Up With the Larks (22 page)

The glorious Cornish summer has turned into a wet Cornish
summer. The days are muffled with a thick fog from the sea,
so heavy that I can hardly see the end of the harbour from
the St Geraint post office. There are still plenty of perks, not
least the stunning, blue agapanthus flowers that grow wild here.
They show up starkly in the mist, the colour so dazzling that
not even a drizzly rain can subdue them.

Annie arrives for another long weekend and is bowled over
by the agapanthus. 'We have them in London, but not anything
like this, not the wild ones.' She starts rubbing her eyes. 'Tree
pollen now, I guess. I hate the country.'

'You always say that, but you always come back. Anyway,
you've got allergies in London.'

'Tessa, they are
babies
compared to the great hulking monsters
that attack me every time I come to Cornwall. If you weren't
my best friend . . .' she trails off to put some drops in her
itching, swollen eyes.

'If I weren't your best friend, you'd still come, now admit
it. Cornwall is starting to get to you, I can tell.'

'What do you mean? I can't even
see
Cornwall in this
wretched fog. We could be anywhere.'

'Except for your itching eyes.'

'You said it,' she puts on her glasses. The frames are designer,
FCUK, and look great on her, but she never wears them except
when she comes here as there's no way she can wear contact
lenses in Cornwall with all those allergies.

Then she says, 'By the way, are we having lobster tonight?
Has your lobster fisherman been around lately?'

I laugh, 'You see? I knew there were other reasons why you
come down here.'

Annie and I have a lazy few days. Mostly we walk, and talk,
and laze at the edge of old woodlands near a little creek or
inlet. I try to show her the delights of the countryside. 'Look,
Annie, look at those rooks at the top of those trees!'

'How d'you know they're not ravens, smartie? Or crows?'

I smirk, smugly. 'I've learned a lot since we had this conversation
before. Rooks not only have baggy trousers but huge,
grey, lumpy bands at the root of their beaks.'

'I'm impressed, despite my better judgement.' She looks up at
the rooks, dozens of them, suddenly flying up as one and sweeping
away with a great flapping of wings. 'They do look fierce.'

'Maybe, but they're not carnivores. They only eat grain, like
the hens.'

She grins, looks sly, 'And red toenails?'

'I haven't put that to the test yet,' I grin back at her.

We stay there for a while longer, listening to the music the
stream makes as it saunters along over rocks and stones, sand
and water weeds. I point out the great rooks' nests at the top
of the trees. 'They're very sociable, y'know. Rooks, that is. They
live in those great colonies at the tops of trees.'

'Like us in London living in penthouse apartments or high
rises.'

'Yeah, but some of the colonies have been there hundreds
of years. Around here, it's considered a bad omen if the rooks
suddenly abandon them.'

Soon after this, we get up and start to walk again. After ten
minutes or so, Annie stops suddenly. 'Look. Over there. On
that fallen tree trunk. That big black bird. Is it a crow, or a
rook?'

I giggle, 'There's an old saying around here, Annie, goes
something like this. "When tha'se crows, tha'se rooks; when
tha'se a rook, tha'se a crow."'

Annie stares at me. She looks seriously worried. 'I'm taking
you back with me to London for a good, wholesome dose of
city life. Sounds like you're in great need of it, Tessa.'

When I laugh she smiles grudgingly. 'All right. So tell me
then, oh wise country one. Is that bloody bird a crow or a
rook?'

'Neither, oh idiot city woman. It's a blackbird.'

When Annie goes, I suddenly feel lonely. Despite the many
lovely acquaintances I now have, amongst the neighbours, my
customers, the people at the post offices, I still feel an outsider
somehow, perhaps because I haven't made any really close
friends. Having Annie here again makes me realize how much
I miss the intimacy that a close friendship can bring.

I'm thinking of Annie as I deliver to the Rowlands. Emma
has a mischievous smile very like my friend's; perhaps that's
why I warm to her so much. When she sees me, Emma rushes
out from their growing garden, where she and Martin have
been working. 'You've expanded since I was here last,' I say,
noting that part of an adjoining field is now cultivated.

'Yes, Martin's decided to grow potatoes in a big way. All
organic, too. Dave's idea; he says he knows loads of people in
Bristol who would buy them.'

Dave is Emma and Martin's son. He's a physiotherapist,
lives in Bristol with Marilyn, his partner. I've met Dave before;
he's a nice lad and pining for Cornwall. Like so many other
young people, he and Marilyn had to leave the county to be
able to afford a place to live.

Martin appears holding a load of produce from the garden
wrapped in newspaper. 'Take it, Tessa, we've got far too much.'
Before I can thank him, a car drives up, and both Martin and
Emma's face light up like lanterns.

Dave jumps out of the car, embraces both his mother and
father then turns to me. 'Tessa, good to see you.'

'You too, Dave. Marilyn not with you?'

He shakes his head regretfully, 'No, she couldn't get off
work. Sent me on my own, to help the old man here for a
couple of days.'

Martin pretends to scowl, 'Less of the
old
, lad. Well, get
diggin', then, let's see what you be worth.' He thrusts his spade
at Dave with a grin.

I leave the family there, laughing and joking, thinking how
lucky I am to have such lovely customers on my round.

Nell is now pursuing every newspaper she can get hold of for
possible scurrilous references to the post office. 'Look at this,'
she says, showing me a page cut from a national tabloid. 'The
Royal Mail is scuppering us again, selling stamps online, can
you believe it? That's it then, might as well retire right this
minute and be done with it. Us little post offices will go right
out of business, you'll see.'

I read the article, 'Nell, this is only for people who have
businesses, who buy huge amounts of stamps. And they've
got to pay a subscription before they can do it.'

Nell isn't pacified. 'If 'tisn't one thing 'tis another. I've had
enough. Am giving notice here and now, let 'em find someone
else.'

I've heard this before, lots of times, but this time Nell looks
more serious than usual. I say, 'You can't retire. The poor
owners, off on their travels, entrusting their beloved post office
to you. So many people have taken the job then quit, but you've
been the staunchest. How can you let them down?'

She harrumphs and snorts and shakes her head but I know
my pep talk has hit its mark. Nell is as loyal as she is honest.
She won't retire until the owners finally come back and either
take over the post office or sell it to someone else. And as
everyone in the village knows, that won't happen for a long
time.

Before I leave Morranport I go to pick up some cheese at
Baxter's, an incredible shop on the outskirts of the village that
sells absolutely everything. It's been there for ever and even has
its own bakery. As I go in, I'm bowled over as usual by the
delicious aroma of freshly baked pasties, bread and croissants.

Baxter greets me as I buy feta cheese and bread. He's a
man past retirement age with a lion's mane of thick, white
hair covering a broad head on top of a tall, broad body. He's
been around for ever too, or so it seems. He's warm, friendly
and open to everything, especially if it concerns his shop. I
brought Annie here last time she visited and in the course of
their conversation Baxter asked her what was new in London,
food wise. Annie mentioned some kind of chocolate pots
Waitrose were selling that everyone she knew had tried.
'Gorgeous, rich chocolate in delicate tiny pots. Not only to
die for but make great hostess gifts. Dreadfully expensive,
though.'

Sure enough, next to his racks of books on Cornwall, I see
a special shelf in a prominent place filled with elegant chocolate
pots.
Didn't take long
, I think with a smile to myself. Baxter
is laid back, easy going and superficially shambling but he's
also a keen businessman.

On the way out I meet Harry going in. 'Why aren't you at
work?' I ask.

'Early closing today, remember?'

'What, for accountants? I didn't know your office closed.'

He looks sheepish. 'All right, I'm taking the afternoon off.
I'm on my way home but need to get some provisions. Charlie's
parents are coming round for tea.'

'I thought there was a big bust-up last time.'

'There was. But his mum keeps trying to get a reconciliation,
so she's managed to talk the old man into popping over
for a cup of tea and a chat.'

'Good luck. Hope it goes well.'

Harry looks doubtful. 'Yeah. Me too. But somehow I doubt
it. I'll go and see if Baxter has a few freshly baked cakes or
pies to thaw the heart of a hardened fisherman.'

On my way back to St Geraint to drop off the van, I take
a short cut and once again I'm face to face with a tourist on
a narrow lane. This time it's a woman in a Range Rover that
looks as if it's never been on anything less than a three lane
motorway in its life.

Once again, I know there's a lay-by only a short distance
back which she could reverse into easily but the look on her
face is the petrified stare of a woman looking into hell itself.
She's so terrified about backing up that I don't even wait but
immediately begin to reverse around yet another curvy bend.

The story of my life
, I think as I manoeuvre the van back along
the lane.
Always in reverse
. Then I begin giggling to myself.
Maybe it's not such a bad thing, living in reverse. After all, to
move here, we had to back down from our stressful life in the
fast lane and reverse into something entirely different.

When the woman passes me, tucked neatly against a farmer's
gate, she's so intent on keeping her Range Rover in the middle
of the lane, not wanting to scratch the sides, that she doesn't
bother to give me a thank you wave or nod of the head.
Rudeness usually makes me fume, but this time I feel so laid
back that I don't bother to get irritated. The van windows are
open and some wild flower, I don't know what, is wafting its
scent my way. In the field some placid, bovine mooing is going
on and there's not another sound except a light swishing of
beech and oak leaves in the warm breeze. I close my eyes, let
the scents and sounds enclose me in a cocoon of serenity.
Above the faraway mooing and the rustle of the trees, I'm sure
I hear the cry of a buzzard.

Within minutes I'm asleep and don't wake up for at least
twenty minutes. Refreshed, I start the van, pull away from the
gate and slowly drive back to St Geraint and the post office
car park by the sea, filled with the contentment at having
finished another good day's work.

Something happens at the end of June that stirs the whole
family and forces us to question again our move to Cornwall,
our decision to leave London. Ben has had two small parts in
the new television series starring Martin Clunes, called
Doc
Martin
, filmed partly in London and partly in Cornwall.

In his first role, in episode two, he played a man on a petrol
forecourt. He was then asked to play the role of pub landlord
in episode six. Both Martin Clunes and the director, Ben Bolt,
liked what he did and said that if a second series were to be
made, he'd be on as a regular. This is such wonderful news
that we all go out to celebrate. We can't afford dinner at the
Roswinnick, not yet, but we go to our favourite pub restaurant
in St Geraint.

'Will you be famous, Dad?' Amy wants to know.

Ben laughs, 'Hardly. I don't want to be famous; I just want
to act.'

'I'd rather you were famous,' Will says. 'Like Harry Potter.'

Despite the cost, we order champagne, and fizzy apple juice
for the children, and before long we're all high on hope and
excitement and that amazing tremulous feeling of being on
the very brink of a dream-come-true.

'I can't believe our luck,' I say to Ben. 'We've got Cornwall,
and now
this.
You don't have to give up acting after all.'

'Hold on, it's not set in stone yet. We don't know for sure
if they'll even do a second series.'

'Of course they will. The first one got great audience ratings.'

'That's no guarantee . . .'

I interrupt him, 'It'll happen, Ben. They wouldn't have
mentioned a second series if they weren't fairly sure.' I reach
across the table to touch his hand. 'I know how hard it's been
for you to give up acting, believe me.'