I lean against my trolley and my mind calms. I have this every day of the year, I think, and that other woman for only two or three weeks. No one else sees her house for the other eleven months except the cleaner and gardener who come once a week. But me – I live here. I work here, as Susie has reassured me. My load suddenly feels lighter, the job easier.
I work here. How positive that sounds, and how Ben and I despaired of ever hearing ourselves say that.
Thank goodness it was different for the children. Will and Amy have made the transition from urban kids to rural ones with the ease and resilience of the young. They love their new school, made friends quickly and easily, and the village is a delight, especially their own playground right opposite our house where they and their friends congregate after school to play. It hasn't been so easy for us.
We knew from the first day that things weren't going to be as rosy as we'd hoped, when we realized that the kitchen was in too sorry a state to patch up and would have to be completely redone. The cost was way above any of our estimates, so we had to plunge straight into our new business venture, the paint-your-own-pottery scheme, before we had intended.
It was obvious within weeks that the business wasn't going to work, that it was a daft idea for Cornwall. It was the children of the affluent middle classes, usually living in cities, who were clamouring for this kind of entertainment and artistic endeavour and a disaster for Cornwall, one of the poorest counties in England in that wages are lower here than anywhere else. We learned soon enough that Cornish parents were in general too strapped for cash to spend on such an extravagance as painting your own pottery. Especially as, ironically, there are probably more genuine potters in the county per head of population than anywhere else in England. And who needs to find entertainment for their kids when there's the sea and the countryside?
Despite all our intricate business plans, we'd not thought of these basic considerations. There was nothing for it but to drop our initial plan at once, before we plunged deeper into debt. Taking stock of our finances one evening, we were appalled to see how quickly our savings were draining away. We needed an income badly. The house was, as houses do, costing far more than we'd allotted for it to renovate, not to mention to buy in the first place. Then a plumber doing routine fixtures found the whole system corroded and needing replacement. Something similar happened when the electrician arrived for some minor work and we had to shut the power off at once as the wires hidden behind walls had been gnawed at by generations of mice. It was a wonder we hadn't been burned in our beds.
And so we started pouring over the local newspapers, looking at job adverts. At first we were optimistic because we were willing to take on anything reasonable. But then, after applying for quite a few – receptionist, secretary, taxi driver and supermarket assistant manager were just a handful – we discovered that each job had dozens of applicants (unemployment is high in Cornwall and jobs scarce) and we were overqualified for nearly every job we applied for.
After this unexpected blow, we sat down again to try to think of something – anything – we could do to bring in an income. Luckily, Ben had a qualification we hadn't yet tried to make money from, something that we'd hoped to use in the future. Now, however, was the time. We were desperate.
Unlike me, Ben had completed the aromatherapy course that began the day we met and he had a valid massage diploma. He could offer his services not to the locals, most of whom could not afford them, but to the hotels that catered for the better-off visitors to the area.
The prime hotel nearby is the world famous Roswinnick, overlooking the estuary and sea in a prime spot in St Geraint. For several years now, the very rich and often the very famous find their way here for a weekend or week. Rock stars mix with royalty and wealthy Russian businessmen nod to their British counterparts in the exquisite dining room over the breakfast tables. They would be the perfect kind of customer, prepared to spend an enormous chunk of money to relax, destress and detox while enjoying stunning views and luxurious surroundings. So after an interview with the hotel manager (and a freebie massage for him), aromatherapy massage was added to the hotel's list of available services and Ben got his first call a week or so later.
I met him at the door when he came home, practically knocking him over in my eagerness to hear how the first session went. 'I hope it was a rich Eastern European princess who was so thrilled by your exquisite application of healing oils and massage that she gave you a huge tip well above your hourly rate,' I babbled as I dragged him inside to tell me all.
'Hardly,' He shook his head. 'She was an overweight, middleaged sex worker from Manchester who'd won a packet on the lottery.'
I stared at him. 'You're joking, aren't you?'
'No.'
'Be serious. No one would admit to being a prostitute, lottery winner or not.'
'She never said she was a prostitute. Just said a sex worker.'
'She told you? She actually said it? I can't believe I'm hearing this.'
Ben began to grin. 'I couldn't believe what I'd heard either. I was half way through her treatment, getting on fine, I thought. She seemed to be relaxing though she didn't stop talking. That's how I knew about her lottery win.'
'And her line of work?'
'No, that came later. Suddenly she sat up and said, "Let's get to the nitty gritty now. Show me what you can do."'
'What ?' I stared at him.
His grin was getting wider. He was certainly enjoying the telling. 'It turned out she thought aromatherapy massage was a euphemism for, well, the sex trade. Seems she advertises herself as a masseuse as well, back home.'
'So she wanted you to perform on her now that she could afford to be the client? I hope you walked right out.'
Ben laughed. 'She only wanted to learn some new tricks, she said. For when she's spent all her lottery money and has to go back to work. She's blowing it on travelling and has always wanted to go to Cornwall, so she started here first.'
'But if she's on holiday, why . . . ?' I trailed off, speechless for once.
'Why bring her work into it? I asked her that too. She said that while she was here, she thought she'd see what her Cornish colleagues are up to.'
I began to giggle. 'Was she disappointed when you explained what aromatherapy massage was?'
'She felt sorry for me. Said I probably made far less money than she did, and would I like her to teach me some good tricks to increase my trade.'
By this time we were both giggling so hard that Will and Amy had stopped playing in the courtyard and come inside to see what the hilarity was all about. 'Not for your ears, you two,' I said and shooed them back outside.
'How did you refuse her offer?' I narrowed my eyes at him, mock stern. 'You did, I hope.'
'I was very polite. So was she, actually. I finished the aromatherapy session and we ended up best of friends, though I'm sure she thought I was a sad no-hoper for not wanting to expand my business into the sex trade.'
Ben had no more clients quite like that again but he did have another unsettling experience at the Roswinnick. A few weeks later, he walked into a guest's hotel room and there, waiting for a massage, was an actor Ben had once worked with in London.
'It was so embarrassing,' he told me later, 'for both of us. Michael hadn't a clue that I'd moved to Cornwall; we'd lost touch ages ago.'
'What did he say? What did you say?'
'First neither of us could think of a thing, then we both started talking at once. Then there was another awkward silence until Michael started going on about what a coincidence it was to meet in such circumstances. I nodded my agreement and suddenly he looked stricken and started to say how sorry he was to . . .'
'To what? Go on, Ben.'
'Nothing. He just trailed off. I think he was going to say how sorry he was to see me reduced to living in Cornwall, doing what I was doing. Michael's the kind of guy that thinks anywhere other than London is unspeakable.'
Ben grew quiet after he told me this. I knew
it had affected him, this chance meeting. I said, 'It must have been awkward.'
'It was, a bit. I asked him if he still wanted the massage and I could tell he didn't, that it would be embarrassing for him, but he insisted anyway. He didn't relax at all during it, though he'd said he needed to unwind, that's why he was in Cornwall for a few days. He's got the main role in a West End revival of a Pinter play.'
Ben was far away, no doubt thinking of the theatre and his acting days. They must have seemed very far away and unobtainable at that moment, especially as he had received a 'Dear John' letter from his London agent soon after we'd moved. Because he now lived in Cornwall, the agent regretfully could no longer keep him on the books.
'Horrid for you, Ben,' I said quietly.
He focused back on me. 'The worst of it all was that he gave me a huge tip. Far too much. That was the most embarrassing part.'
Ben carried on with the aromatherapy work but it didn't come often enough to pay our way in Cornwall. He managed to get a part-time job in a coffee shop in St Geraint, but the wage was low and the hours too few, so he was still looking for yet more work. Like most Cornish people, we were beginning to realize that to survive economically, sometimes it was necessary to have four or even five part-time jobs.
I desperately needed to find a job of my own. If Ben and I both worked, we might just manage to keep our heads above water. But I was beginning to despair as I was turned down by a supermarket in Truro (overqualified for a job as cashier); a dental assistant (no experience); and a waitress at a smart Italian restaurant (no experience, overqualified and also not Italian, or Italian-looking anyway).
Meanwhile our expenses were mounting. The water leaking through one of the outer walls that we'd seen on our first night in the new house turned out to be a sign of a crack in the bricks that needed professional mending. There was always something – except jobs. We were learning the hard way just how impoverished Cornwall still is, how hard it is to find work, to live.
Our golden dream was slowly turning to dust as we worried ourselves sick night after night. By this time we didn't even know if we could afford to move back to London, where we could at least find work. A move costs money and that was something we no longer had. As each job possibility fell through and our financial state grew increasingly dire with our debts mounting, we began to seriously despair.
Then, miraculously, I overheard a conversation which probably saved our lives – our lives in Cornwall, that is. It was afternoon on a balmy, early autumn day and I was waiting to pick up Will and Amy from the village school. As usual, a gaggle of mums sprinkled with a few dads were chattering as if they'd known each other for years, as they had, of course. And as I hadn't. I knew it had only been a couple of months since we'd moved to the village, compared to the lifetimes the others had lived here, but there were days when I felt as if I were not merely someone from Up Country but a creature from another universe. It's not that people were deliberately unfriendly, for they were all scrupulously polite to me, but nevertheless I got the feeling that they saw me as one who was definitely not on their planet and never would be. Luckily Will and Amy were fine, having merged, as children can do, seamlessly into school and village life. I liked the Cornish – we wouldn't have moved if we hadn't – but I was beginning to wonder if they really, truly, deep down would ever accept me, or Ben, or anyone who was not Cornish.
I felt it today as I greeted the other parents. Not wanting to be pushy and barge in on their conversations, I hovered around the edges. And that's when I heard the following:
'Did you know Ryan is giving up his job as relief postman?' this was from a short, exceedingly plump redheaded woman.
'No, really? He's only had the work these six months. Why?' The redhead's confidante was a vivacious young woman with hair in a long brown plait. She didn't look old enough to be anyone's mother but she had a baby in a pram with her.
'Bad hip, needs an operation. Said it wasn't his thing anyhow.'
'Shame. He's looking so much better since he got that job.'
'Too right. Lost tons of weight. He was getting right fat, sorry to say, but never would diet,' the redhead snorted disapprovingly for this lack of self discipline. 'All that weight'll go right back on now, you wait and see.'
They both looked grim, thinking no doubt of poor Ryan getting right fat again since quitting his job.
The redhead said, 'Means another postman coming again. Have to lock up Harriet. She eats postmen.'
I hoped Harriet was a dog and not some kind of Cornish carnivore I'd not read about yet. By now I was listening unashamedly.
The young mother tucked the baby's blanket tighter around her legs. 'Harriet's a right troublesome thing. Oh look, there she be now, the naughty beast.'
I looked down the path in the direction they were pointing expecting to see the Hound of the Baskervilles. Instead, a tiny Jack Russell terrier trotted into view. The redhead said, 'Harriet, you wicked dog, got out'a the shed again.' She held her affectionately by the scruff of her neck as the young mother went on talking.
'But not to worry, Ryan be around for a fortnight. New postie not hired yet. Margaret at the post office told me applications out now.'
I couldn't sleep that night. A postwoman, me? It was the most ludicrous idea I'd ever had in my overworked head and I've had some humdingers. Yet something had clicked when I heard that conversation. The pros and cons darted in and out of my brain like tiny arrows.
I was not a morning person. I could hardly bear to look at my beloved family first thing in the morning so how would I face strangers? I was not a physical person, not jobwise. I wasn't that fit and I knew post people did loads of walking, up and down hills. I'd never be able to do a job like that. But it was a job. A vacancy at any rate. A steady income, which could mean the difference between staying in Cornwall or whimpering back to London, broke, shamefaced and disillusioned.
I started to get excited. The timing was right too. I knew post people started early and usually finished around midday or shortly afterwards. We'd already had our first stroke of luck employment-wise – Ben had just got the role of Captain Hook in Peter Pan, the forthcoming pantomime at the theatre in Truro. He could get the kids up, breakfasted and to school before he had to go off for rehearsals and I could be home in time to pick them up.
In the midst of my excitement I started to despair. There had been so many jobs I'd applied for and none of them had materialized. Why should this be different? But maybe our luck was changing, first with Ben's acting job, now with this. Though the pantomime would get us through the next few months, the future was still bleak unless one of us, preferably both, found full-time employment.
The next morning I was at the St Geraint post office at nine o'clock. Margaret was at her usual place behind the counter. I knew her vaguely from buying stamps and other sundry post office business. I told her I'd heard there was a vacancy for a post deliverer and asked if she had application forms.
'You?' she stared at me incredulously and with more than a hint of suspicion.
'Yes, me,' I retorted. I hardly knew the woman; we'd barely exchanged any words except about the weather and here she was looking at me as if I'd said I wanted a job as a lap dancer.
'You want to deliver post?'
'Is there a problem?'
'Uh, no, no,' she slid an application form through the counter window. 'You'll need to take a written exam first. In Truro.' She said it triumphantly, as if the whole exam would be in the Cornish language and that would show me for being so pushy and presumptuous.
An exam? Written? The last test I'd taken had been for a driving licence when I was seventeen. What if I failed even before the interview stage? I'm sure she smirked as I took the application, folded it carefully and slipped it into my bag. I didn't tell anyone, even Ben. I couldn't. For a start, we had been so positive when we'd started looking for work, so sure a job would be easy to find. We'd had so many disappointments, I didn't want to trouble him with yet another
and what if I failed the exam? However the day came and I passed the first hurdle, the written test, which was basically no more than to see if I could read English, match up post codes, and work out times so that I could fill in my time sheet correctly.
When I was called for an interview, I finally told my family. There were howls of disbelief and laughter. 'Mum, you'll have to be outside all the time,' Amy said.
'I love being outside.'
'When it's nice. You hate the rain. And wind drives you crazy. And you're always cold in winter,' this was Will.
Ben asked, 'Do you really want to do this, Tessa?'
'Why not? It'll be fun!' I was trying to convince myself.
'You'll never stick it. It's not your scene.'
'I'll probably not get it anyway.'
'Probably not.' I'll show him, I thought. I'll show them all.
The day of the interview finally arrived. I dressed soberly but not formally in a longish skirt, boots and a roll-neck pullover. My family, still disbelieving I could ever go through with this, nonetheless wished me luck and off I went back to Truro, wondering how many candidates I'd be up against and how experienced they were.
As I waited, my confidence began to ebb. Why on earth did I think that anyone would find me right for this job? No one else in Cornwall seemed to feel I'd be right for any kind of job, judging from the last few months. I was making a fool of myself even applying. No wonder Margaret had smirked when she gave me the application. Even the smartly dressed receptionist at the postal centre seemed to be smirking at me behind her computer as I waited for my interview.
I nearly left. I worked myself into such a dejected state that I was considering walking away before the interview when an older man in a suit and red tie called me into his office.
Up With the Larks Page 6
