Up With the Larks (17 page)

Later, over lunch in the small back-street café, I say to Ben,
'Poor Ian, there's talk of his losing an arm. It was a nasty
accident, apparently.'

'So I heard. Poor guy.'

Next day, people are talking of nothing else. Everyone is
distressed. 'God knows what Ian will do if he can't work,'
Martin Rowland says to me. 'He's a bloody good builder,
one of the best, done it since he worked with his father as
a young kid.'

Emma gives me a brown pot with a heavy lid. 'Can you
drop this off at his place? His wife and kids might be glad of
it. It's only a stew, but they might be needing something hot
when they get home from hospital.'

I don't tell her that the family isn't on my round. It's not far
out of my way to drop by anyway. At other places, I'm given
daffodils to take to Ian, a couple of flowering plants, some
fresh fruit, magazines. Even Mr Hawker, who has nothing to
give, hands me a sliver of lined paper on which he's written,
'Dear Ian, I hope you get better soon. I knew your grandfather;
he was a good man.'

I put all the offerings into Ian's unlocked front porch, as no
one is home. The goodness, the sincerity of these people and
their gifts, touches me to the core. The generosity of those
who have very little has not stopped amazing me since I moved
here.

We learn soon that Ian's life isn't threatened but his arm
is. It's been operated on but apparently it's touch or go if the
operation will save the arm. What will he do, how will he
live, how will he support himself if he loses his business?
I'm asked this a dozen times, not that anyone expects an
answer.

It isn't until a few days later, when the good news spreads
that the operation is a success and not only will Ian not lose
his arm but will fully recover and be able to work again, that
people heave a collective sigh of relief and finally are able to
let go, to turn to other things.

Annie comes down again at the beginning of the month for
a long weekend.

'I've come to remind you of your roots,' she says as I meet
her from Truro train station. 'So that you don't become too
bovine.' She's carrying her laptop as well as her weekend bag.
'Had so much work to do, that's why I didn't drive this time.'

I smile smugly. 'I remember those bad old days, when I had
to lug my work home with me every weekend. Not any more.'

'OK smartie.' She makes a face at me. 'You have an answer
for everything since you've moved down here.' As usual she
looks stunning, a smart belted trench coat over her designer
jeans and a perky little wine-coloured beret on her sleek hair.

I lead her to Minger, the name we've given to my old car.
It's a far cry from the smart company car I once had. Minger
is a little white Peugeot that used to be a police car. Since we
moved it's been the 'beach' car and smells of wet dog, salt and
seaweed, potato crisps and peanuts, hence its name. It's full of
sand, which we return now and then to the beach, and there
seems to be some kind of irrigation system going on in the
boot as after a rainfall, we hear sloshing water noises every
time I go around a bend. Will and Amy discuss whether
anything would be able to grow in the dark recesses of the
boot; we all hope for cress, so that we can have yummy egg
and cress sandwiches to eat on the beach.

Annie says, 'You've still got this death trap?'

'Minger might be deteriorating, but she's safe. Passed her
MOT first go.'

Annie gets in sceptically and immediately starts to sneeze.

'Now what is it? I left Jake at home and even mucked the
car out, in honour of your visit.'

'I know, I know, it's me,' she wails. 'Who knows what it is
this time. I'm probably allergic to Cornwall.'

Whatever it is doesn't get better. I make the mistake of
forgetting about our new hens and taking Annie in through
the back door which means passing the chicken run.
Although they're getting used to us, the hens are still a bit
nervy. They set to, squawking and flapping their wings when
we walk by.

'Aaarrgghh!' Annie yelps, jumping like a hare in headlights.

'Sorry, I should have warned you. It's the hens. We've only
had them a short time and they haven't completely settled.'

I make soft chucking noises to the chickens, as I've tended
to do lately when I feed them. In the short time we've had
them, I've grown to love my hens: the way they cock their little
heads to the side as if wondering what I'll do next; the way
they scuffle about in the straw; the funny little cluck-cluck
noises they make.

'You talk to them, do you?' Annie asks with a grin.

'Calms them down, I hope. They were quite scatty when
they first arrived.'

By now the hens are getting excited, expecting food. I open
the tight lid on the metal container where we store the layers'
mash and give them a small handful which they rush upon
with delirious squawks.

Annie says, 'Is that all they get?'

I grin, 'No, of course not, this is a bit extra but we do have
to be careful with overfeeding. Anything left over and the rats
will move in.'

Annie shudders. 'Life in the country, eh?'

'Don't worry, they're not here yet.'

A few feathers float down to land on Annie's shoulders. She
sneezes again and starts rubbing her eyes. 'C'mon,' I say
hurriedly. 'Let's get you inside.'

In spite of all the antihistamines, by late afternoon Annie
is covered with raised lumps all over her arms and face.

Ben sees her and freaks out. 'Annie, your whole face is
swollen. C'mon, I'm taking you to the hospital.'

I feel awful for not noticing how bad she's become but we've
both been talking a blue streak and trying to ignore her
escalating allergies. I say I'll take her to hospital while Ben
cooks dinner. We've discovered a lobster fisherman down here
who will deliver a whole lobster, freshly cooked, straight to
our door for only £6. We couldn't believe it at first but now,
when guests come from Up Country, we always have a lobster
evening. They think we've struck it rich and are astounded
when we tell them the price.

At A&E in Truro, Annie is given a massive injection and
told to go home and stay away from whatever has caused the
allergy. 'It's Cornwall,' she tells them peevishly. 'And I can't
avoid it; my best friend lives here.'

The lobsters are a great treat. 'So there are some advantages
to this rural life, I guess,' she says when we finish. 'That was
delicious.'

'And at that price,' I add. 'We might not be able to afford
to get rid of Minger but we can eat lobster now and again.'

'I suppose it's worth it, giving up stuff, if you can get food
like this.'

'What d'you mean? What sort of stuff ?'

'The kind of things we have in the city. Like, well, like Pilates.'

I look at her incredulously. 'What do you mean, give it up?'
Annie and I used to take a class together in London. 'I've got
a brilliant teacher in St Geraint.'

'You're kidding. Here? In Cornwall?' She says it as if it is in
outer space.

'We've got everything here, Annie. Everything we need,
anyway.'

Later, Annie and I drive down to Penwarren Beach. It's dark
and quite chilly but the stars are out. Annie's swelling has gone
down and her face is only partially lumpy. Her once immaculate
hair has been messed up by the trauma of allergies, of
coping with Cornwall and is poking up in odd places around
her head, falling now and then into her eyes. She shakes it back
nonchalantly, barely noticing. She looks good, I think, despite
the lumps: relaxed and at ease.

We sit on the damp sand, watching waves breaking on the
shore, catching the flickering lights of a boat out at sea. I've
brought a blanket from home that we wrap around us, hoping
there's no dog or rabbit hairs, or chicken feathers on it.

'Maybe you've got something here,' Annie murmurs, her soft
voice blending with the sound of the waves.

'Something more than lobsters?' I tease.

'Hmm, maybe. Maybe you're not so crazy after all, moving
here.'

At the post office in Morranport, Nell is threatening to retire
again. 'Let the rightful owners come back and take over this
place, it's theirs, in't? Travelling the world like they do, not at
all fussed about us poor old folk having to face all this.'

'All what, Nell?'

She gives me a look that tells me how pathetic she thinks I
am, then hands me a newspaper clipping from one of the daily
South West newspapers: '40,000 fear axe as Royal Mail goes
high-tech,' shouts the headline.

I read it while Nell watches, making sure I don't skip a word
or two. She's looking magnificent today, her bosom clothed in
a purple, cotton, long-sleeved tee-shirt, a shell pendant nestling
cosily in the middle. Her short hair is standing on end as usual,
seemingly without any artificial aid.

The article is about some revolutionary sorting machine that
will make all postal workers either redundant or reduced to
part-time work when it is in place. I hand it back to Nell. 'We've
heard all this before,' I say. 'There's always something threatening
but it never comes to anything. I bet this won't either.'

She sniffs, 'You be thinking I'm getting all in a twitter about
nothing, are ye?'

'No, Nell, not at all. Of course you worry, we all do. It's
just pointless, isn't it, to worry about it, when there's nothing
to be done.'

She sighs, ignoring the customer who is gently knocking at
the door of the post office, pointing at his watch to politely
suggest it's past opening time. 'Like the closures. You be telling
me I should forget about them too.'

'Rumours of this place being shut have been going on for
years, since Ben and I used to holiday here. You're still here,
Nell, and so is the post office. It'll be here for ever.'

She grunts, disbelieving, turning her back on me and
letting in the customer, saying breezily, 'What's your hurry,
me handsome?'

The burly white-haired man that comes in apologizes for
rushing her, even though it's ten minutes after opening time.
He buys some stamps and some Polo mints and stays for at
least fifteen minutes chatting to Nell while I sort in the back
room.

When he goes, Nell says, 'D'ya know who that was?'

I tell her no. 'I've seen him around, though. Isn't he a
fisherman?'

'Yep, one of the last around here actually working. Soon
won't be any fishing boats about, what with the sea all fished
out.'

'It's not too good for them, I know.'

'And what fish there be left in the ocean, those monster trawlers
– now't but factories on the sea, they be – are swallowing the
lot. No room at all for the small fisher folk.'

'Like the small farmers,' I say.

She nods. 'No room for the little blokes, not no more. Not
in anything, even post offices.'

I say, to steer her away from her favourite topic of the
injustices done to rural post offices, 'So who is he? That man?
Other than a fisherman?'

'He's Charlie's dad. Arnie, name is.'

For a moment I'm not sure who she means. She sees my
bewilderment and says, 'You know, Charlie, the hairdresser,
works in Truro. The gay one.'

'Oh, Harry's partner. So that's Charlie's dad. I heard he was
a fisherman.'

'Poor man. Poor dear man. The kindest soul you ever be
wanting to meet, and his heart broken like that.'

I look up sceptically from a pile of parcels I'm trying to
sort, trying not to get drawn in. 'He seemed quite cheery to
me. He obviously is very fond of you, Nell.'

She brushes that aside with a sniff, 'You be telling me next
I don't know what I'm talking about, eh?'

'No, Nell, I wouldn't dream of it,' I sigh loudly and succumb.
'OK. So what broke the poor dear man's heart?'

She pauses so that I can fully comprehend the tragedy of
her words. 'His son. That young lad, Charlie.'

'He's nearly forty, Nell. Well, late thirties, anyway. Old enough
to lead his own life.' I'm remembering Harry's hesitation when
I asked how Charlie's family coped when he came out of the
closet.

'Mebbe so.' Nell's voice is dark, her face stern. 'But however
old, a lad can still break a parent's heart, believe you me.'

She stares at me again, daring me to disbelieve her.

'Nell, for goodness sake, Charlie can't help being gay, it's
what he is. He didn't choose the life simply to break his father's
heart.' I slap a package into the sorting box.

Nell pulls herself up from behind the counter to peer at
me. 'Gay? Who said anything about being gay? His dad don't
be caring about that. It be because Charlie isn't a fisherman
that's breaking his heart.'

Harry and I talk about Charlie's family a few days later.We're
sitting on a rickety wooden table outside Millie and Geoff 's
tiny bakery on the harbour, which the couple have set up so
that they can serve tea and coffee with their simple but delicious
cakes and biscuits. It's not quite warm enough to be outside
but the sun is shining, there's no wind and we can't bear to be
indoors.

There's not much activity on the harbour today. The long
Easter break is over for the schools and most of the second
homers have gone home. It's a weekday, so there are no day
trippers about. The sea is still and unruffled. A shearwater is
skimming stiff-winged above the slight swell. As it alternates
its flight between showing its dark upper and white under side,
I'm thrilled to be able to recognize it. After years of only the
depressed pigeons and scrawny sparrows on the dirty pavements
of London, I'm still awed when I see birds living in
their natural environment.

A few seagulls sit on a post eyeing us hungrily and we're
careful not to spill a crumb of our blueberry muffin to
encourage them to come closer. That's the one bird I cannot
bring myself to love. I've seen one draw blood, claws catching
a bald man's head as the bird swooped over him to grab his
crisps.

Harry brings up the subject of Charlie and his father. I'd
asked him why he seemed out of kilter that morning, a bit
distracted, even glum. 'Oh, it's Arnie again. He and his mum
came over for Sunday lunch. It was all going really well –
Charlie's a great cook, does a mean roast dinner – when I made
the mistake of asking Arnie how the fishing was going.'

'Ah,' I say knowingly.

For a moment we're distracted by a pushy seagull that flies
perilously close to our table, trying to grab the remainder of
my muffin. We shout and shoo it away then Harry goes on.
'Yeah, I should have kept quiet. Kept off the subject.' He lapses
into a morose silence.

I say, finally, 'So are you going to tell me about it?'

He looks at me with his stunning green eyes and thick black
eyelashes. I could sit and admire him all day, he's so gorgeous.
Sometimes, when I make a delivery to their cottage, I stop and
have a cold drink with Charlie as their place is the last in a
row of cottages on a steep hill.