Up With the Larks

by Tessa Hainsworth

  Some of the differences are obvious from the start. Like the anti-litter signs: in Devon it's 'Keep Devon Ship-shape', while here in Cornwall you see a smiley-faced bin-bag that states, 'Mrs Baggit says take your rubbish home'. Recently I've heard Devon visitors commenting on these slogans as a sign of the sophistication of Devon compared to its southerly more unsophisticated neighbour, but I've retorted that they just haven't got the sense of humour we do. I realize that I'm starting to think like a Cornish woman.

  The emmetts that arrive first are what I call the pink shirt brigade, the high-powered City types who own second homes along the sea fronts and the tiny villages near the coves and beaches. They like to think of themselves as part of Cornwall, a breed apart from the day tourists or the campers or holiday makers who only rent, rather than own a piece of the county for themselves, but the locals don't see this distinction. They're still visitors here, transients boosting their economy.

  Easter week is at the end of the month and I'm walking along the seafront to St Geraint post office. A spate of warm weather predicted for the weekend has lured not just the second homers but day trippers as well to the town. You can usually tell the difference: the ones here for the day are ambling along, eating ice cream and feeding the seagulls, though there are strict rules against doing so as the birds have become aggressive over the years. I've seen a gull swoop down and take a sandwich from a man's hand as he stood on the harbour waiting for the ferry and another one snatch an ice cream cone from a little girl's fingers. They have sharp claws and beaks, and have become a menace. Especially in June and July, when they're protecting their young, they can be vicious and dangerous.

  The second homers are too busy to eat ice creams and loll about the seafront, though they take a moment in their busy lives to frown at the day trippers as they throw a crumb to the gulls. The men in their Armani casuals keep surreptitiously consulting their blackberries or desperately trying to get a signal on their mobile phones while they try to figure out how to open the toddler's pushchair, something they've never had to do before. Meanwhile the women, in their Boden knits and cords, steer the men up the side streets where there is a boutique or two selling unusual designer frocks and Dr Hauschka organic skin cream.

  It never varies, as we discovered on many visits to Cornwall before we finally moved here. As I walk briskly along I'm reassured that it's all beginning again. The second homers are back in their cottages, soon they'll be back on their yachts. Life in South Cornwall goes on as usual.

  Susie joins me before I get to the post office. 'Buzzing, isn't it,' she mutters as we try to pass two supremely obese women eating pasties as they walk. I notice a couple of the pink shirt brigade staring disapprovingly at them. The day trippers are giving 'their' town a bad name, all that eating in the streets and letting oneself go to seed.

  Susie giggles; she's noticed it too. We look at each other and raise our eyebrows. All of a sudden I'm feeling I've been here forever, being able to grimace at all the assorted visitors with the assurance of a local.

  Outside a small office, we stop to chat with Harry, who has recently started work for one of the accountants in town. Harry, with his partner Charlie, moved down from London around the same time we did, buying a small cottage in the next village to ours. Ben and I met the couple right after Christmas at a party given by some mutual London friends who had rented a cottage near us for the New Year. That night, Harry and I discovered we had other acquaintances in common and since then have struck up an easy friendship, meeting every now and again for coffee or lunch and a chat.

  He's outside his office now, rolling a cigarette. 'Hey Tessa, Susie. Looks like summer's early this year.' He rolls his eyes in mock horror.

  Harry is in his mid-thirties, tall and lean, devastatingly goodlooking. In London he too was part of the pink shirt brigade, a high-powered accountant for one of the most prestigious firms in the city, but, like me, the stress finally got to him and he moved to Cornwall last summer.

  Charlie, on the other hand, is Cornish born and bred. He was born in Morranport, the son of a fisherman. Unwilling to come out to his family, he left home for Up Country, worked at odd jobs here and there before ending up as a hair stylist in a trendy salon in Kent. He and Harry met in Canterbury when Harry, visiting friends, popped into the salon for a haircut. The couple have been together since.

  'It was me that was desperate to come to Cornwall,' Harry told me when we talked one day, on a wet January morning in St Geraint. I'd finished delivering the post and was in the Sunflower Café trying to get warm before going home when he joined me. 'Daft name for a café, with the rain beating against that huge glass front,' Harry muttered as he warmed his hands on a hot cup of rich chocolate. 'But at least it's warmer here than in my office. Something's wrong with the heating. I have to pop out here to get warm between clients.'

  Even with a nose red with cold and hair slick with rain, Harry looked ravishingly gorgeous. Curious, I asked, 'How did you end up here? Surely there were more job opportunities in Truro.'

  He'd shrugged. 'I'd had enough of big firms, believe me. I really did want to downsize in every way.'

  I nodded. 'I know what you mean.'

  'So when Charlie heard through the village grapevine about this opening, I applied straightaway.'

  As we sat huddled over our hot chocolate that icy day, Harry told me more about how he'd got here. 'I've always loved Cornwall, used to come here on holidays with the parents. I think that's why I first fell in love with Charlie – the rugged Cornish-ness of him.' He looked dreamily out of the window.

  'Didn't Charlie want to come back?'

  'He was torn. Missed the place, yes, but knew he'd have to come out if we moved here. Was a bit nervous of that. His family didn't know.'

  'And is it all right now with them?'

  Harry had looked pensive. 'Yeah, more or less. It wasn't easy, telling them. A small village – it's hard. But they're OK with it now.'

  After a brief chat, Susie and I wave goodbye to Harry and wander on towards the post office. We pass the old clothes shop that has apparently been there for decades. A stark contrast to the trendy boutiques, it has clothes in the window that would have been old fashioned in the Sixties. I've rarely seen it open. There is a sign on the door, written in pencil: Closed until I can be bothered to open it again. I've seen this sign often, but sometimes it changes to: Open until I get bored. Mostly, though, the shop is closed.

  I asked Susie about it when I started the job. 'Oh, that place. Owned by an old bloke. Poor man, partner died a year or so back, tries to run the place hisself but his heart's not in it.'

  Obviously not. I take another look through as we walk past. The sign is as faded as the pleated wool skirt and the beige nylon blouse in the window.

  In the post office, Margaret greets us cheerily. 'Junk mail issued today, ladies,' she says, indicating mounds of it in the sorting room. 'But of course I should have said "business mail" as we must officially call it. Have fun.'

  I look sheepishly at Susie. I've already learned the trick of putting it aside to be delivered the next day, when I'm not on. We all do it, surreptitiously of course, pretending we don't. It's just such a chore and so pointless too. The number of people I have who give it right back to me, or mutter 'firelighters' when they see it, is phenomenal.

  On the way home I stop at the little supermarket for some milk and butter. It's packed today.

  Lulu sees me. 'Mrs Posh Post Lady, how are you?'

  'Fine, Lulu, what about you?'

  'Oh very fine too. I am liking very much this place in sunshine.'

  The woman she is serving, flashy in her town clothes, her pink and yellow patterned town wellies, stares haughtily at her, for daring to chat to the customers. Behind us, there is a queue of second homers, some I recognize, having already delivered to them. They're talking loudly and Lulu and I stop talking to listen.

  'Do you think the chicken is really fresh? I'm not so sure. Wouldn't be surprised if i
t's been frozen.'

  'We should have brought one from home.'

  'Yes, we should have stocked up in Waitrose. Pity there's not one here.'

  Lulu looks at me and shakes her head. I pack up my milk and butter while the couple behind me pay for the dubious chicken.

  As they leave I hear them say, 'She wasn't very friendly was she, that foreign girl who served us.'

  'Rude, if you ask me. You'd think they'd train the staff properly, wouldn't you?'

  I scowl at them as they go out. I can just imagine them telling their friends Up Country how rude the post office staff is too.

  A few days later I am in St Geraint again, planning to meet Ben for a hurried lunch, not in the Sunflower Café but somewhere quiet where no one knows us so we can relax and talk. A new tea shop and lunch restaurant has opened on the edge of town and we've decided to try there. It's behind the Roswinnick which is full now with guests. I've heard there's an English dame who is a well-known actress staying at the hotel this week, as well as one of the stars of a long running soap, but so far I've not seen any of them roaming around town.

  The Easter break has remained warm and dry and it's not yet April; I hope this bodes well for summer but you never know. St Geraint will empty for a time after this spring holiday but the hordes will be back as soon as summer starts. Earlier even – the May Bank Holiday is usually the beginning.

  As I approach the Roswinnick I see a crowd of people gathered outside. At first I think they are trying to spot the celebrities, though the locals are usually fairly blasé about them and don't pay them much attention.

  As I get closer, I hear a noise in the sky and look up to see what the excitement is about. An air ambulance is about to land on the thin strip of shoreline in front of the hotel.

  I see Harry amongst the onlookers and ask him what's happened. 'A builder, working on a house a few miles from here, on his own in the middle of nowhere, apparently fell off the scaffold. Nearly ripped his arm off.'

  'Oh how awful. Where is he now?'

  'On his way here, to St Geraint. Luckily some walkers heard his cry for help or he'd have been there all day. Apparently they've put him in his car and are on their way here with him now. It's Ian Franks, you probably know the guy.'

  'Only vaguely, he's not on my normal route.'

  Eddie has come up behind us and says, 'He's on Susie's round but I've seen him lots when I've done relief for her. Nice bloke, has a couple of kids, little maids not even big enough to go to school.'

  'Is he bad?'

  Eddie's face is pale under his freckles. 'Don't know.'

  We look over at the air ambulance, now on the ground. The tide is coming in fast and everyone is anxiously waiting for the car with the injured man. It's a real race against time, for the helicopter will have to leave without Ian if the tide comes in before he gets here.

  There's a sudden cheer from the crowd. A Volvo estate is driving furiously up the street, escorted by the local police. The rescue operation is completed just in time; the helicopter, with Ian safe inside, is barely up in the air before the sand bar is covered with water.

  Later, over lunch in the small back-street café, I say to Ben, 'Poor Ian, there's talk of his losing an arm. It was a nasty accident, apparently.'

  'So I heard. Poor guy.'

  Next day, people are talking of nothing else. Everyone is distressed. 'God knows what Ian will do if he can't work,' Martin Rowland says to me. 'He's a bloody good builder, one of the best, done it since he worked with his father as a young kid.'

  Emma gives me a brown pot with a heavy lid. 'Can you drop this off at his place? His wife and kids might be glad of it. It's only a stew, but they might be needing something hot when they get home from hospital.'

  I don't tell her that the family isn't on my round. It's not far out of my way to drop by anyway. At other places, I'm given daffodils to take to Ian, a couple of flowering plants, some fresh fruit, magazines. Even Mr Hawker, who has nothing to give, hands me a sliver of lined paper on which he's written, 'Dear Ian, I hope you get better soon. I knew your grandfather; he was a good man.'

  I put all the offerings into Ian's unlocked front porch, as no one is home. The goodness, the sincerity of these people and their gifts, touches me to the core. The generosity of those who have very little has not stopped amazing me since I moved here.

  We learn soon that Ian's life isn't threatened but his arm is. It's been operated on but apparently it's touch or go if the operation will save the arm. What will he do, how will he live, how will he support himself if he loses his business? I'm asked this a dozen times, not that anyone expects an answer.

  It isn't until a few days later, when the good news spreads that the operation is a success and not only will Ian not lose his arm but will fully recover and be able to work again, that people heave a collective sigh of relief and finally are able to let go, to turn to other things.

  April

  Annie comes down again at the beginning of the month for a long weekend.

  'I've come to remind you of your roots,' she says as I meet her from Truro train station. 'So that you don't become too bovine.' She's carrying her laptop as well as her weekend bag. 'Had so much work to do, that's why I didn't drive this time.'

  I smile smugly. 'I remember those bad old days, when I had to lug my work home with me every weekend. Not any more.'

  'OK smartie.' She makes a face at me. 'You have an answer for everything since you've moved down here.' As usual she looks stunning, a smart belted trench coat over her designer jeans and a perky little wine-coloured beret on her sleek hair.

  I lead her to Minger, the name we've given to my old car. It's a far cry from the smart company car I once had. Minger is a little white Peugeot that used to be a police car. Since we moved it's been the 'beach' car and smells of wet dog, salt and seaweed, potato crisps and peanuts, hence its name. It's full of sand, which we return now and then to the beach, and there seems to be some kind of irrigation system going on in the boot as after a rainfall, we hear sloshing water noises every time I go around a bend. Will and Amy discuss whether anything would be able to grow in the dark recesses of the boot; we all hope for cress, so that we can have yummy egg and cress sandwiches to eat on the beach.

  Annie says, 'You've still got this death trap?'

  'Minger might be deteriorating, but she's safe. Passed her MOT first go.'

  Annie gets in sceptically and immediately starts to sneeze.

  'Now what is it? I left Jake at home and even mucked the car out, in honour of your visit.'

  'I know, I know, it's me,' she wails. 'Who knows what it is this time. I'm probably allergic to Cornwall.'

  Whatever it is doesn't get better. I make the mistake of forgetting about our new hens and taking Annie in through the back door which means passing the chicken run. Although they're getting used to us, the hens are still a bit nervy. They set to, squawking and flapping their wings when we walk by.

  'Aaarrgghh!' Annie yelps, jumping like a hare in headlights.

  'Sorry, I should have warned you. It's the hens. We've only had them a short time and they haven't completely settled.'

  I make soft chucking noises to the chickens, as I've tended to do lately when I feed them. In the short time we've had them, I've grown to love my hens: the way they cock their little heads to the side as if wondering what I'll do next; the way they scuffle about in the straw; the funny little cluck-cluck noises they make.

  'You talk to them, do you?' Annie asks with a grin.

  'Calms them down, I hope. They were quite scatty when they first arrived.'

  By now the hens are getting excited, expecting food. I open the tight lid on the metal container where we store the layers' mash and give them a small handful which they rush upon with delirious squawks.

  Annie says, 'Is that all they get?'

  I grin, 'No, of course not, this is a bit extra but we do have to be careful with overfeeding. Anything left over and the rats will move in.'

>   Annie shudders. 'Life in the country, eh?'

  'Don't worry, they're not here yet.'

  A few feathers float down to land on Annie's shoulders. She sneezes again and starts rubbing her eyes. 'C'mon,' I say hurriedly. 'Let's get you inside.'

  In spite of all the antihistamines, by late afternoon Annie is covered with raised lumps all over her arms and face.

  Ben sees her and freaks out. 'Annie, your whole face is swollen. C'mon, I'm taking you to the hospital.'

  I feel awful for not noticing how bad she's become but we've both been talking a blue streak and trying to ignore her escalating allergies. I say I'll take her to hospital while Ben cooks dinner. We've discovered a lobster fisherman down here who will deliver a whole lobster, freshly cooked, straight to our door for only £6. We couldn't believe it at first but now, when guests come from Up Country, we always have a lobster evening. They think we've struck it rich and are astounded when we tell them the price.

  At A&E in Truro, Annie is given a massive injection and told to go home and stay away from whatever has caused the allergy. 'It's Cornwall,' she tells them peevishly. 'And I can't avoid it; my best friend lives here.'

  The lobsters are a great treat. 'So there are some advantages to this rural life, I guess,' she says when we finish. 'That was delicious.'

  'And at that price,' I add. 'We might not be able to afford to get rid of Minger but we can eat lobster now and again.'

  'I suppose it's worth it, giving up stuff, if you can get food like this.'

  'What d'you mean? What sort of stuff ?'

  'The kind of things we have in the city. Like, well, like Pilates.'

  I look at her incredulously. 'What do you mean, give it up?' Annie and I used to take a class together in London. 'I've got a brilliant teacher in St Geraint.'