I'm distraught. I love owls. This one was minding its own business, out hunting food on a lonely road and I came along, headlights blazing, confusing it totally as it flew into the lights and then into the darkness of death.
I feel bereft and tearful. I want to call Ben, talk to him, hear his warm words of understanding, but he'll be asleep. Everyone I know is asleep and I suddenly feel lonely here in this isolated place at this unspeakable hour in the shortest, and at times the most difficult, month of the year. All the doubts that racked me last autumn come flooding back. Did we do the right thing moving here? Will we survive financially? Will we ever make true, lasting friendships? Will I really be able to stick this job till the coming of spring when light mornings and warmth make it easier?
Even as I think these glum thoughts I know I'm overreacting, taking the owl's demise personally, letting its death release all the fears I've managed to submerge so far in this New Year. Things are better for sure but we're still on the edge despite my job, despite Ben's several part-time jobs. We're holding on, but it's still pretty tenuous.
I succumb to tears as I take the owl tenderly, place it on a grass verge at the side of the road and sprinkle it with some camellia petals I've scraped from the van. Then I pull myself together and go back to work.
The wind is so strong that by the time I reach Morranport, I have a hard time holding the van door open. I park by the beached boats next to the post office and pick up the sack of mail for this stretch by the seaside which I deliver on foot. The sea is foamy and turbulent as the wind whips it about. I can feel my hair being pulled out of its band and beginning to stand up on top of my head.
By the time I arrive at the Grenvilles' house at the end of the road I'm a frozen, dishevelled mess of a postwoman. It's 7.30 by now but low cloud cover is blocking any dawn that dares show its sunny head.
Archie Grenville greets me at the door, a cup of steamy hot coffee in his hand. I'm not surprised to see him as he and Jennifer are early risers. Since I rescued that lone letter from the sea in front of their house and dried off in their living room, they're always offering me refreshment when I come delivering.
Today I take him up on the offer and follow him gratefully into the warm, cluttered and cosy kitchen. As he pours me a coffee and adds the hot milk already waiting on the stove, he tells me his wife is upstairs, still asleep. 'Or, I should say, Jennifer is sleeping at last. She's had a poor night; her arthritis was bad. It's this cold wind, I think.'
I've been in this kitchen a few times since the episode of the nearly-drowned letter, growing fond of this old couple with their dignified, kindly togetherness. They have their own world in each other yet somehow do not exclude others as some couples do. I feel embraced by them both every time I go into the house.
The windows of the kitchen are steamy inside and wet from the sea spray on the outside: the wind is driving the spray further than usual. There are plants everywhere, on every surface – arum lily, spider, a few cacti, an African violet – and on the wall there are paintings, rather good ones which are all portraits that Jennifer has done of friends and family. 'Some folk take photos, I paint,' she'd shrugged me off when I'd praised her work.
Most of the walls in this room that don't have portraits on them are lined with open shelves filled with books. I've had a glance at them before, mostly history books, and many on Cornwall. I've wanted to ask Archie about them for some time, for there's always one open on the kitchen table when I go in. Some have scraps of lined paper, with writing in longhand, carefully placed in certain pages.
'Ah, you've noticed the books,' Archie says now. 'Since I retired, I've discovered a passion for the past. Because I'm a selfish old codger, it's my own past, or Cornwall's past, that interests me most. Same thing, I suppose.'
I point to the sheets of paper. 'Are you writing your own book?'
He laughs and the sound rings around the warm kitchen naturally. 'No, no. What I've done, see, is jot down the most fascinating bits, for me anyway, trying to put them in some sort of order. Maybe our children will be interested one day – it's their heritage too,' he turns serious. 'And it's disappearing fast.'
I look over my coffee cup at the two books on the table. One seems to be about early farming and fishing in the county, the other myth and superstition. Seeing my glance he says, 'Aye, it went hand and hand around here, still does, y'know. The rational and the irrational. I know for a fact that some of the old fishermen still throw a bit of bread into the sea before they begin the day's fishing, as they did centuries ago. For luck.'
I nod, 'I can understand that. A libation for the gods, to appease them. Keep 'em sweet.'
'That's it. The Romans did it with wine, always poured a drop or two on the ground or the table for their gods.'
'Well, I don't blame the fishermen for using any good luck charm they can, the seas around here being what they are.' We both look out at the waves foaming and snarling across the horizon.
Archie says, 'Not only the fishermen, though. Only yesterday I heard that one of the locums at the surgery – I know him, retired ten years ago but still comes out when one of our regular doctors is ill – recommended a local charmer for a lad's warts.'
He sees my smile and acknowledges it with one of his own but says, conspiratorially, 'He maybe said it tongue-in-cheek but I wouldn't bet on it. The thing is, there really are charmers still around, left over from the old medicine men.' Now he shakes his head. 'I've heard folk talk of witches, too. Oh, they say it mockingly, pretending they have no truck with such beliefs, but old superstitions die hard, believe me. It's bred in the bone, y'know.'
Reluctantly, I stand up to leave but before I go, Archie picks up a sheet of paper. 'Have your children had the measles yet?' I shake my head. 'Well then, you'd better have this, for when they do.'
I read it quickly. It's an old remedy apparently. You take a freshly-killed chicken, pluck out its feathers and hang it upside down in the patient's bedroom. Within a day the measles transfers itself to the bird which turns rotten and nasty as the patient is cleared of all infection.
I shudder, 'Poor bird.' I am thinking too of my poor dead owl.
'I know, not very nice for it.' We're silent for a moment. 'And d'you know, that remedy's been used within my lifetime. I saw it used on one of the fishermen's sons when I was five or six.'
Soon I'm on my way home driving along the same road where I started my round this morning, thinking about all the old Cornish stories of magic and witchcraft, a slight smile no doubt on my lips as I ponder the gullibility of people. Just when I'm starting to feel most rational, I see a black cat lying dead near the centre of the road.
Once again I pull over. I'm shaken not so much by the fact of the dead animal – I see more road kill than I care to remember on these lonely tracks – but because it's exactly the spot where the owl flew into my windscreen this morning.
I get out of the van and pull the cat into the grass at the roadside. It's not that long dead either, the car that hit it cannot have been far ahead of me. The creature has no collar and I don't recognize it; there are no houses on this stretch of the road either.
The owl is still there, the camellia petals stuck to its feathers like tiny drops of pink and red blood. I drag the dead cat next to it, cover it with petals as well and stand for a moment, feeling a bit goose-bumpy as I wonder whether this is a message from the spirits of old Cornwall warning me not to be such a sceptic.
The Owl and the Pussycat. I know it is a bizarre coincidence, hitting the owl then finding the cat in the same place on the same day but that poem has long been Amy and Will's favourite. I used to read it to them before they learned it by heart. Even now we still sometimes recite it together as we're driving along somewhere.
All the way home, the beginning of Edward Lear's poem about the owl and the pussycat goes round and round in my head until finally I turn on the radio and blare up the volume to drown it out.
Annie arrives in a whirlwind of city scents,
tastes, sights. As she tumbles into the house I think I can detect, underneath the delicate perfume she wears, a whiff of London – a mix of diesel fumes, Indian takeaways and the damp of thousands of woolly winter coats. She's looking great as usual, her short, dark hair sleekly cut, her trim figure clad in a crisp, white shirt tucked into belted, well-cut jeans. The soft, oversized, woolly cardigan she's wearing is a Donna Karan piece of knitwear that makes her look both sophisticated and feminine.
She's as excited to be here as I am to see her, going from room to room commenting on the changes we've made to the house since she saw it last autumn. 'It's looking terrific, you've been so busy!'
The first thing Annie wants to do is see my van. 'You, a postie, I can't believe it,' she cries, yelping with delight. 'Why aren't you in uniform? I'm dying to see you in it. Are you really a postwoman or are you making it all up?'
I assure her that it's all true and to prove it, on Monday I take her to work with me. I can show her the Cornish countryside while she helps me on my round.
'Oh, this is so funky, wait'll I tell everyone back in London,' she shouts above the van's roar. Then she begins to sneeze.
'What is it?' I look at her anxiously as her whole body shakes with sneeze after sneeze. I suddenly remember that I've sometimes had Jake with me in the van. And of course Susie's cat rides in here too. I apologize but Annie makes light of it.
'I'll just take another antihistamine,' she says, groping about in her handbag.
I drive her to the sea, to the thin strip of sandbar on the estuary where I often stop for lunch. 'This is my canteen,' I tell her, parking the van on the hard sand at the edge of the shoreline which overlooks the bay.
It's an idyllic day. The cold winds of last week have eased and a warm front has enveloped the country. February and it's a spring day, balmy and blissful. The water is a deep blue-green and I look out across the rocks for seals. Surely they'll be sunning themselves on a day like today.
No seals but there's a cormorant, nose-diving into the sea. The sun flashes on the patch of white feathers on its face as it hits the water. I wait, and watch, and sure enough, it's been lucky this time and bobs up with a small fish. Further on, standing with one foot in the shallows, is a heron, and closer to us about half a dozen sandpipers are strutting about.
I start to point out these things to Annie but she's deep in a reverie of her own, so I keep quiet. She's standing next to me facing the sea, inhaling deeply. She's wearing her Ugg boots and a nifty little, skintight rollneck jumper tucked into those marvellous jeans. She looks terrific with her new hair-cut. 'Toni & Guy?' I'd asked her last night when I commented on it.
'Yeah, new stylist at my branch,' she touches her short, sleek hair which I notice has deep red streaks in it. 'But yours looks good too.'
I grin, 'Model night at Toni & Guy's in Truro. They need to get the experience and I need not to spend a fortune on hair. Great compromise.'
Standing here facing the sea, Annie looks like a telly ad for some posh new shampoo with her slim body and good looks. In fact she works for the BBC, in research and programme development. She's bright, sophisticated, talented and also more allergy-prone than even I, her best friend, knew when we lived in the city. She's started to sneeze again and to cough as well. 'Sorry,' she mutters between gulps of air. 'Something's tickling my throat. Must be the salt air or something.'
'You're not allergic to the sea,' I say. 'You can't be, nobody is.'
She can't answer as her nose is blocked and her sinuses stuffed, the coughing and sneezing goes on and on. I hand her another antihistamine as we climb back into the van.
Annie raves over the countryside in all its spring glory but her allergies are getting worse. After stopping to picnic in a grassy meadow, she breaks out in an itchy rash all over her legs. After smelling an unidentified wildflower in a hedgerow, her eyes swell up.
We drive into St Geraint to buy eye drops, nasal sprays and more antihistamines. After our purchases we stop at the café on the seafront where Ben is now working part time. It's called the Sunflower Café, an appropriate name on days like today, with the sun shining in through the large picture windows and the sea sparkling right in front. We're the only customers there so after he's made and served our cappuccinos, Ben sits down with us. While Annie takes herself off to the loo to repair the damage done to her face by the Cornish countryside, I ask Ben how things are going.
'Slow,' he says. 'But then that's the way it is, in winter. My hours might be cut even more till things pick up in the spring.'
Another worry. My salary is certainly not enough to keep the family going; we need Ben's as much as mine. Thank goodness for my postal job, though, at least it's full time and I've got a contract. I've even signed the Official Secrets Act – how much more job security can a person need?
After our coffee Annie and I wander onto the jetty. The ferry for Truro is about to leave so we listen to its horn as it chugs away, watching it disappear into the distance. A few seagulls watch too. 'I guess Paul and Paula have already gone, on the early ferry,' I say.
'Who're they?'
'Didn't I tell you? Paul and Paula are seabirds, turnstones, and a few years back they began commuting on the ferry. They catch the 8.15 from here every morning and come back every evening.'
Annie turns to me and stares, 'You're making that up.'
'Not at all, it's true. The locals noticed it first and named them. Paul and Paula always get the last ferry back, every day, and the next morning they're on that first ferry again.'
Annie still looks disbelieving. 'I suppose you're going to tell me that they have a great day in Truro, getting their feathers done at Toni and Guy's and buying knickers at Marks and Spencer before coming home for the night.'
I grin, 'Don't believe me if you don't want to, but it's perfectly true. Ask any of the locals.'
She actually does. We go into the tiny bakery right in the middle of the harbour. It's no bigger than a garden shed and looks like one too. After I buy my bread and a few cakes, Annie asks Millie and Geoff, the elderly couple who have owned the bakery for years, about Paul and Paula.
'Oh, 'tis true alright,' Geoff says. 'Every mornin' we see 'em on that 8.15 ferry.'
'And every evening, back they come,' Millie adds. 'I'd be that worried if they wasn't on that last ferry home.'
Annie searches their faces for signs that this is an elaborate joke that country folk play on innocent city visitors, but their kind homely faces assure her it's not. She takes out a thin moleskin notebook from her oversized Mulberry bag and begins to write. 'I've got to remember this, to tell all your old friends back home,' she mutters while she scribbles.
My week with Annie goes by too quickly. Despite the allergies, Annie plunges into country life, treating it like a rare adventure to a lush but alien landscape. She's determined to make the most of it.
Because she can't have a dog of her own but loves them, she takes Jake for long walks while I'm working. The chemist in St Geraint must be running out of allergy medicines as she continues to sneeze, swell and itch at an alarming rate, but this doesn't deter Annie from fussing over Jake. He adores her and tries to sit on her lap in the evenings, clawing at her posh jeans as he tries to kiss her. She reaches for the tissues and takes another pill.
And then one day I come home from work to find Annie in a state. 'What's up?' I ask.
She's looking dishevelled and sweaty and a bit grimy, so unlike my immaculately groomed friend. 'I've had quite a day. I've just got back from the police station.'
'What?'
'You wouldn't believe it, what people do. Some people just shouldn't keep pets, shouldn't be allowed. I think I'll write to my MP.'
'Annie, calm down.' I make a big pot of mint tea and sit her down at the kitchen table. 'Now drink this and tell me what happened.'
'Well, I was walking down to the shop and on my way back I saw this dog, this beautiful apricot poodle, wandering along the road.'
I am busy pouring
tea so don't reply. She goes on, 'No owner, no collar, nothing. Just wandering.' She says the last word as if wandering were a synonym for doggie drug abuse.
'Yes?' I'm becoming a bit distracted, thinking of how I need a hot shower after the day's work before I get going on dinner.
'Well, I was absolutely appalled. I marched right out, gave the poodle a few of Jake's biscuits then got him into my car and took him straight to the police station.'
'What!' All my attention is focused right back on Annie. 'You what?'
'I knew you'd be upset too, you're an animal lover like I am and it breaks your heart too to see stray dogs wandering the streets. Imagine, such a gorgeous dog and her owners letting her get away like that. Why she could have been killed or abducted or . . .'
I didn't wait to hear the rest. 'Annie, that dog is a bitch called Annabel. She's not a stray, she belongs to one of our neighbours on the other side of the church.'
'But she didn't have a collar.'
'No, she's got a skin allergy. You should know about that.'
'And she was just wandering . . .'
'Annie, this is the country. That's what dogs do. If they're docile and friendly, they wander about the village and nobody takes any notice. Sometimes Annabel has even come inside our garden when the gate is open. Jake loves her. I'm just surprised you haven't seen her before.'
'Oh dear,' Annie looks chagrined.
'Never mind, you can't help having a city mindset.' I pat her hand kindly. 'I suppose Annabel is home now?'
'Ah, no. Actually not. I took her to the police station in Truro and left her there. I don't know what they've done with her.'
I race out of the house, behind the church and to the neighbours. They're not in. I phone the police station. Yes, Annabel is still there and no, they haven't found the owner yet. I explain everything and say I'll be right over.
I leave a note for the owners in case they get home before we do. Forgetting my shower and tonight's special dinner I was making for Annie's last night, I drive to Truro in heavy traffic and a heavier mist that has suddenly fallen. Annie, crestfallen and quiet, goes with me. Annabel licks us both all over when she sees us and Annie reaches for the new inhaler she's acquired since coming to the countryside.
Up With the Larks Page 11
