Glenda says frostily, 'You already said, Morgan darling, that all the pubs will be packed. I'll cook tonight for the four of us in the cottage. Can't you see Ben and Tessa want to stay home with their friends?'
They make a move to go, Morgan albeit with great reluctance. From outside in the garden come the sounds of their children bickering with ours.
As they leave, Morgan says, 'Well, what about tomorrow? Shall we all meet in that great pub in Morranport?'
Glenda, watching Philippa smiling sexily at her husband and telling him how much she looks forward to seeing him again, says firmly, 'Morgan, Ben and Tessa have company this weekend. We'll see them another time, when they're on their own.'
I can almost like Philippa after saving us from that dreaded pair, but she ruins it by moving in on Ben as soon as Morgan is gone. Full-beamed headlight eyes on his, sitting far too close to him on the sofa, hanging on his every word – the works. And then doing the same thing when Eddie comes round, to tell me something about the shift I'm working for him next week. Poor Eddie – how is he to know that she can't help it, that she does the same thing to every man who comes into her orbit? He stays for ages, unable to tear himself away.
When Seth and Philippa leave the next day, after Philippa has embarrassed us to death by trying her seductress bit with both the landlord of the local pub and the father of one of Amy's friends, Seth calls out from the open car window as he drives away, 'I'm a lucky man, aren't I?'
We're too speechless to answer.
The holiday weekend, as well as the week before and after, is murder on the roads. Or to be precise, it makes me want to commit murder. It's not so bad first thing in the morning when there are few cars out and about but later, as I'm finishing my rounds, I always come across at least one of the types of drivers that incite me to rage.
It's the man or the woman – and both are equally at fault – who drives down narrow, rural lanes without having learned to reverse. Or, even more maddeningly but occurring more frequently with each holiday, there are the drivers who don't want to get their shiny new cars scratched by a bramble on the side of the road. Heaven forbid that should happen, I mutter now as I drive down a steep, narrow hill, round a sharp bend and come face to face with a brand new shiny Saab and a po- faced man in his fifties glaring at me through his windscreen.
Glaring at me? What nerve, I think as I glare right back at him. He was the one going like a bat out of hell around that corner, not me. A po-faced woman is sitting next to him, looking as if she has something sour in her mouth. She's glaring at me too. What's with these people?
I try soothing tactics first. It works with animals, doesn't it? I answer the glares with a charming (what hard work it all is sometimes) smile. I make non-aggressive hand gestures indicating that if they'd reverse back a couple of metres, there is a perfectly adequate space at an entrance to a field where not only their car but two Saabs and a tank could wait while I passed by.
The man responds with his own hand gestures. His right hand waves imperiously, telling me to reverse back up this steep, curving hill at once. My smile is wearing thin but I keep it pasted on as I shake my head, shrug my shoulders and do an elaborate pantomime of his car reversing back just a wee tad and finding the passing place. His frown deepens and he does that rude get-out-of-the-way gesture again and what really gets my goat is that the woman does the same thing.
We are at an impasse. I stop smiling, turn my head away from these two sour people and look out the window. I hear a blackbird singing from the beech trees at the side of the road and, above that, the cry of a buzzard. There are primroses and wild violets in the hedgerow. I don't want these two out-of-towners to spoil my day but I seriously don't want to back up.
Usually, I just give in and go into reverse but this time I really don't see why I should have to. I would have to reverse for a mile uphill, around sharp bends just because this idiot won't reverse three metres on a straight stretch of road. I'm not even sure that the clutch on the van will take it either; it's been rather dodgy lately when I've shifted from first to second and I want to have it looked at.
So I take a deep breath of the warm sea-scented, honeysuckle- fragrant air, open the van door and walk over to the driver of the Saab. He recoils as I appear at his open window. I know I don't look my glamorous best – these Bridget Jones big pants shorts, the unflattering short sleeved shirt, and the pencil that I realize later is sticking through the bun at the top of my head – but hey, I'm an official Royal Mail postwoman, not something slimy that's crawled out from behind a damp, mossy stone.
I say sweetly, 'I'm afraid it's a bit difficult for me to back up, sir. It's a good mile uphill on a treacherous road. But if you reverse a very short distance, there is a sizeable passing spot there on your right. You must have passed it.'
The man now looks perplexed, as does the woman. I can hear them thinking: She speaks properly, not like a Cornish postwoman should speak. What should we make of this? Is she having us on? Is she an impostor?
I resist an impulse to grin. I love knocking people's prejudices, confusing them about where I fit in, confounding folk who need to slot others into their given places before risking social contact with them.
The man hesitates and then, unfortunately, loses his cool. If he had any to start with. 'I would think,' he says with a sneer, 'that as a postwoman, you'd be able to bloody reverse.' His voice dribbles nastily with rage and sarcasm. The woman is bobbing her head in agreement, her lips pursed as if she would spit at me if I weren't out of reach.
I bite off the retort I'd like to make and say instead, in my most polite postie voice, 'Oh, I can reverse quite well, actually. It's just that I think a gentleman wouldn't mind moving his car a tiny fraction on a straight road so that a woman would not have to go through the trouble of reversing a mile back up a steep hill.'
We stare at each other. Eye-to-eye combat, no holds barred. His are hard and snake-like. Mine have the power of wide -eyed innocence.
The woman breaks the spell, 'Oh Terence, reverse and get this done with. The postwoman isn't going to budge.' She says postwoman like Marie Antoinette must have said the word peasant. She goes on, 'We can write a letter to the local post office when we get back to London, making a complaint.'
It takes him about five seconds. He's a whiz of a driver, obviously in the category that doesn't want to get his car scratched rather than the 'can't reverse' group. I wave a cheery thank you as I drive the van past their car. He and the woman are resolutely looking straight ahead.
I would bet a hundred pounds that they don't bother writing that letter. They're the kind of people who throw threats around like confetti, hoping to bestow a tremor of trepidation into the lower orders or anyone else they think is getting in their way.
As I drive another few miles further along the narrow road, I'm confronted by another obstacle. This time it's a small flock of sheep being driven to pasture by a farming couple and their teenage son. They're going the same way as I am so the farmer flags me down and says, 'We be going a fair way, mebbe 'tis best to reverse and go down the short cut way.'
I know which road he means and nod. His wife comes up and says she'll take their post; she can tuck it into her jacket pocket and save me a trip to the farm. Then she says, 'Tessa, did you pass that emmett in the big black car? He be speedin' like a bull after a heifer on heat.'
'Yeah, I passed him. He refused to back up when we met face to face.'
'We could of killed him. Instead of stopping, or going slowly through the sheep, he starts honkin' his bleedin' horn. Scared the bejezus out of them, scattered them everywhere. Only just got 'em back together again.'
I reverse the short distance back to another road even tinier than the one I was on, with grass growing sparsely in the middle, wondering why people who are impatient with animals, who refused to reverse down narrow lanes, and who obviously look down on local farmers and postwomen, ever bother to come here. It still remains a mystery to me.
&nb
sp; My hens lay their first egg this month and I'm so excited I drop it as I take it from the nesting boxes. But never mind, I'm relieved that they've at least started. We bought them as point of lay and I thought we'd leap up the first morning with six fresh eggs waiting for us though of course they needed to adjust to their new surroundings.
As the days go by, the number of eggs increases until quite soon we are getting our six eggs a day. I love collecting them, love the feel of putting my hand into the warm straw and feathery nest boxes, the thrill of finding an egg tucked away in the dark.
'I hope you're not eating them all,' Annie hoots at me down the phone. 'You'll get egg bound.'
'Wait'll you taste them. You've never tasted eggs like this, believe me.'
'I can't eat eggs, remember?'
I'd forgotten she was allergic to them, but at least the hens won't squawk at her when next she comes to visit. They are quite tame now and in fact they crowd around when I appear, looking for feed. As well as the feed we buy, I've taken to boiling all my vegetable scraps for them: potato peelings, broccoli stalks, carrot heads. With four of us, there is a fair amount and the hens love this addition to their other food of grains.
I get a shock one hot day when the hens, crowding around me as they always do, start pecking at my feet. One or two are quite vicious about it and I yelp and run out of their run in a bit of a tizzy.
'What's the matter with them?' I ask Ben when this happens three days in a row. 'They're usually so sweet and tame, and now they're attacking me like demented seagulls after ice cream cones.'
He doesn't know either. I'm starting to go off my beloved hens.
It takes Amy to say, a few days later, 'Mum, it's only since you painted your toenails bright red that they started pecking you, when you go out in your flip-flops. They probably think your toes are strawberries or yummy raspberries or something.'
Can this be true? As a true scientist and pragmatist, I experiment. I go in with wellies, no pecking. I go in with sandals, they go for me. I get some nail polish remover, rub my toenails pale again, put on flip-flips and stomp into the hen run. The hens crowd around eagerly for a hand out, but they leave my toes alone.
Well, well, well. From now on, I wear shoes or wellies when I go in to feed the hens or collect the eggs. I'm not about to give up my red toenails for even the most tasty eggs in chickendom.
The rest of May passes in a blur of sunshine and those idyllic days we dreamed of when we first decided to move to Cornwall. I'm grateful that my job gives me free afternoons so that when Amy and Will are on their spring break from school, I can pile them, Jake and a few egg salad sandwiches into Minger and drive the couple of miles to the beach where we take long walks, build sandcastles and paddle about in the still icy water. Jake loves these outings and tries to catch seagulls and even little fishes in the rock pools. Most public beaches don't allow dogs on them between Easter and autumn but this is still a relatively unknown cove and Jake is able to go with us at least until the summer months.
Ben joins us too, on some of these picnics, when his work permits. There's something to be said for a number of part-time jobs, he's decided – he has loads of flexibility and can use it to spend more time with the family.
We're already losing our winter paleness, looking lightly tanned and healthy. And it's only May, I think with joy in my heart. Only the beginning of our first summer in our new home. I cross my fingers, wish on stars and scrabble about on the shore for the tiny cowries, the shells that are supposed to bring good luck, the sea's equivalent of a four-leafed clover. When I find one I take it home carefully and keep it in a tiny, special box. I feel so lucky, so fortunate to be here, and I want our luck to last. I want this glorious Cornish summer to go on and on for ever.
June
The glorious Cornish summer has turned into a wet Cornish summer. The days are muffled with a thick fog from the sea, so heavy that I can hardly see the end of the harbour from the St Geraint post office. There are still plenty of perks, not least the stunning, blue agapanthus flowers that grow wild here. They show up starkly in the mist, the colour so dazzling that not even a drizzly rain can subdue them.
Annie arrives for another long weekend and is bowled over by the agapanthus. 'We have them in London, but not anything like this, not the wild ones.' She starts rubbing her eyes. 'Tree pollen now, I guess. I hate the country.'
'You always say that, but you always come back. Anyway, you've got allergies in London.'
'Tessa, they are babies compared to the great hulking monsters that attack me every time I come to Cornwall. If you weren't my best friend . . .' she trails off to put some drops in her itching, swollen eyes.
'If I weren't your best friend, you'd still come, now admit it. Cornwall is starting to get to you, I can tell.'
'What do you mean? I can't even see Cornwall in this wretched fog. We could be anywhere.'
'Except for your itching eyes.'
'You said it,' she puts on her glasses. The frames are designer, FCUK, and look great on her, but she never wears them except when she comes here as there's no way she can wear contact lenses in Cornwall with all those allergies.
Then she says, 'By the way, are we having lobster tonight? Has your lobster fisherman been around lately?'
I laugh, 'You see? I knew there were other reasons why you come down here.'
Annie and I have a lazy few days. Mostly we walk, and talk, and laze at the edge of old woodlands near a little creek or inlet. I try to show her the delights of the countryside. 'Look, Annie, look at those rooks at the top of those trees!'
'How d'you know they're not ravens, smartie? Or crows?'
I smirk, smugly. 'I've learned a lot since we had this conversation before. Rooks not only have baggy trousers but huge, grey, lumpy bands at the root of their beaks.'
'I'm impressed, despite my better judgement.' She looks up at the rooks, dozens of them, suddenly flying up as one and sweeping away with a great flapping of wings. 'They do look fierce.'
'Maybe, but they're not carnivores. They only eat grain, like the hens.'
She grins, looks sly, 'And red toenails?'
'I haven't put that to the test yet,' I grin back at her.
We stay there for a while longer, listening to the music the stream makes as it saunters along over rocks and stones, sand and water weeds. I point out the great rooks' nests at the top of the trees. 'They're very sociable, y'know. Rooks, that is. They live in those great colonies at the tops of trees.'
'Like us in London living in penthouse apartments or high rises.'
'Yeah, but some of the colonies have been there hundreds of years. Around here, it's considered a bad omen if the rooks suddenly abandon them.'
Soon after this, we get up and start to walk again. After ten minutes or so, Annie stops suddenly. 'Look. Over there. On that fallen tree trunk. That big black bird. Is it a crow, or a rook?'
I giggle, 'There's an old saying around here, Annie, goes something like this. "When tha'se crows, tha'se rooks; when tha'se a rook, tha'se a crow."'
Annie stares at me. She looks seriously worried. 'I'm taking you back with me to London for a good, wholesome dose of city life. Sounds like you're in great need of it, Tessa.'
When I laugh she smiles grudgingly. 'All right. So tell me then, oh wise country one. Is that bloody bird a crow or a rook?'
'Neither, oh idiot city woman. It's a blackbird.'
When Annie goes, I suddenly feel lonely. Despite the many lovely acquaintances I now have, amongst the neighbours, my customers, the people at the post offices, I still feel an outsider somehow, perhaps because I haven't made any really close friends. Having Annie here again makes me realize how much I miss the intimacy that a close friendship can bring.
I'm thinking of Annie as I deliver to the Rowlands. Emma has a mischievous smile very like my friend's; perhaps that's why I warm to her so much. When she sees me, Emma rushes out from their growing garden, where she and Martin have been working. 'You've expande
d since I was here last,' I say, noting that part of an adjoining field is now cultivated.
'Yes, Martin's decided to grow potatoes in a big way. All organic, too. Dave's idea; he says he knows loads of people in Bristol who would buy them.'
Dave is Emma and Martin's son. He's a physiotherapist, lives in Bristol with Marilyn, his partner. I've met Dave before; he's a nice lad and pining for Cornwall. Like so many other young people, he and Marilyn had to leave the county to be able to afford a place to live.
Martin appears holding a load of produce from the garden wrapped in newspaper. 'Take it, Tessa, we've got far too much.' Before I can thank him, a car drives up, and both Martin and Emma's face light up like lanterns.
Dave jumps out of the car, embraces both his mother and father then turns to me. 'Tessa, good to see you.'
'You too, Dave. Marilyn not with you?'
He shakes his head regretfully, 'No, she couldn't get off work. Sent me on my own, to help the old man here for a couple of days.'
Martin pretends to scowl, 'Less of the old, lad. Well, get diggin', then, let's see what you be worth.' He thrusts his spade at Dave with a grin.
I leave the family there, laughing and joking, thinking how lucky I am to have such lovely customers on my round.
Nell is now pursuing every newspaper she can get hold of for possible scurrilous references to the post office. 'Look at this,' she says, showing me a page cut from a national tabloid. 'The Royal Mail is scuppering us again, selling stamps online, can you believe it? That's it then, might as well retire right this minute and be done with it. Us little post offices will go right out of business, you'll see.'
I read the article, 'Nell, this is only for people who have businesses, who buy huge amounts of stamps. And they've got to pay a subscription before they can do it.'
Nell isn't pacified. 'If 'tisn't one thing 'tis another. I've had enough. Am giving notice here and now, let 'em find someone else.'
Up With the Larks Page 17
