Up With the Larks (18 page)

Since moving back to Cornwall, Charlie has discovered a
talent in himself for creating wonderful and original works of
art, all based on the sea. During the Easter holidays, one of
the craft shops in St Geraint sold some of his tiny boxes
decorated with seaweed and shells, painted an exquisite pearly
blue. The shop wants more and so does an outlet in Truro, so
Charlie now works only part time at the hairdresser's to
concentrate on his artwork.

When I stop at Charlie's on my round, we always have the
same routine. First I admire his latest creation – last time it
was a rainbow of multi-coloured pebbles, each one carefully
picked for its unusual colour, nesting in a tiny octagon of thinly
carved driftwood – and then we sit in his workshop, their mad
terrier hopping about between us, talking about Harry.

'I can't believe my luck,' Charlie says again and again. 'He's
not only the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on, he's
also a sweetie.'

I don't know about the sweetie bit – I haven't known Harry
that long – but I agree about his beauty.

'Don't know what he sees in me,' is Charlie's next refrain.

I smile, knowing it's useless to try to tell Charlie how necessary
he is to Harry. Hopefully when they've been together for
longer than the two years they've had so far, he'll realize how
much Harry needs him.

Charlie, with his rugged, chunky body, his wayward hair, his
open and honest face, is as different from Harry as a mackerel
to a dolphin, but he is beautiful in his own innocent way.
Though Charlie is the artist and Harry the accountant, Charlie
is the practical one, Harry the dreamer. They complement each
other better than most heterosexual couples I know.

Harry tells me now about the disastrous Sunday lunch. 'So
there we were, our bellies full of this succulent spring lamb,
cooked with rosemary and garlic, and lemon potatoes like we
learned to cook in Greece – oh man, did I ever tell you about
the chef we met in Rhodes, what a cool guy . . .'

I interrupt hastily, 'Not now, Harry, later. What happened
after the lamb and lemon potatoes? Other than the pudding,
that is.'

Before he can go on, Millie comes out with a huge, brown,
ceramic teapot, refilling our cups without being asked. Right
behind her is Geoff, carrying a plate covered with a paper
napkin. 'I've brought you another muffin, Tessa, on the house.
I be knowin' when you've skipped lunch, me luvver.' He sets
the second mouth-watering muffin on my plate while Millie
urges Harry to finish his and she'll bring him another too.

When she's gone, Harry says, 'Arnie went ape-shit when I
asked about the fishing. Went on and on about the plight of
the small fisherman, how none of the youngsters want to do
it any more because it's so hard now, with the big trawlers
taking all the business and quotas getting difficult and the price
of diesel – you know the kind of stuff, we hear it all the time,
living here.'

'But Harry, it's all true. Every year there are fewer and fewer
fishermen. The small boat owners are being squeezed right
out.'

'Listen, rationality went out the window with Arnie. Started
going on about how some of his fishermen mates have sons
– daughters too – who'd love to take over the boats despite
the difficulties but can't because the cost of living is so high
now in Cornwall. They can't afford to buy a house anywhere
near the sea, or even rent one that isn't a holiday cottage, so
they just say sod it and move Up Country.'

I shake my head, 'Harry, you can't blame him for going on
about all that. It's so terribly true. He's worried sick about the
future.'

Harry, who has been glaring absentmindedly at another
encroaching seagull, turns his mesmerizing green eyes on me
again. 'I know, I know. Deep down I feel sorry for the man,
but then he went on about
his
son being lucky enough to have
a cottage not far from the sea and yet he turns his back on it.'

'But Charlie hasn't turned his back on it. He loves the sea.
All his art work is about the Cornish coast, the water.'

Harry sighs, 'Tell me about it. I know, you know, Charlie
knows. Even his mum does. She tried to calm everyone down,
when things got out of hand. Charlie finally lost his temper,
after holding it in for nearly a full half hour while Arnie ranted.'
He throws a small pebble at the persistent seagull, now only
a few centimetres from our feet, but the bird doesn't move a
feather, just cocks its head aggressively.

I don't know what to say, wondering how often this same
scene is repeated throughout Cornwall. I feel sorry for Arnie
but sorry for Charlie too. I say, 'Did Charlie ever consider
following his dad's profession?'

'Yeah, he tried it way back, but it didn't work.'

'Why? Does he get seasick?'

'Actually he does but that's no big deal. Charlie says lots of
fishermen do. They live with it.'

You learn something new every day
, I think, and say out loud, 'So
what made him give it up, in the end?'

Harry stretches out his long, lean legs clad in faded jeans,
nearly toppling the tenacious seagull still waiting for a handout,
or the chance to steal our crumbs. It squawks indignantly but
still refuses to give up its watch at our feet, head cocked up
towards us and eyes glowing malevolently.

'Hissss,' Harry snarls at the seagull. 'Go away you well-fed
scavenger monster. Go back to the cliff tops where you belong.'
He hisses again. The seagull refuses to move. Its tiny marble
eyes glitter in the sunlight.

Harry gives up and turns back to me. 'The simple, and I
suppose the only, reason that Charlie isn't a fisherman is because
he hated it. Doesn't like boats, doesn't like being out on the
water even in good conditions and especially doesn't like the
job of catching fish in any way shape or form. So he trained
to be a hair stylist, which he liked loads better and now is as
happy as can be doing it part time and his art work the rest
of the time.'

I never get a chance to answer this because another seagull
has landed near the first one and the two begin squabbling.
There is such a raucous flapping of wings and squawks that
even Millie and Geoff come out to see what's up, though
they're used to seagull battles outside their shop.

Then, while the two birds shriek at each other at our feet,
a third one swoops from the sky, seemingly from nowhere,
and scoops up the second muffin Geoff had put on my plate
before I have a chance to take even one bite.

'Bloody gulls,' Harry says darkly as we settle down again.
'Makes one almost want to go back to London.'

'Except for the pigeons.'

'Yeah. Bloody pigeons. Can't win, can you.'

'Nope. I think I'll take the gulls, when all is said and done.'

We get more muffins only this time Harry stands guard,
swatting the
Guardian
he bought at the newsagents at every
encroaching seagull, looking so fierce and Viking-like with
those green eyes and tall body that I have to stop between
each bite to admire, the way I'd admire a beautiful painting or
an exquisite sculpture.

South Cornwall, I've discovered, is like a lush tropical jungle.
Plants and blooms and flowering bushes seem to double in
size overnight, overwhelming me every morning as I set out
on my rounds. The magnolias are still flowering and the colours
of the rhododendrons and azaleas dazzle me every day; I never
get tired of filling my eyes with the spectacle. I remember how
in London I used to primp over my tiny, pitiful plants, worrying
about every cold wind and excessive rainfall, coaxing and
cajoling them into growing. Here, I feel like I'm in the Amazon,
as blooms and foliage spring riotously into life after the winter
months.

It's a drizzly day today and has been for nearly a week, the
early spring balminess long gone. As I drive along the coastal
road I can't even see the sea, it's so shrouded in mist. Instead,
I look out over the damp green fields where a few sheep are
idly grazing. I'm not thinking of anything, which happens
increasingly since we've moved here. In London, my mind was
always racing, always one step ahead of the present, thinking
of things that needed doing or planning, figuring out how to
order the future instead of concentrating on
now.

Here, I'm beginning to live in the moment and it's bringing
me a peace and happiness far beyond anything I've known
before. Though I've always been happy in my marriage, with
Ben and then the children, it was a joy tinged with worry about
our future, worrying about not having enough time together
– worrying about life, basically. Now I feel as if I'm
living
life
instead of hassling about it.

As I slow down around a bend I see a magpie at the side
of the road, then a second and finally a third. The old rhyme
about the birds goes through my head: One for sorrow, two
for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy . . . and so on up to ten.
But after ten I pause; what comes then? Was there ever a verse
that tells us what seeing eleven magpies means? I start to make
one up. Eleven for coffee, twelve for tea, thirteen for you, and
fourteen for me! Not exactly Shakespeare, but what the hell.
I amuse myself by carrying on like this until I reach twenty-three
and I'm at my next drop.

So much for clearing the mind of thoughts, I think ruefully.
Mine just flew away with the magpies. But I don't care. At least
it wasn't fretting and stressing about work, or the family, or
the state of the world. It was merely idling, enjoying life, as
I'm starting to do more and more.

Getting out of the van, I pick up a wad of thick envelopes,
some padded. One or two of the flimsier envelopes have long,
tough strands of dark hair poking through. When I first saw
these arriving, for there were several every week, I wondered
if some kind of witchcraft was going on. Archie had been
telling me bizarre stories about ancient times in Cornwall –
old curses, spirits, hauntings, and I'd let it get to me.

My imaginings were made worse by the house the envelopes
were going to. It's a converted grey stone chapel, set on its
own in an isolated spot in a creepy, wooded valley. At least it
seemed creepy the first time I saw it, on a dreary winter's day,
when I first began this job. It was drizzling that day, like it is
today, but then it was still pitch dark in the early mornings
when I delivered. The woodland surrounding the house was
gloomy and dripping, the water running off the deep green
needles of the conifer trees into a muddy mass below.

I parked outside an old wooden gate leading into a soggy
garden and then on to the house. The granite stone of the old
chapel gleamed like a malignant talisman in the soft rain and
the ivy covering much of the walls seemed to me to be
suffocating not just the house but whoever was brave enough
to go inside.

I hesitated, not wanting to get out of the van. It hadn't been
long since my meeting with the man I still think of as the
werewolf, in my Brigadoon village of Trescatho. I was still a
little shaken by it, despite knowing my imagination was running
amok and had to be brought under control.

So I tried to control it then and there. 'Right,' I said aloud,
scrambling out of the van, clutching the sheaf of letters for
the house.

I jumped a foot when a loud caw pierced the air. Looking
around wildly, I saw a raven perched on a fallen tree trunk at
the edge of the woodland next to the chapel. Well, I think it
was a raven.

Annie, when I told her this story on the phone that night,
said, 'You're making this up. You wouldn't know a raven from
a rave. Or a pigeon for that matter.'

'Annie, it's the truth. That is . . . maybe it was a crow?'

'What's the difference?'

'Uh, not sure. I know a raven's a big crow but since there
was only one, I had nothing to compare it with. Like, if there
were crows about, or rooks, I could have compared the sizes . . .'

'Tessa, you're raving,' she started to giggle. 'Get it? Raveing?
Raven-ing?'

'That's not the remotest bit funny.'

When she finished laughing over her pathetic joke she said,
'So go on. There was this deserted chapel . . .'

'Converted, not deserted.'

'And a raven or a crow or a rook.'

'Not a rook. Rooks are more gregarious. This one was on
its own. Besides, they have baggy trousers.'

'What? Who has?'

'Rooks. Long feathers on their thighs. They look like funny
pixies in baggy trousers.'

There was a long pause in London. Then Annie said, 'Tessa,
I think you should come back to the city for a while. You're
really losing it.'

'Look, forget the raven. Let me tell you what happened
next . . .'

So I did. I told her how, at the same time as I heard the
raven, or whatever it was, I noticed that the top envelope in
the stack I was holding, a long white one that looked a bit
crumpled and smudged, had several long heavy, black hairs
sticking out of the hastily sealed edges. I stared at it then
leafed through the other post. One other had the tips of
some brown hairs poking out of the envelope and two others,
when I felt them, definitely had something that felt like the
same thing.

As goose bumps began creeping up my arms and neck, I
looked at the address. All the envelopes were addressed to
Cassandra France, The Old Chapel, Morranport, Cornwall.

Cassandra.
My thoughts spun wildly out of control as I tried
to remember the smattering of Greek myths I'd learned in
school. Wasn't she some sort of witch? A fortune-teller or
something? Was this
human
hair in the envelope and was it sent
to this person living in this deconsecrated chapel so that she
could cast wicked spells on the poor unsuspecting victim?

I told myself not to be such an idiot but I slumped back
into the van, unwilling to open the bleached wooden gate,
soggy with rain and go to the door of the chapel. How fitting,
I thought, that the witch works in an unconsecrated church;
did she choose it deliberately? And those heavy pines, dripdripping
with the rain . . .