I sat there for ages, joyous to have this blessing of birdsong, yet sad that the traffic, the noise of London had prevented me from hearing it for all those long years.
Here in Trescatho, the silence is even more intense. Every time I come, I feel I've stepped back hundreds of years in time. The village seems isolated and cut off from the 21st century. Its position helps to create this feeling, with the high cliffs going down to the sea on one side and the precipitous hill falling to the river on the other. There's only one narrow road leading to it and it's a cul de sac which ends at the village. Once it was a lively community, with an inn, a blacksmiths, a tiny shop and even a one-room village school. Now there are only a cluster of stone houses.
It seems a million miles from anywhere, this place, and the fact that it's so quiet, so empty of people, adds to the feeling of timelessness. Even the stone barns alongside the farmyard seem frozen in the past. There are no signs of animals, yet hay and straw are stacked up in an open-ended shed. I haven't seen a tractor but there's an ancient plough in the corner. I keep expecting to see the oxen that pull it.
Yet this doesn't seem like a ghost town. I know these houses aren't empty; I see names on the post I deliver and smoke rising from chimneys, smoke from wood-burners and the old Agas and Rayburns I sometimes glimpse through half-curtained windows. I drop the post in letterboxes, in sheds, in boxes hidden from the rain, and even into a few front porches with doors left ajar for me. But I've never seen another soul. Well, only one and he was so odd I'm beginning to wonder if I imagined it.
It was the first time I'd delivered the post to Trescatho, early one foggy morning. A lone sheepdog somewhere behind the farm at the edge of the hamlet barked once then stopped, and an owl hooted loudly, making me jump. I had to walk down a narrow footpath of old cobbles, grass growing in between, to a nest of cottages clustered around a tiny square, a postage stamp village green. I kept expecting to hear the sound of horses' hooves on the cobbles.
The mist dipped in and out between the houses and a full moon still shone through the dark and fog and the coming dawn. I felt like I had stumbled across Brigadoon, the sleeping town said to wake and appear only once every hundred years. If a man in a shepherd's smock and a woman in a crinoline and bonnet had appeared in one of the doorways I'd not have been the least surprised but I sure as hell yelped when someone came up behind me and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
An apologetic voice said, 'Sorry, miss, if I frightened you.'
Turning, I saw a man towering over me and I do mean towering. He must have been well over six and a half feet tall, probably more. He had thick, long, black hair down to his shoulders and he held one hand in front of his mouth even when he talked. I murmured something back but noticed his other hand was still on my shoulder.
We stood there for a few moments and my fear was coming back despite the civility in his voice. He seemed in no hurry to speak so I stammered, 'Uh, can I, uh, help you? Do you have a letter you want me to take?'
This flustered him. 'Oh no, no no no, thank 'ee anyway. It's just that I'm needing to get by. Bit of a hurry, y'see.' He nodded towards the cluster of houses ahead of us, shrouded in the heavy mist. A light shone from one of them but it was eerily muted, looking more like candlelight or a gas lamp than electricity.
I suddenly realized that because the path was so narrow, there was no way he could get past me unless I squeezed myself up against one of the stone garden walls. This I did and he hurried by, finally dropping his hand from my shoulder and the other one from his mouth. It was then I had the second shock of the day. His two eye teeth were as long as fangs. He looked like every picture I'd ever seen of imaginary werewolves.
I don't know if I yelped again; I hope I didn't. I do know I stood there frozen with fear as I watched that huge lumbering creature disappear into the house with the light. Then I delivered the post – luckily there was none for that particular house – and scurried out of the village as fast as my little postie legs could take me.
When I got back, I nonchalantly asked Susie and Reg, who was still working at the time, if there was anything strange about Trescatho. 'No, why?' they both replied, looking at me as if I was the weird one.
I've never seen him again, whoever he is. Or was. And I've never seen the people who live in that house. The name on the odd letter they get, mostly advertisements, is a common enough name, so there are no answers there.
I used to scorn all those books I saw on sale when we moved here, about 'haunted' Cornwall and 'mysterious' Cornwall but now I hold my tongue. This place makes believers in elves and fairies of all of us at one time or another, I'm beginning to think.
Trescatho is no less mysterious today, in a strong morning light and under a cold blue sky. I've long since given up trying to solve the mystery of my 'werewolf ' but I indulge in lighter fantasies: I am a time traveller and this is my favourite stopoff back in the 16th century. I do this all the way to the red posting box which, if not exactly 16th century, is pretty old. It's embedded in a Jack and Jill herringbone stone wall, part of the one that surrounds this cluster of houses on the green. The old postbox has been cemented in, though the rest of the wall is dry stone – or Cornish hedging as it is known here. Unlike these walls in other counties, the stones are thin and are laid flat, one narrow stone above the other. In Devon, the next county up, the dry stone walls are made with larger stones and look totally different.
I unlock the Royal Mail postbox to collect the letters and that's when I see the first sign of life in this mysterious hamlet, clustered in a heap at the bottom of the collection box: snails, about six or seven of them, looking as if they've lived there for decades. I smile to myself. Snail Mail.
I run my fingers through the letter slot to check if the brush is still there, those soft bristles which are supposed to keep spiders and other crawling creatures out of Royal Mail property. Yes, it's still intact. Staring at the snails for a moment, I wonder how they got through the barrier before I take the few letters and gently close the box, leaving the snails where they are. Another mystery, but one I'm contented not to solve. Let the snails live amongst the letters in peace.
As I drive away I wonder if, the moment the van is out of sight, the people of Trescatho all come tumbling out of their cottages and get on with the lives they've been living for the last few centuries, the lives I'll never see, never know about, no matter how many times I deliver their letters and parcels.
The stillness doesn't last long. Soon I'm back in my van, going up the hill to do a few more deliveries. I've finished my round but I'm doing part of Susie's. It's her birthday today and she's taken the day off, so I and the other deliverers are sharing out her round for this one day, along with our own.
I go up the road to Eleanor Gibland's house, parking at the creek where I had tried to find the rainbow's end that time. It seems years ago now but it was only last November. I get out of the van, stare idly at the water gurgling and rushing over stones and pebbles, spilling over onto the mossy grass alongside. Then, unable to resist, I paddle out into the shallow creek to take a look at the hunk of rock where I saw the glint of gold that crazy day as the sun shone through the storm clouds. Is it really a yellow stone or was it an illusion created by the strange sky and stunning rainbow, that November morning? Perhaps there was something underneath the pebbles that caused that golden colour?
I lean over and start turning the stones over, forgetting completely where I am and what I'm supposed to be doing.
A prissy voice brings me up short, 'Still looking for that pot of gold, are you?'
I flush. How did she know what I had been up to that morning? I never told her I was following a rainbow. No doubt Susie did, though. I'd told her the story, laughing at myself as I did so. The story must have spread all over our postal area by now. I really must remember how nothing is either secret or sacred around here.
I'm handing Eleanor some flyers for a bath shop, an advertisement for computers and what looks like a bank s
tatement, when the quiet of this tranquil spot by the creek is broken by the loud noise of a motor. I look around, startled, but there are no vehicles driving up the narrow road to the house, nor are there any tractors in the fields alongside.
Eleanor says, 'Helicopter.'
We look up, and sure enough, there's a huge helicopter heading towards us. In moments it is right above us, circling us like a buzzard homing in on carrion.
I'm getting nervous. The helicopter is so low, so close and so noisy, that Eleanor and I have to shout at each other. 'What's happening?' I yell. 'It must be looking for something.'
'Or someone,' she shouts back.
I can't bear the noise any longer so I wave goodbye and jump into the van to get away from it. As I look up again I see people inside, waving their arms. It makes me jumpy as I don't know what's wrong, what they're after. Are they warning me about something? Has there been an accident? Has some serial killer armed to the teeth escaped from prison somewhere? Could he be hiding in a Royal Mail van? Is he in mine?
I drive at top speed out of the drive and head back along the cliff road to St Geraint. To my horror, it seems that the helicopter is following me. Is it the police, I wonder? Did someone report me for leaving their post in a leaking shed? I slow down, stop at a lay-by overlooking the cliffs and sea. The helicopter hovers overhead, circling the van. I rev up again, drive into town and into the boat yard parking area. I'm almost too frightened to get out but I tell myself not to be so silly. I open the door and look up. I can see the pilot and co-pilot inside, and other people too, still waving and shouting at me. What do they want?
Tentatively, I raise my arm in a kind of salute. This acknowledgement seems to be what they have been waiting for as the helicopter circles one more time and then flies away in a rush of whirring blades and overwhelming noise.
My ears are still ringing when I meet Susie in the coffee shop. I wish her a happy birthday and plop down next to her and Eddie, our new relief postman. Eddie's a lively, energetic young man with thick ginger-blond hair and endearing freckles. Already he and Susie have a great relationship going, though more like brother and sister than work colleagues, one minute thick as clotted cream and the next sparring with each other. Luckily for the sake of peace in the post office, the sparring is always done in a joking way and neither of them take it seriously.
I order a latte, another coffee for Susie and tea for Eddie. When that's done I say, 'So, Eddie, who was that pretty young woman you were showing around in the van yesterday?'
He grins, cheekily. 'Her? Oh, she's history. Never showed up at the cinema yesterday evening, stood me up.'
Susie grimaces. 'Don't blame her. Wouldn't want to be one of your women for sure.'
Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes. 'Can't help the way they run after me, maid.' He winks at me and I smile back. There's something about his slow easy confidence that's appealing.
Susie gives him a mock slap on the wrist then turns to me. 'Is everything OK, Tessa? You looked flustered when you came in just now.'
'I was.' I tell them about the helicopter following me all the way from Eleanor's house.
'I saw it,' Susie says. 'Just as we come in here.'
'Coast Guard,' adds Eddie.
'I wonder what it was up to? Terrified the life out of me. Can't be looking for someone lost at sea, not up around Eleanor's place anyway.'
Susie grins, 'Course not. They thought you was me, is all.'
'What?'
'They do it every year, me mates in the Coast Guard. To wish me a happy birthday. Didn't realize I took the day off today. Usually work on m'birthday.'
I am still looking confused. 'The men in the helicopter thought you was me, Tessa.' Susie has that slow patient I'm talking to a dumbo tone of voice that seems to be the one many of the locals use with me more often than is comfortable. 'Those blokes know my round better'n I do.'
Our drinks arrive before I can say anything else, but what is there to say, anyway? By now Susie and Eddie are talking of something else, going out for a meal together that night by the sound of it, as if the instance of a Coast Guard helicopter circling a post office van to wish the postwoman inside a happy birthday were a normal everyday Cornish occurrence.
And well it might be, I think as I take a sip of my latte, wondering what this bizarre job will have in store for me next.
February
Up Country it is still winter but in Cornwall spring is well underway. The camellias, which were budding last month, are in bloom. For days their white, pink and red petals have been strewn like confetti all over the village. The gardens are filled with camellia bushes, some of them fifteen feet high, and every time there is a high wind the air swirls with colour. The petals stick to my red van like tiny, colourful stamps.
In January, the fields along the roadside began to fill with the daffodils that will be sold Up Country. I've heard there is trouble finding pickers now, since so many Eastern European countries have joined the EU and the workers go to the towns where the money is better. Only the Latvians and the Estonians still seem to be regulars.
I love driving up and down the hills in my petal-splattered van between sunny yellow fields, revelling in the colours. My old friends in London tell me that despite a few early blooms, the city is still grey and gloomy. Here, the magnolias are beginning. Though the February breeze is still cold, I roll down the windows to get a whiff of their perfume when I deliver the post to some of the houses along the sea. The vanilla scent of magnolias mingles with the smell of salt and seaweed; they look so exotic in these seaside gardens, those bare branches with gigantic blooms. In the sheltered valleys the trees grow huge. They were brought back by the famous plant hunters of the past and every time I see them I am transported back to a different time, a different place.
Today is Friday and I'm looking forward to a whole rare weekend off. Last night Ben and I were up late, cleaning the house in anticipation of Annie's visit. I love it when really good friends come to stay. It takes away the sting of some of our other visitors, like Seth and Samantha, and another couple, Morgan and Glenda, who ate us out of house and home without once helping to peel a vegetable or wash a dish; who offered to take us for a pub meal and managed to turn their backs so Ben was forced to pay; and whose two hyper-active children so antagonized Will and Amy that they were enraged for ages afterwards. But those visitors were not my dear old London friends. Those, I miss terribly. Annie is a special one, sharing all those intimate girlie talks that can only occur with close female friends.
Though I've made loads of acquaintances here, I don't feel any of them have become friends yet. There are some in the village I'd like to get to know better and once or twice I've sensed a breaking through of that thin but strong line between acquaintances and friends. Somehow before it happens, before that line is crossed, there seems to be a pulling back – not from me but from the villagers. It's all very polite but I'm acutely aware of the exclusion.
Yesterday was a prime example. I was in the village shop, buying some Cornish cream for Annie's arrival, when Daphne, who farms along with her husband a few miles from the village, came in. Daphne's children go to the same school as mine and we've met at PTA meetings and other school functions. We've talked loads and I've sensed a common interest between us despite our different backgrounds.
At the shop yesterday we began to chat. I told her about Annie's arrival, how I intended to clean the house from top to bottom before she came.
'For a friend?' said Daphne. 'Goodness, my friends have to take me as I come. I hate cleaning.'
Another thing we have in common, I thought, and said, 'Oh, I hate it too. And Annie wouldn't mind what the house looked like, of course she wouldn't, but she's allergic to animal hairs. Our house is covered in them.' I groaned, thinking of all the animal fluff poor Annie would have to contend with. There's not only Jake but the fur and fluff of rabbits as well. We've acquired two since Christmas, and though they live in a hutch outside the door, they're tame eno
ugh to come inside and cuddle on the sofa with the children.
Daphne commiserated when I told her about my friend's allergies. Then, encouraged, I started to confide in her about Annie, about how much I've missed her. Around us the life of a village shop went on, with a pensioner coming in for a single stamp, a young man picking up some beer for a party later, and a couple of mothers with babies buying milk and bread and stopping to chat for ages over the dairy products.
By the time Daphne and I finished talking, I felt like we'd known each other for ages, so I said, impulsively, 'You'd really like Annie, y'know, and she'd like you. How about joining us for the evening, going to the pub or something, just the three of us? Or coming out to my place? Ben is working most evenings this week so Annie and I will be on our own.'
She refused, politely, saying she had a lot on that week, and I'm sure she did. I knew Daphne was a busy woman, but she didn't give me another opening, didn't offer to get together with me after Annie left.
Well, fair enough, I thought, as I walked slowly home that day: Daphne has the farm, the kids, her own full life. She probably doesn't have much time to see her own old friends, let alone make new ones. But there have been other examples of this. People are friendly enough on the surface, but that's as far as it goes. I know it all takes time. But for now, I can't wait for Annie to get here.
I'm shivering as I drive along the empty roads to my first delivery. There's a cold wind today and the heater in the van is not working properly. It's 5.30 a.m. and the fields of daffodils are radiant in the early morning moonlight. I've had to clear my windows of the ruffles of camellia petals; the van is still covered. I like it – it feels festive and celebratory.
And then there is a moment of horror: a loud thunk against the windscreen, a dark shape hitting it, flying up and landing on the bonnet of the car. My heart thumps as I screech on the brakes and pull over to the side. Luckily there are no cars behind me; there's been no traffic at all on this road since I set out. I look at the inert form lying still on the bonnet. It's an owl.
Up With the Larks Page 10
