Up With the Larks (3 page)

He still wasn't convinced. 'It's not just work. What about
our family and friends? How can you bear to leave them?'

But our families didn't live nearby anyway and as for our
friends, I knew we'd probably see more of them in Cornwall,
when they visited us for weekends and holidays, than we saw
of them now in London.

We talked it over, until finally Ben succumbed to the idea
and we made the decision to move. Once he'd decided, Ben
was as enthusiastic as I was and, like me, eager to get on and
start our new life.

We made plans. We would sell our house and use the proceeds
to buy another one in Cornwall as well as starting our own
business. The idea we finally hit on was a paint-your-own-pottery
business. There were several of these in our area in
London and they were immensely popular; our own children
and their friends loved to go to them and we'd heard that it
was a lucrative business. It was something we could do from
home too, converting a shed or a garage into premises.

Before we moved, we prepared, determined to do this right.
We read everything we could about starting a small business
and being self-employed. We drew up our own business plan,
wrote letters asking for advice, talked to others and wrote out
charts and projected goals. We were so well-prepared for our
new Cornish life that the reality of it, when it hit, was doubly
hard to come to terms with.

At first, everything went swimmingly. I didn't even have
to quit my job – by a wonderful quirk of luck, I was made
redundant before I handed in my notice. Pretending to
be grief-stricken at the news that a restructuring meant my
job would have to go, I phoned Ben at once to celebrate. The
redundancy pay would help cover the cost of the move and
even some unemployed time as our new business took off.

And then our house sold, quicker than we'd expected. Now
all we had to do was find one in Cornwall, to make into our
new home. How smoothly it was all going, we thought smugly.
How simple it all was, once we'd thought it through and made
our decision. And how wrong we were. How terribly, horribly
wrong.

To begin with, finding a house in Cornwall was mindblowingly
difficult. It seemed everyone had suddenly fallen
in love with the place and wanted a second home there,
which made house prices go ballistic. It was happening
everywhere else too, but in Cornwall it seemed even crazier.

As houses on the market were snapped up within twenty-four
hours, before we had a chance to even look at them, we
heard dire tales. Buyers were throwing up to £70,000 over the
asking prices at properties. We heard that 5,000 folk a month
were moving into Cornwall and we nearly got side-swept away
in the rush.

We soon learned that it's a lot different living in a place than
holidaying. Many of the lovely seaside villages we'd adored on
holiday were empty ghost towns in winter with most of the
properties owned as holiday homes. There were other villages
inhabited mainly by the retired who had sold their properties
Up Country (the Cornish label for just about every place across
the Tamar River) to follow their dreams of living by the sea.
Some of these second-home and retirement villages seemed
to have no heart: no school, a pub empty except in summer,
no shop, no post office. Others were 'drive-through' villages
which seemed to have nothing but the road leading in and out,
with not even a pub or a newsagent, only a cluster of houses
to call themselves a village.

We wanted more. We had two children who needed more,
as did we and we were determined to find it. They were out
there, those perfect Cornish towns and villages but properties
there were scarce, pricey and didn't often come on to the market.

We spent a fortune driving up and down every weekend
between South Cornwall and London, looking at houses. We
viewed eighty in all and were gazumped twice. The final
contracts were signed on our old house which meant we had
to move out and spend more money on rented accommodation.
We wanted to do this in Cornwall but the kids were still
in school and, since we didn't know where in the county we'd
end up, we thought it best to leave them where they were until
we could move permanently.

'We've got to start thinking outside the box,' I said to Ben
one night, just before yet another weekend of house hunting.
'Talk to people in the community who might have inside knowledge
of properties for sale. It's the only way we'll ever get a
house.'

The next day we raced down to Cornwall again, this time
to look at a property in Treverny, one of the villages that had
all the things we wanted and was charming as well. The place
we viewed was far too small, despite the estate agent trying to
convince us that a cramped, dark, walk-in cupboard would
make an excellent bedroom for one of the children.

Disappointed, Ben and I decided to wander around the
village as it was a hot summer's day and Treverny is an idyllic
spot. In the middle of the tree-lined tiny main street there
is an ancient church and adjacent to that, a shaded park,
complete with babbling brook and a tranquil pond. Benches
are scattered here and there under willow and beech trees
along the stream.

Ben wanted to see inside the church and I needed to get a
cold drink from the shop so we split up and agreed to meet
by the brook in half an hour. Will and Amy were staying with
friends for the weekend, which meant I had time on my own
to savour the village. It was just what we wanted, but the only
house for sale, according to the estate agent, was the one we'd
looked at.

I walked down a tiny lane alongside the village green and
saw a window cleaner hard at work at one of the houses. It
was a hot sunny day full of flowers and birdsong, and it was
summer, so he wasn't surprised that an 'emmett' (the Cornish
word for tourist) from Up Country should begin waxing lyrical
about the area. 'Wonderful day, isn't it?' I called. He was
working on the ground floor windows so I didn't have to
shout up to him.

He turned to look at me. I was wearing red shorts and a
sleeveless white shirt. My long blonde hair was curling madly
around my head and face in the heat and humidity. I tossed it
back, giving him my biggest smile.

Maybe he thought I fancied him, for he nodded an affirmative
and left his work to chat with me. He was young and
good-looking, with those great dark Cornish eyes and hair.
His voice was laconic and his words to the point. 'Tourist?'
he was too polite to call me an emmett to my face.

He perched on the garden wall in front of the house, indicating
he was quite happy to sit with this stranger. I joined
him, wondering if the owner – his employer – was watching
through the net curtains.

I turned on the charm, doing my best bubbly bit. 'Visiting
for now, but not for long I hope. Still living Up Country but
coming down every weekend to house hunt.' He nodded appreciatively.
I didn't know if it was my skilful use of the Cornish
'Up Country' or my newly tanned and waxed legs that prompted
his appreciation.

He listened while I rambled on for a bit about the charms
of the county, the seaside, the village and the weather. When
I got to the weather he baulked. 'You don't go movin' here
'cause of the weather, y'know. T'is wet most of the time,' he
squinted against the sun to peer at the windows still not cleaned,
and shifted uneasily. I sensed the guilt at not using every
moment of sunshine was starting to get to him, so I made my
move quickly.

'We've had so much trouble finding a house down here.' I
lowered my eyes and added a note of tragedy to my voice.
Ben
eat your heart out
, I thought. 'I wonder if you might know of
something? You work and live here, you must know if anything
might be coming up for sale soon.'

He turned back from gazing at the windows to gazing at
me again. 'Well matter of fact, I do. House for sale right here
in the village. Just about to go to the estate agent's.'

My excitement showed in my face. 'Fantastic.'

'Good sturdy house. Decent garden, big an'all.'

'Fantastic,' I was repeating myself but I didn't care. I'd already
moved Ben, Will, Amy and Jake and was already planning colour
schemes and garden plants.

'Yep. Good house. Was me mum's for years. She died a
couple weeks back, suddenly like.'

'How many bedrooms?'

He looked at me with horror and I realized what I'd said.
I'd been away with the fairies, frolicking around our beautiful
garden in this lovely Cornish village, with my sweet children
and my gorgeous husband. I'd heard his words but hadn't taken
them in, so wrapped up was I in my own dreams and schemes.

I felt dreadful. Mortified, embarrassed and guilt-stricken.
'Oh God, I didn't mean – oh I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. About
your mother. Poor her. Poor you. Oh what you must think of
me, so inconsiderate, so unfeeling.' I went on in this fashion
for a few more sentences, feeling terrible and desperately trying
to make amends.

Finally I dithered to an end. He was backing away from me
but opening his mouth like a fish gasping for water, no doubt
to utter some ancient Cornish curse on my soul.

'Three,' he said.

'Pardon?'

'Three bedrooms. There was a fourth, but Ma used it for
her best parlour.'

We didn't buy that house, though we did look at it. It wasn't
quite right for us, but very shortly afterwards, through word
of mouth, we found another house in the same stunning village
of Treverny.

My first week with Royal Mail is a blur. Kindly folk in the post
office show me the ropes, get me acquainted with the rules,
regulations and various quirks of a vast government body.
They're kind, but there's a wariness in their attitude towards
me, a kind of aloofness. Like Susie, they don't think I'll be
around long.

Susie has shown me around: the main sorting office in Truro
and the two small post offices where I'll be based, in St Geraint
and Morranport, two harbour villages. I've also been shown
the various routes that I will cover, a sixty-mile round by van
and seven miles by foot. I'm doing relief work, covering for
Susie and an older postman called Reg. I've had a go on my
own but only with an experienced Royal Mail helper shadowing
and backing me up.

But now all that is over and today I am a proper postperson,
completely on my own.

I plunge gamely into the controlled chaos in the mail room,
sort my letters and parcels, load them onto my trolley in proper
order and even manage a light-hearted raunchy joke or two
with the others as we gather our post.

Feeling smug and well pleased with myself, I push open the
two massive rubber doors with my trolley and trundle outside
into the darkness and the rain. And that's when the panic hits.
There is a huge car park chock-a-block with Royal Mail vans,
all looking exactly alike to me. I realize I haven't a clue which
one is mine. I was so excited to find a space that I had not
even noticed where I'd parked.

There are at least fifty red vans, parked in rows. Fifty, a
hundred, thousands even, I think in despair, all the red postal
vans in the world, sitting in the huge car park, all taunting me
with their sameness.

There is no one to help me out. I'm alone in this vast universe
of identical red vans, lashed by what's beginning to feel like a
cyclone, wondering if I'll have to try my keys in every single
one before I find my own. If it weren't so cold and wet I'd sit
down by my trolley and cry.

Instead, I plunge into the midst of them and set about trying
to discover which van is mine. My tent of a coat is blowing
like the sails of a yacht in this endless Cornish wind and rain.
I look like Jack wearing the giant's coat, the sleeves reaching
way below my hands and the whole thing nearly encasing my
legs. Though it's cold outside, I'm sweating inside because I
have not yet learned what all the other posties know, that the
nylon lining inside has got to be removed precisely for this
reason. I can see that getting the temperature right inside
this jacket is an art I haven't yet mastered. If you open it too
wide to keep from perspiring you end up shivering as an icy
breeze creeps inside, followed by the gales and rain. But it's
only November and I have all winter to figure it out.

Finally after walking up and down the parked vehicles for
what seems like hours, trying my key in nearly every van,
despairing of ever finding the right one, I'm saved! There ahead
of me, perched in the front window of one of the vans, is a
black and white cat, staring out at the rain as if each drop was
a tiny mouse ripe for the catching. For a moment I think I'm
hallucinating, then with a rush of relief I recognize the van.
It's not mine, nor Postman Pat's, but Susie's who is covering
for someone else today. And now I remember that I'd parked
mine right next to hers when I arrived this morning. The cat,
who comes with Susie now and again on her rounds – the
only real cat I've ever met who likes to ride in a car – eyes me
without much interest. I grin maniacally at it, tap the window
lightly in friendly if slightly hysterical greeting, and at last leap
into my own sweet red van.

At home, Ben and the children will still be fast asleep. Truro
is deserted as I drive down its windy streets, passing the old
brewery and taking a short cut out of the town. On the hill
leaving the city, I can see the cathedral, still lit up and shining
like a vision through the misty rain. It is so awesome, so breathtaking,
that I slow and then stop when I see no one is either
behind or in front of me.

I stay like this for a full five minutes, taking in the spires
and the towers, the gauzy light shining through the pale rain,
and for a moment my mind and heart are still. No head noise,
no noise at all. Just me,
still
for once, not rushing, not frantic,
not stressed.