the door onto old linoleum flooring. The smell
of decay and urine is overwhelming. I try not to flinch and
force myself to smile. 'Not much post today, Mr Hawker.' I
don't call him by his first name; no one does, though no one
seems to know why.

'No.' He looks at the flyer, some advertising for an insurance
company, with longing on his face. Reg says he's never
delivered any personal letters here.

But Mr Hawker is ninety-one. I supposed any friends he
might have had once are gone. Anyway, he's always been a
loner, Susie said, painfully shy when away from the farm and
his own territory.

He has let me in because both Reg and Susie have told him
about me. I guess being a postman or a woman isn't a threat.
Chatting to us is a way of making contact without having to
have social know-how.

Apparently Mr Hawker never goes out, not even to shop.
Emma and Martin up at Trelak pick up his pension and buy
his few provisions. He won't let them do anything else, though.
He says he's healthy and fit enough to look after himself. It's
just that he's a tad bit nervous out of the house, he's told
people. Can't get used to the modern world, he says, so he
may as well stop at home.

I am standing there dripping over his linoleum but he doesn't
seem to mind. This is his main room, for there is no front
porch or hallway in this tiny cottage. There are no rugs, only
this dull brown floor covering which makes the dark room
with its tiny windows even dingier. There are no lamps either,
only one dull overhead light. Two lumpy armchairs of indeterminate
colour and a plain wooden table and chair are the
only furniture. A box of corn flakes and a half pint of milk
sit forgotten on the table.

I see a massive spider's web in the corner over the ancient
wood-burning cooker.

We talk for a few minutes about the weather and then there
is a silence as we stand awkwardly facing each other. I'm not
sure how to leave. How can I wish this lonely man a Merry
Christmas? He'll be here at home, as usual, eating something
out of a tin. In the past a few of the kindly folk in the nearby
village have invited him to Christmas dinner but he's always
refused, with such a mixture of longing and terror in his eyes
that people stopped asking. 'Much to his relief,' both Susie and
Reg have told me. Emma and Martin too have tried to do more
for him, have tried to invite him over to the farmhouse, but
it's no use. He won't accept either help or hospitality, fearful
of losing his fragile independence.

The stench in the room is so stifling I'm having trouble
breathing. The air in the place is odd, at once that horrid damp
cold that goes straight to the bones, yet stuffy, with the wood
stove pumping out heat and an acrid smoke that is making my
eyes water.

'Goodbye, Mr Hawker, must be back on my rounds.'

Before I can go he shoves his hand in his trouser pocket
and takes out a piece of lined paper wrapped around a small
hard object. He shoves it awkwardly into my hand and says,
'For the post. Christmas and all. I be thanking 'ee.'

It feels like a coin. I don't want to accept – I know how
small his pension is but I can't refuse. I feel tears welling up
and blink to stop them. This is my first and only tip this
Christmas.

Mr Hawker's fifty pence piece wrapped in a piece of lined
writing paper is one of the loveliest Christmas gifts I could
ask for. I thank him profusely and say goodbye.

Poor man. As I get into the van I see he's still standing at
the door, waving at me as I start up. I nearly weep, he looks
so forlorn. He's wearing a long grey cardigan over several
pullovers; I can see the sleeves of different colours poking out
of holes in the dingy cardigan. The hand he raises to wave me
off is swollen and knotted with arthritis.

I wave back. 'Merry Christmas,' I whisper. I watch him
through the rear view mirror as he stands waving until I am
out of sight.

And now I'm finished, for today at any rate. And then there
is the holiday. I'm wet and cold and ill and starting to feel feverish. But
I've got this far. I've lasted till Christmas. As I drive I take one hand
off the wheel to pick up the crumpled paper and coin that Mr Hawker gave me
and squeeze it like a talisman before putting it down again on the seat next
to me.

Back at St Geraint I park the van behind the boat yard in its
usual place but I don't get out, not yet. The van is facing the
sea and I sit and watch the foamy waves, the squally spray, the
grey and purple sky ripe with storms. There are massive rocks
on the edge of the shore, half covered by the surging water.
There's a legend here that a holy man, a saint, sat daily on one
of those rocks round about AD 550, giving lessons to the fishermen
after their day's toil. The story goes that a seal used to
clamber on a rock nearby, not to imbibe Christianity but to
bark at students and teacher. Perhaps the seal was a dissenter,
well ahead of Wesley and the other Methodists who would
one day inhabit Cornwall, or perhaps he was doing no more
than barking his approval of the saintly man and his lectures.
Whatever it was, the preacher could no more tolerate this seal
than he could a recalcitrant student. He smacked the seal's
nose as he would have smacked the hand of a disruptive
child and the seal slunk back chastised into the sea.

I look for seals now as they are not uncommon in this
estuary, sunning themselves on the rocks when the weather's
warm. But it's crazy to think I'll spot one now as they'll all be
hiding from another storm that's fast approaching from the
sea. There's a lull now after the wind, sleet and rain, but out
over the sea the midday sky is bruised and blackened, with
ominous clouds. It's time to go home. Ben will be waiting, and
so will the children.

On the drive back to my family, the light changes as the
storm nears, becoming a strange feverish yellow which is
growing darker by the minute. I don't know if it's the eerie
light or the fact that I'm light headed with illness and exhaustion,
but I take a wrong turning and find myself on a strange
road. It's narrow like most of the roads around here but it
seems to be running down into a wooded valley. There are no
villages or farmhouses, no sign of any kind of habitation as
the road winds and curves in the valley. There is thick woodland
on either side: ash, beech and oak with a few conifers.
The bare branches of the trees are coated by the sulphurous
light looking beautiful and ominous at the same time.