Up With the Larks (13 page)

When I got back, I nonchalantly asked Susie and Reg,
who was still working at the time, if there was anything strange
about Trescatho. 'No, why?' they both replied, looking at me
as if I was the weird one.

I've never seen him again, whoever he is. Or was. And I've
never seen the people who live in that house. The name on
the odd letter they get, mostly advertisements, is a common
enough name, so there are no answers there.

I used to scorn all those books I saw on sale when we moved
here, about 'haunted' Cornwall and 'mysterious' Cornwall but
now I hold my tongue. This place makes believers in elves and
fairies of all of us at one time or another, I'm beginning to
think.

Trescatho is no less mysterious today, in a strong morning
light and under a cold blue sky. I've long since given up trying
to solve the mystery of my 'werewolf ' but I indulge in lighter
fantasies: I am a time traveller and this is my favourite stopoff
back in the 16th century. I do this all the way to the red
posting box which, if not exactly 16th century, is pretty old.
It's embedded in a Jack and Jill herringbone stone wall, part
of the one that surrounds this cluster of houses on the green.
The old postbox has been cemented in, though the rest of the
wall is dry stone – or Cornish hedging as it is known here.
Unlike these walls in other counties, the stones are thin and
are laid flat, one narrow stone above the other. In Devon, the
next county up, the dry stone walls are made with larger stones
and look totally different.

I unlock the Royal Mail postbox to collect the letters and
that's when I see the first sign of life in this mysterious hamlet,
clustered in a heap at the bottom of the collection box: snails,
about six or seven of them, looking as if they've lived there
for decades. I smile to myself.
Snail Mail.

I run my fingers through the letter slot to check if the brush
is still there, those soft bristles which are supposed to keep
spiders and other crawling creatures out of Royal Mail property.
Yes, it's still intact. Staring at the snails for a moment, I wonder
how they got through the barrier before I take the few letters
and gently close the box, leaving the snails where they are.
Another mystery, but one I'm contented not to solve. Let the
snails live amongst the letters in peace.

As I drive away I wonder if, the moment the van is out of
sight, the people of Trescatho all come tumbling out of their
cottages and get on with the lives they've been living for the
last few centuries, the lives I'll never see, never know about,
no matter how many times I deliver their letters and parcels.

The stillness doesn't last long. Soon I'm back in my van,
going up the hill to do a few more deliveries. I've finished my
round but I'm doing part of Susie's. It's her birthday today
and she's taken the day off, so I and the other deliverers are
sharing out her round for this one day, along with our own.

I go up the road to Eleanor Gibland's house, parking at the
creek where I had tried to find the rainbow's end that time. It
seems years ago now but it was only last November. I get out
of the van, stare idly at the water gurgling and rushing over
stones and pebbles, spilling over onto the mossy grass alongside.
Then, unable to resist, I paddle out into the shallow creek
to take a look at the hunk of rock where I saw the glint of
gold that crazy day as the sun shone through the storm clouds.
Is it really a yellow stone or was it an illusion created by the
strange sky and stunning rainbow, that November morning?
Perhaps there was something underneath the pebbles that
caused that golden colour?

I lean over and start turning the stones over, forgetting
completely where I am and what I'm supposed to be doing.

A prissy voice brings me up short, 'Still looking for that pot
of gold, are you?'

I flush. How did she know what I had been up to that
morning? I never told her I was following a rainbow. No doubt
Susie did, though. I'd told her the story, laughing at myself as
I did so. The story must have spread all over our postal area
by now. I really must remember how nothing is either secret
or sacred around here.

I'm handing Eleanor some flyers for a bath shop, an advertisement
for computers and what looks like a bank statement,
when the quiet of this tranquil spot by the creek is broken by
the loud noise of a motor. I look around, startled, but there
are no vehicles driving up the narrow road to the house, nor
are there any tractors in the fields alongside.

Eleanor says, 'Helicopter.'

We look up, and sure enough, there's a huge helicopter
heading towards us. In moments it is right above us, circling
us like a buzzard homing in on carrion.

I'm getting nervous. The helicopter is so low, so close and
so noisy, that Eleanor and I have to shout at each other. 'What's
happening?' I yell. 'It must be looking for something.'

'Or someone,' she shouts back.

I can't bear the noise any longer so I wave goodbye and jump
into the van to get away from it. As I look up again I see people
inside, waving their arms. It makes me jumpy as I don't know
what's wrong, what they're after. Are they warning me about
something? Has there been an accident? Has some serial killer
armed to the teeth escaped from prison somewhere? Could he
be hiding in a Royal Mail van? Is he in mine?

I drive at top speed out of the drive and head back along
the cliff road to St Geraint. To my horror, it seems that the
helicopter is following me. Is it the police, I wonder? Did
someone report me for leaving their post in a leaking shed? I
slow down, stop at a lay-by overlooking the cliffs and sea. The
helicopter hovers overhead, circling the van. I rev up again,
drive into town and into the boat yard parking area. I'm almost
too frightened to get out but I tell myself not to be so silly. I
open the door and look up. I can see the pilot and co-pilot
inside, and other people too, still waving and shouting at me.
What do they want?

Tentatively, I raise my arm in a kind of salute. This acknowledgement
seems to be what they have been waiting for as the
helicopter circles one more time and then flies away in a rush
of whirring blades and overwhelming noise.

My ears are still ringing when I meet Susie in the coffee
shop. I wish her a happy birthday and plop down next to her
and Eddie, our new relief postman. Eddie's a lively, energetic
young man with thick ginger-blond hair and endearing freckles.
Already he and Susie have a great relationship going, though
more like brother and sister than work colleagues, one minute
thick as clotted cream and the next sparring with each other.
Luckily for the sake of peace in the post office, the sparring
is always done in a joking way and neither of them take it
seriously.

I order a latte, another coffee for Susie and tea for Eddie.
When that's done I say, 'So, Eddie, who was that pretty young
woman you were showing around in the van yesterday?'

He grins, cheekily. 'Her? Oh, she's history. Never showed
up at the cinema yesterday evening, stood me up.'

Susie grimaces. 'Don't blame her. Wouldn't want to be one
of your women for sure.'

Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes. 'Can't help the way they run
after me, maid.' He winks at me and I smile back. There's
something about his slow easy confidence that's appealing.

Susie gives him a mock slap on the wrist then turns to me.
'Is everything OK, Tessa? You looked flustered when you came
in just now.'

'I was.' I tell them about the helicopter following me all the
way from Eleanor's house.

'I saw it,' Susie says. 'Just as we come in here.'

'Coast Guard,' adds Eddie.

'I wonder what it was up to? Terrified the life out of me.
Can't be looking for someone lost at sea, not up around
Eleanor's place anyway.'

Susie grins, 'Course not. They thought you was me, is all.'

'What?'

'They do it every year, me mates in the Coast Guard. To
wish me a happy birthday. Didn't realize I took the day off
today. Usually work on m'birthday.'

I am still looking confused. 'The men in the helicopter
thought
you
was
me,
Tessa.' Susie has that slow patient
I'm talking
to a dumbo
tone of voice that seems to be the one many of the
locals use with me more often than is comfortable. 'Those
blokes know my round better'n I do.'

Our drinks arrive before I can say anything else, but what
is there to say, anyway? By now Susie and Eddie are talking of
something else, going out for a meal together that night by the
sound of it, as if the instance of a Coast Guard helicopter
circling a post office van to wish the postwoman inside a happy
birthday were a normal everyday Cornish occurrence.

And well it might be
, I think as I take a sip of my latte,
wondering what this bizarre job will have in store for me next.

Up Country it is still winter but in Cornwall spring is well
underway. The camellias, which were budding last month, are
in bloom. For days their white, pink and red petals have been
strewn like confetti all over the village. The gardens are filled
with camellia bushes, some of them fifteen feet high, and every
time there is a high wind the air swirls with colour. The petals
stick to my red van like tiny, colourful stamps.

In January, the fields along the roadside began to fill with
the daffodils that will be sold Up Country. I've heard there is
trouble finding pickers now, since so many Eastern European
countries have joined the EU and the workers go to the towns
where the money is better. Only the Latvians and the Estonians
still seem to be regulars.

I love driving up and down the hills in my petal-splattered
van between sunny yellow fields, revelling in the colours. My
old friends in London tell me that despite a few early blooms,
the city is still grey and gloomy. Here, the magnolias are beginning.
Though the February breeze is still cold, I roll down
the windows to get a whiff of their perfume when I deliver
the post to some of the houses along the sea. The vanilla scent
of magnolias mingles with the smell of salt and seaweed; they
look so exotic in these seaside gardens, those bare branches
with gigantic blooms. In the sheltered valleys the trees grow
huge. They were brought back by the famous plant hunters of
the past and every time I see them I am transported back to
a different time, a different place.

Today is Friday and I'm looking forward to a whole rare
weekend off. Last night Ben and I were up late, cleaning the
house in anticipation of Annie's visit. I love it when really good
friends come to stay. It takes away the sting of some of our
other visitors, like Seth and Samantha, and another couple,
Morgan and Glenda, who ate us out of house and home
without once helping to peel a vegetable or wash a dish; who
offered to take us for a pub meal and managed to turn their
backs so Ben was forced to pay; and whose two hyper-active
children so antagonized Will and Amy that they were enraged
for ages afterwards. But those visitors were not my dear old
London friends. Those, I miss terribly. Annie is a special one,
sharing all those intimate girlie talks that can only occur with
close female friends.

Though I've made loads of acquaintances here, I don't feel
any of them have become friends yet. There are some in the
village I'd like to get to know better and once or twice I've
sensed a breaking through of that thin but strong line between
acquaintances and friends. Somehow before it happens, before
that line is crossed, there seems to be a pulling back – not
from me but from the villagers. It's all very polite but I'm
acutely aware of the exclusion.

Yesterday was a prime example. I was in the village shop,
buying some Cornish cream for Annie's arrival, when Daphne,
who farms along with her husband a few miles from the village,
came in. Daphne's children go to the same school as mine and
we've met at PTA meetings and other school functions. We've
talked loads and I've sensed a common interest between us
despite our different backgrounds.

At the shop yesterday we began to chat. I told her about
Annie's arrival, how I intended to clean the house from top
to bottom before she came.

'For a friend?' said Daphne. 'Goodness, my friends have to
take me as I come. I hate cleaning.'

Another thing we have in common,
I thought, and said, 'Oh, I
hate it too. And Annie wouldn't mind what the house looked
like, of course she wouldn't, but she's allergic to animal hairs.
Our house is covered in them.' I groaned, thinking of all the
animal fluff poor Annie would have to contend with. There's
not only Jake but the fur and fluff of rabbits as well. We've
acquired two since Christmas, and though they live in a hutch
outside the door, they're tame enough to come inside and
cuddle on the sofa with the children.

Daphne commiserated when I told her about my friend's
allergies. Then, encouraged, I started to confide in her about
Annie, about how much I've missed her. Around us the life
of a village shop went on, with a pensioner coming in for a
single stamp, a young man picking up some beer for a party
later, and a couple of mothers with babies buying milk and
bread and stopping to chat for ages over the dairy products.

By the time Daphne and I finished talking, I felt like we'd
known each other for ages, so I said, impulsively, 'You'd
really like Annie, y'know, and she'd like you. How about
joining us for the evening, going to the pub or something,
just the three of us? Or coming out to my place? Ben is
working most evenings this week so Annie and I will be on
our own.'

She refused, politely, saying she had a lot on that week, and
I'm sure she did. I knew Daphne was a busy woman, but she
didn't give me another opening, didn't offer to get together
with me after Annie left.

Well, fair enough,
I thought, as I walked slowly home that day:
Daphne has the farm, the kids, her own full life. She probably
doesn't have much time to see her own old friends, let alone
make new ones. But there have been other examples of this.
People are friendly enough on the surface, but that's as far as
it goes. I know it all takes time. But for now, I can't wait for
Annie to get here.

I'm shivering as I drive along the empty roads to my first
delivery. There's a cold wind today and the heater in the van
is not working properly. It's 5.30 a.m. and the fields of daffodils
are radiant in the early morning moonlight. I've had to clear
my windows of the ruffles of camellia petals; the van is still
covered. I like it – it feels festive and celebratory.

And then there is a moment of horror: a loud thunk against
the windscreen, a dark shape hitting it, flying up and landing
on the bonnet of the car. My heart thumps as I screech on
the brakes and pull over to the side. Luckily there are no cars
behind me; there's been no traffic at all on this road since I
set out. I look at the inert form lying still on the bonnet. It's
an owl.

I'm distraught. I love owls. This one was minding its own
business, out hunting food on a lonely road and I came along,
headlights blazing, confusing it totally as it flew into the lights
and then into the darkness of death.

I feel bereft and tearful. I want to call Ben, talk to him, hear
his warm words of understanding, but he'll be asleep. Everyone
I know is asleep and I suddenly feel lonely here in this isolated
place at this unspeakable hour in the shortest, and at times the
most difficult, month of the year. All the doubts that racked
me last autumn come flooding back. Did we do the right
thing moving here? Will we survive financially? Will we ever
make true, lasting friendships? Will I really be able to stick this
job till the coming of spring when light mornings and warmth
make it easier?

Even as I think these glum thoughts I know I'm overreacting,
taking the owl's demise personally, letting its death
release all the fears I've managed to submerge so far in this
New Year. Things are better for sure but we're still on the edge
despite my job, despite Ben's several part-time jobs. We're
holding on, but it's still pretty tenuous.

I succumb to tears as I take the owl tenderly, place it on a
grass verge at the side of the road and sprinkle it with some
camellia petals I've scraped from the van. Then I pull myself
together and go back to work.

The wind is so strong that by the time I reach Morranport,
I have a hard time holding the van door open. I park by the
beached boats next to the post office and pick up the sack of
mail for this stretch by the seaside which I deliver on foot.
The sea is foamy and turbulent as the wind whips it about. I
can feel my hair being pulled out of its band and beginning
to stand up on top of my head.

By the time I arrive at the Grenvilles' house at the end of
the road I'm a frozen, dishevelled mess of a postwoman. It's
7.30 by now but low cloud cover is blocking any dawn that
dares show its sunny head.

Archie Grenville greets me at the door, a cup of steamy hot
coffee in his hand. I'm not surprised to see him as he and
Jennifer are early risers. Since I rescued that lone letter from
the sea in front of their house and dried off in their living
room, they're always offering me refreshment when I come
delivering.

Today I take him up on the offer and follow him gratefully
into the warm, cluttered and cosy kitchen. As he pours me a
coffee and adds the hot milk already waiting on the stove,
he tells me his wife is upstairs, still asleep. 'Or, I should say,
Jennifer is sleeping at last. She's had a poor night; her arthritis
was bad. It's this cold wind, I think.'

I've been in this kitchen a few times since the episode of
the nearly-drowned letter, growing fond of this old couple
with their dignified, kindly togetherness. They have their own
world in each other yet somehow do not exclude others as
some couples do. I feel embraced by them both every time I
go into the house.

The windows of the kitchen are steamy inside and wet from
the sea spray on the outside: the wind is driving the spray
further than usual. There are plants everywhere, on every
surface – arum lily, spider, a few cacti, an African violet – and
on the wall there are paintings, rather good ones which are all
portraits that Jennifer has done of friends and family. 'Some
folk take photos, I paint,' she'd shrugged me off when I'd
praised her work.

Most of the walls in this room that don't have portraits on
them are lined with open shelves filled with books. I've had a
glance at them before, mostly history books, and many on
Cornwall. I've wanted to ask Archie about them for some time,
for there's always one open on the kitchen table when I go in.
Some have scraps of lined paper, with writing in longhand,
carefully placed in certain pages.

'Ah, you've noticed the books,' Archie says now. 'Since I
retired, I've discovered a passion for the past. Because I'm a
selfish old codger, it's my own past, or Cornwall's past, that
interests me most. Same thing, I suppose.'

I point to the sheets of paper. 'Are you writing your own
book?'

He laughs and the sound rings around the warm kitchen
naturally. 'No, no. What I've done, see, is jot down the most
fascinating bits, for me anyway, trying to put them in some
sort of order. Maybe our children will be interested one day
– it's their heritage too,' he turns serious. 'And it's disappearing
fast.'

I look over my coffee cup at the two books on the table. One
seems to be about early farming and fishing in the county, the
other myth and superstition. Seeing my glance he says, 'Aye, it
went hand and hand around here, still does, y'know. The rational
and the irrational. I know for a fact that some of the old fishermen
still throw a bit of bread into the sea before they begin the
day's fishing, as they did centuries ago. For luck.'

I nod, 'I can understand that. A libation for the gods, to
appease them. Keep 'em sweet.'

'That's it. The Romans did it with wine, always poured a
drop or two on the ground or the table for their gods.'

'Well, I don't blame the fishermen for using any good luck
charm they can, the seas around here being what they are.' We
both look out at the waves foaming and snarling across the
horizon.

Archie says, 'Not only the fishermen, though. Only yesterday
I heard that one of the locums at the surgery – I know him,
retired ten years ago but still comes out when one of our
regular doctors is ill – recommended a local charmer for a lad's
warts.'

He sees my smile and acknowledges it with one of his own
but says, conspiratorially, 'He maybe said it tongue-in-cheek
but I wouldn't bet on it. The thing is, there really are charmers
still around, left over from the old medicine men.' Now he
shakes his head. 'I've heard folk talk of witches, too. Oh, they
say it mockingly, pretending they have no truck with such beliefs,
but old superstitions die hard, believe me. It's bred in the bone,
y'know.'

Reluctantly, I stand up to leave but before I go, Archie picks
up a sheet of paper. 'Have your children had the measles yet?'
I shake my head. 'Well then, you'd better have this, for when
they do.'

I read it quickly. It's an old remedy apparently. You take a
freshly-killed chicken, pluck out its feathers and hang it upside
down in the patient's bedroom. Within a day the measles transfers
itself to the bird which turns rotten and nasty as the patient
is cleared of all infection.

I shudder, 'Poor bird.' I am thinking too of my poor
dead owl.

'I know, not very nice for it.' We're silent for a moment.
'And d'you know, that remedy's been used within my lifetime.
I saw it used on one of the fishermen's sons when I was five
or six.'