Up With the Larks (23 page)

He shrugs, 'I've missed it, yes. I love it here, but . . .'

I take off where he trails off, 'But you love acting too. And
soon you'll get a chance at it again.'

He smiles. His face looks young and happy and full of hope.
He's had a chance to do the work he was meant to and there
is a good chance he can continue doing it.

Despite my positive words, I'm as nervous as Ben is, waiting
to hear if a second series of
Doc Martin
is to be made. When
news comes that it definitely will be, we are light-headed with
relief, joy and mounting excitement. Ben is completely over
the moon; he's soaring over the news. At last nearly everything
about our life here has come right: I've got time and space for
both me and my family and Ben will finally be doing the job
he loves best.

This euphoria lasts for some time as we wait for the scripts
for the second series to be written, and for Ben to see the ones
which entail the pub landlord. But nothing happens. No scripts
appear.

Finally, Ben talks to some of the other cast members who
have already got their scripts. Each of these conversations
leaves him feeling more and more uneasy, especially as he
still hasn't received a script himself. Then, after talking to
others and seeing other scripts, it becomes clear. Nothing
has been written in about pub landlords. His projected
part has been cut.

'Ben, no, I don't believe it,' I say as we sit at the kitchen
table to digest the news.

'Nor do I.' He's just got off the phone to his agent, who
has confirmed the news. He looks bewildered, like a man who's
lost his way. I feel so sorry and angry, so frustrated. But there's
nothing I can say or do.

Ben stands, running his fingers through his hair, bemused,
stunned. 'Everyone was so positive. The role was going to be
expanded, for God's sake, not
cut.
'

He sits down, shaken. I go to him to put my arms around
him. We stay like this for a long time, trying to come to terms
with this new blow.

And then, a few days later, the agent phones again. Once
more Ben hangs up and comes to look for me but this time
his face is not drained and forlorn but positively hopeful again.

'Have they changed their minds?' I ask. 'About the landlord?'

'No, nothing like that, but there's good news, Tessa. They've
decided to film the entire second series in Cornwall, not use
the London set at all. My agent thinks that there's a good
chance at getting another role for me, since I'm here anyway.'

Once again we're up in the stars, trying not to hope but
unable to stop ourselves. His agent feeds this hope, believing
that Ben, having attracted good notice in the first series, will
surely get to audition for other decent parts.

'It's only a matter of time,' I tell Ben. 'You'll get that phone
call soon, you'll see.'

We try to be patient. Ben stops talking about it, because he
wants it so much. He carries on at the Sunflower Café as usual
but when I go in there, I can tell by his face that he's miles
away. In his head he's not a waiter, or an aromatherapist, or
any of the other things he's been since moving to Cornwall.
He's what he should be, what he's always wanted to be: an
actor.

Nothing happens for over a week. Ben knows they are
casting now for the next series, yet the phone remains silent.
Finally, on the last day of June, he phones his agent.

They talk for ages but the gist of it is, the only part he's
offered is a couple of walk-on one-liners, which Ben quite
rightly refuses. He's a professional actor, not an extra.
Everything else has been cast in London.

Ben and I talk about it late into the night. We're in the sitting
room, the window open not so much for the nesting swallows
but for the warm summer's breeze that is wafting in tonight
after a hot, humid day.

'I don't understand,' I say, not for the first time. 'You're
living here in Cornwall, they're filming in Cornwall, yet all the
parts that you could possibly play are going to actors based in
London.'

Ben nods. He looks ashen, drawn. 'That's the way it works,
Tessa. We've always known it. I just had it all explained to me
again by my agent. They go to the London agents first, for all
the top roles, and only then, when those parts are filled, do
the Cornish agents get a chance. By then, there's nothing left
but the walk-ons.'

I take a long deep breath. 'What can we do, Ben?'

He tries to smile but it's not much of one. His unhappiness
radiates out of his eyes, his posture, his whole face. 'We can't
do anything, can we? That's the way it is, and as I've said before,
we knew it when we came here.'

He's right, we did know it, but this episode had given us
hope that Ben would eventually find good acting jobs despite
where we lived. Now that's gone and at an especially bad time
for Ben, having just had a taste of acting again, having remembered
only too clearly what an integral part of his life it has
always been. We don't say much after that but as we get into
bed, miserable and low, I wonder now if we have done the
right thing, moving here. What has it done to Ben?

Much as I love Cornwall, I can't stay here if Ben is unhappy.
If he's pining to be back in the theatre or in films, and if it
can't be done from here, we'll have to go back. As soon as I
think this, I feel such desolation that I have to shut my eyes
tightly to prevent sudden tears from falling. Leave here? It will
be like losing part of myself, a deep important part that I don't
want to let go. But in staying here, the same thing will happen
to Ben. Acting has been his life for a long time, much longer
than we've lived in Cornwall.

We'll have to go back. I'll tell him soon, when the moment
is right, when I've thought it all through and we have time to
talk properly. Now I must get to sleep, to be up at four
tomorrow. Yet I lie there awake for ages, brain churning. Next
to me Ben is awake too, but pretending to sleep so as not to
disturb me.

I feel that the decision has already been made. There is no
way we can remain in Cornwall. It's far too big a sacrifice for
Ben to make.

There are hydrangeas everywhere, coloured bright blue to startling
pink and every shade in between depending on the soil.
The summer has settled down into being a normal one weather
wise, with sunny days interspersed with the odd days of rain.
For now the sun has the edge and everyone is happy, the
beaches filling rapidly as the season gears up. Everyone is happy
but us, that is.

For the first few days of July, Ben and I have no chance to
talk alone for any length of time, as he's had to fill in at the
café a few evenings to cover a staff illness. I know he's
welcomed the extra work, not just for financial reasons but
because it stops him from thinking about what might have
been. I've thought of nothing else for days and I'm now determined.
Ben must have his chance to get back into acting.

I've got it all figured out. We've done a great deal to the
Cornish house since we moved, so hopefully we can sell it for
a profit and either buy something much smaller in London or
rent until we can afford to buy. We'll then have enough money
to tide us over while I find some kind of work during the day
while the children are at school. Ben can then devote most of
his time to renewing his London contacts, to making a wholehearted
effort to get back into his professional life.

Finally, Ben and I have a chance to talk. Will and Amy are
asleep and we're sitting outside on the small terrace, watching
a half moon make its way over some willow trees in a neighbour's
garden. We're drinking chilled white wine, ostensibly
enjoying the warm, almost sultry evening. There's no breeze
and the moon looks languid, as if it too is going with the flow
of summer.

I want this moment to last for ever. I don't want to speak,
to talk about moving back to London. But then I see Ben's
face, pale in the moonlight. He looks tired, preoccupied. As if
it's all, finally, too much for him.

So then I begin to talk. I try to make my voice sound eager,
as if this is a great new adventure for both of us, going back
to our old life.

'But we left that life,' Ben says, 'because we wanted more,
something better.'

'
I
did. I was the one who was stressed and unhappy.'

'We were both unsatisfied, Tessa. In the end, I wanted to
move as much as you did. And let's face it, I wasn't doing much
acting anyway, up in London.'

I sip my wine, absentmindedly stroking Jake who is lying
quietly at our feet. The moon rises higher. 'Ben, you weren't
doing much acting because of me, my job at The Body Shop.
Someone had to be home for Will and Amy. This time, I'll get
a less demanding job, one that doesn't consume me for twelve
hours a day. That'll free you to focus on finding an acting job.'

Ben, who has been staring at the moon while I say all this,
turns to me with a slight smile. 'So where are you going to
find this kind of job? Do you plan on delivering post in
London?'

I smile back, 'If necessary. If that's what it takes to get you
back on track again.'

He sighs. 'It's a crazy idea. To go back now . . .' He trails
off, lost in thought. Then adds, 'How can we even think of
moving Will and Amy again?'

I shrug. 'I don't like that part of it, but they're young, resilient.
And it's not as if they'll be going to a strange school – we'll
make sure they go back to the same one, with all their old
friends.'

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Finally he shakes
his head, says, 'I don't know, Tessa. Are you really serious about
this?'

'I've been thinking about it for days. Yes, I'm quite serious.'

His face changes. The tired look is gone and he looks
animated again, for the first time since all this began. He goes
to me, takes my face in his hands, 'You'll do this for me? Give
all this up?' His hand swings around to indicate the moon, the
willow, our house, the village. The sea barely a mile away, our
favourite beach. Everything.

'Yes,' I answer without hesitation. 'For you, for all of us.'

I can hardly bear to look at the eagerness in his face, the
resurgence of hope.
It is truly what he wants
, I think.

I take another sip of wine to hide my own face, to mask
the sadness bubbling up from deep inside me. I don't want
him knowing how much this move will grieve me.

Once again, our work and the children prevent us from
discussing this further for a few days. Ben seems jauntier
though, and happier, so I know he is thinking about it, about
having another chance to pick up his career.

I'm just numb. I've deliberately frozen my mind and heart
so that I don't have to think. I know that soon we'll have to
start making plans but I know we both need these few days
to adjust.

Then at the weekend, we take Will and Amy to an annual fête
at a nearby village. It's wonderful, traditional stuff: tug-of -war competitions
and wellie-throwing contests; brass bands and sing-a-longs; prizes for the
biggest vegetables, the tastiest scones. The village green where the fête
is held is packed out with families, both locals and visitors.

Daphne and Joe are there, and invite Will and Amy to go
home with them to spend the night as their two children are
more or less the same age and have become fairly good friends.
When the fête ends, they all go off together and Ben and I
are left on our own.

It's another fine night and the moon is nearly full. Ben says,
'Let's go to the beach, have a walk. Jake could do with some
exercise.'

We go to Penwarren Beach, empty now despite the still
warm evening. The moonlight casts a path of light across the
dark sea and adds a translucent glow to the stretch of sand
on the shore. Jake leaps into the shallows, his splashing the
only noise in this still night.

We walk for a bit then sit on the sand, warm from the heat
of the day despite the midnight hour. We think about going
in for a swim but by now a cool breeze has sprung up and we
decide it would be cold when we came out.

'Imagine,' Ben says, his voice soft. 'Not a care in the world
at this moment in time except trying to decide whether to have
a swim or not. How many people have that good fortune?'

I can't answer him. I'm too choked up.

After a while Ben goes on, 'I've been thinking day and night
about what you said, about going back to London. Can you
really give up all this?'

I take his hand. 'For you, yes. I can't bear for you to be
unhappy. How can I enjoy anything when you're missing out
on so much?'

Jake, who has been dashing in and out of the water, bounds
up to us and drenches us with a great shake of his wet body.
We wave him away, laughing, wiping saltwater from our faces,
our clothes.

When we've recovered, Ben says, 'Yes, I miss acting. But I
know now that I'd miss this more, much more, if we go back.
These moments, nights like tonight. Not just being here at the
sea, but all of it: taking Amy and Will to the fête, being involved
in village life, getting such pleasure out of the simple things,
the way people have been doing for centuries.'

Once again I can't speak.

Ben goes on, 'And even though we're both working hard,
we still seem to have more time to do all these things. We
wouldn't have this in London.'

'But we'd find something else. Your acting . . .'

He shakes his head. 'Even if things went well, if I was lucky
enough to get that break, some decent work, we'd still lose
this.
Time and space, and being together as a family. It would
be just as it was before, back to the rat race of fighting to keep
a career at the expense of everything else. I don't want that,
ever again.'

He stands up, goes to the sea's edge, picks up a stone and
skims it across the water. Jake, thinking it's meant for him,
madly goes after it and after a few moments of delirious
paddling about, admits defeat and swims back to shore.

'So what're you saying, Ben?' I try to keep my voice neutral:
I don't want him to hear the joy in it, not yet. It's still his
decision, this move. I don't want to go, but I don't want to
stay either, if he's unhappy.

He grabs my hand, pulls me up to my feet. 'I'm saying it's
time to go home, get some sleep. You might have a day off
tomorrow but I've got an early start at the café, remember?
C'mon.'

We set off, arms around each other, for the car. Before we
get in I say, 'Ben, are you sure? You really do want to stay in
Cornwall?'

He nods, 'You know I love it as much as you do.'

I have to say it, 'But even if it means giving up acting?'

'Yes, even that. I'm as sure of it as I am of anything.'

He opens the car door but before we get in we have a last
look at the moon, beaming on us like an old friend.

Then Ben says with a grin, 'Anyway, we have to stay in
Cornwall. I've signed up for the wellie-throwing competition
at the next village fête. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be
county champion and Will can have his famous father at last.'

Annie comes down again, for a week this time.

'You can't stay away from here,' I say as she gets off the
train.

'No, seems not. Don't know why. I think the county is
catching. You know, like chicken pox.'

I hug her. 'You're looking floaty today,' I say as we stand
apart and grin at each other, delighted to be together again.
She's wearing a loose frock, flowing and colourful. 'D'you like
it? Just got it from Whistles. Not bad, is it.'

'Very summery and suitable.'

'They've got loads of great dresses, would look terrific on
you. I guess there's not a Whistles in Cornwall though . . .'

'Annie, right now even Whistles is too pricey for me. It's
either Matalan or charity shops.'

She looks at me with pity.
Even a high street shop, too dear?
I can hear her thoughts as clearly as if she's speaking out
loud.

I give her another hug. 'Annie, I chose this life, right?
Remember that. And I don't regret a thing.'

Ben is working but the kids are off school so Annie and I
pile them in Minger and take off to the Royal Cornwall
Agricultural show. It's a lovely day and the show is packed; it
takes ages to park in the large field allotted for visitors. Putting
Jake on a lead, we troop in.

There are acres of white tents, marquees, areas zoned off
for animal judging, horse shows and dog competitions. First
we pass rows of smart, new farm machinery, state-of-the-art
tractors, dung spreaders, combine harvesters and everything
necessary to run a sleek and modern farm. You'd have to be
a millionaire too, judging by the price of them.

We spend hours wandering around the show, looking at food
and craft stalls, buying local honey from the producers as well
as cheeses and cream. We peep into the tents and awnings of
the traders where farmers banter about prices with agricultural
merchants, trying to knock a few pence off fertilizer prices
while guzzling gallons of the free beer or wine provided by
the merchant.

I deliver to one of the sales people and he sees me, stops
to say hello. Pete is a good looking guy in his forties with an
open, honest face, a gorgeous, deep, sexy voice and unruly,
brown hair going grey around the edges.

And he's openly eyeing Annie who has hardly sneezed once
today. 'Maybe I'm getting immune to the countryside,' she
whispers hopefully. 'I've only taken one antihistamine today.'

Pete offers us a glass of white wine, a surprisingly decent
Chardonnay which has actually been chilled in a vast animal
feeder full of melting ice.

'It's wasted on us, Pete,' I say as I take the wine. 'We're not
going to buy bailer twine or a couple of tons of straw. Though
if you've got an extra bale for the hens?'

'Sure, I'll leave one in my front porch; you can pick it up
when you deliver my mail,' he says, offering us some salted
peanuts from a big bowl.

Amy and Will take a huge handful and Pete goes to replace
the bowl from a big bag of nuts. 'They're hungry,' I say, pointing
out the obvious. 'We were going to get some food but all the
food stalls have endless queues.'

Pete grimaces. 'Our customers are complaining that we've
given up the food on our stall. Years back we'd bring all sorts
of sandwiches to give out free to them, and scones too, thick
with jam and cream.'

My mouth is watering. So is Annie's. She says, 'Yummy. So
why aren't they here? I'd even buy a cow or something to lay
my hands on a ham sandwich right now.'

Pete laughs, 'We don't sell livestock. And the reason we can't
bring food are the health and safety regulations. No homemade
food can be served to the public any more.'

'Really? How ridiculous.'

'I know,' his face takes on a dreamy look. 'I remember
those thick ham sandwiches, quality stuff, the ham bought
direct from the farmer. And the scones – to die for. The
night before each show, the women would sit up all night
preparing stuff . . .'