Up With the Larks

by Tessa Hainsworth

  When we've recovered, Ben says, 'Yes, I miss acting. But I know now that I'd miss this more, much more, if we go back. These moments, nights like tonight. Not just being here at the sea, but all of it: taking Amy and Will to the fête, being involved in village life, getting such pleasure out of the simple things, the way people have been doing for centuries.'

  Once again I can't speak.

  Ben goes on, 'And even though we're both working hard, we still seem to have more time to do all these things. We wouldn't have this in London.'

  'But we'd find something else. Your acting . . .'

  He shakes his head. 'Even if things went well, if I was lucky enough to get that break, some decent work, we'd still lose this. Time and space, and being together as a family. It would be just as it was before, back to the rat race of fighting to keep a career at the expense of everything else. I don't want that, ever again.'

  He stands up, goes to the sea's edge, picks up a stone and skims it across the water. Jake, thinking it's meant for him, madly goes after it and after a few moments of delirious paddling about, admits defeat and swims back to shore.

  'So what're you saying, Ben?' I try to keep my voice neutral: I don't want him to hear the joy in it, not yet. It's still his decision, this move. I don't want to go, but I don't want to stay either, if he's unhappy.

  He grabs my hand, pulls me up to my feet. 'I'm saying it's time to go home, get some sleep. You might have a day off tomorrow but I've got an early start at the café, remember? C'mon.'

  We set off, arms around each other, for the car. Before we get in I say, 'Ben, are you sure? You really do want to stay in Cornwall?'

  He nods, 'You know I love it as much as you do.'

  I have to say it, 'But even if it means giving up acting?'

  'Yes, even that. I'm as sure of it as I am of anything.'

  He opens the car door but before we get in we have a last look at the moon, beaming on us like an old friend.

  Then Ben says with a grin, 'Anyway, we have to stay in Cornwall. I've signed up for the wellie-throwing competition at the next village fête. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be county champion and Will can have his famous father at last.'

  Annie comes down again, for a week this time.

  'You can't stay away from here,' I say as she gets off the train.

  'No, seems not. Don't know why. I think the county is catching. You know, like chicken pox.'

  I hug her. 'You're looking floaty today,' I say as we stand apart and grin at each other, delighted to be together again. She's wearing a loose frock, flowing and colourful. 'D'you like it? Just got it from Whistles. Not bad, is it.'

  'Very summery and suitable.'

  'They've got loads of great dresses, would look terrific on you. I guess there's not a Whistles in Cornwall though . . .'

  'Annie, right now even Whistles is too pricey for me. It's either Matalan or charity shops.'

  She looks at me with pity. Even a high street shop, too dear? I can hear her thoughts as clearly as if she's speaking out loud.

  I give her another hug. 'Annie, I chose this life, right? Remember that. And I don't regret a thing.'

  Ben is working but the kids are off school so Annie and I pile them in Minger and take off to the Royal Cornwall Agricultural show. It's a lovely day and the show is packed; it takes ages to park in the large field allotted for visitors. Putting Jake on a lead, we troop in.

  There are acres of white tents, marquees, areas zoned off for animal judging, horse shows and dog competitions. First we pass rows of smart, new farm machinery, state-of-the-art tractors, dung spreaders, combine harvesters and everything necessary to run a sleek and modern farm. You'd have to be a millionaire too, judging by the price of them.

  We spend hours wandering around the show, looking at food and craft stalls, buying local honey from the producers as well as cheeses and cream. We peep into the tents and awnings of the traders where farmers banter about prices with agricultural merchants, trying to knock a few pence off fertilizer prices while guzzling gallons of the free beer or wine provided by the merchant.

  I deliver to one of the sales people and he sees me, stops to say hello. Pete is a good looking guy in his forties with an open, honest face, a gorgeous, deep, sexy voice and unruly, brown hair going grey around the edges.

  And he's openly eyeing Annie who has hardly sneezed once today. 'Maybe I'm getting immune to the countryside,' she whispers hopefully. 'I've only taken one antihistamine today.'

  Pete offers us a glass of white wine, a surprisingly decent Chardonnay which has actually been chilled in a vast animal feeder full of melting ice.

  'It's wasted on us, Pete,' I say as I take the wine. 'We're not going to buy bailer twine or a couple of tons of straw. Though if you've got an extra bale for the hens?'

  'Sure, I'll leave one in my front porch; you can pick it up when you deliver my mail,' he says, offering us some salted peanuts from a big bowl.

  Amy and Will take a huge handful and Pete goes to replace the bowl from a big bag of nuts. 'They're hungry,' I say, pointing out the obvious. 'We were going to get some food but all the food stalls have endless queues.'

  Pete grimaces. 'Our customers are complaining that we've given up the food on our stall. Years back we'd bring all sorts of sandwiches to give out free to them, and scones too, thick with jam and cream.'

  My mouth is watering. So is Annie's. She says, 'Yummy. So why aren't they here? I'd even buy a cow or something to lay my hands on a ham sandwich right now.'

  Pete laughs, 'We don't sell livestock. And the reason we can't bring food are the health and safety regulations. No homemade food can be served to the public any more.'

  'Really? How ridiculous.'

  'I know,' his face takes on a dreamy look. 'I remember those thick ham sandwiches, quality stuff, the ham bought direct from the farmer. And the scones – to die for. The night before each show, the women would sit up all night preparing stuff . . .'

  'Hang on,' Annie interrupts him. 'The women? What women?'

  Pete looks bewildered. 'Why – the wives.'

  'What wives?'

  'Uh, some of the farmers' wives volunteered, the wives of our best customers. But mostly our wives.'

  'Did your wife do this?' She gives him a steely look.

  'Uh, yes. Years ago. And, uh, she's not my wife any more. We divorced.'

  I cluck sympathetically but Annie does not. Instead, she says in a no-nonsense voice, 'It's a wonder any of your wives stick around, if that's what they have to do, sitting up all night making hundreds of sandwiches for their husbands' work. Why didn't you do it?'

  Poor Pete has no answer to this. I feel sorry for him and am about to drag Annie away but before I can, he says, 'D'you know, I'm not sure. I mean, we're always busy till late, the night before shows, setting up stalls, bringing in equipment, getting everything ready, but that's no excuse, I know. Maybe I should have.'

  He looks so crestfallen that even Annie takes pity on him. 'Well, you could be forgiven, I suppose. In those dragon days no one expected husbands to do anything mundane like baking scones.'

  I say, 'Dragon days? Goodness, Annie, Pete is our generation, not your grandfather's.'

  'So he is.' She gives him a stunning smile. I can see it enveloping him, like a silvery mist. All of a sudden I'm feeling dowdy and slightly grubby. We've been sweating in the hot sun and I feel sticky, my loose hair getting stringy and limp in the heat. Annie, on the other hand, who has been trudging along with me all day, still looks immaculate, her frothy dress bright and fresh amongst the jeans and cords of the farmers milling about. She's wearing some thin strappy sandals that look like slivers of silver and gold and emphasize her lightly tanned feet, no doubt acquired at great expense at a top London salon.

  I'm wearing an ancient pair of Capri pants, an old faded blue shirt and flip-flops. I try not to be envious. I tell myself that Annie has to go back to London to her empty – if stylish – flat while I stay here in my beloved Cornwall.<
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  As Pete and I stare at Annie, he, I notice, with the beginnings of lust and me with my struggle to turn envy into admiration for my dear, whacky, wonderful friend, something odd starts to happen. Tears begin to trickle down Annie's face, under her black sunglasses.

  'Annie, what's wrong?' I go to her as Pete's mouth opens in alarm.

  She takes off her glasses to rub her eyes furiously. They are getting redder and more swollen by the minute, and watering like crazy.

  Pete says, 'What's the matter? What's happened?'

  'Must be an allergy,' I say. 'Don't know what it can be now. She thought she was better this time.'

  Behind us, we hear a squeal of excitement. Turning to look at what Will and Amy have found, we see that we are almost face to face with a big, furry, brown llama that has just wandered up from the small compound behind Pete's tent.

  The llama looks at us with great beautiful eyes while Annie squeezes eye drops between the swollen slits that were once her lovely eyelids. I say to Pete, 'I guess she's allergic to llamas too.'

  He gets her another glass of wine to swallow another antihistamine, not a good idea I would have thought but Annie thinks it is. Pete says, 'Why don't you stay here in the back of the tent, in the shade, out of the way of the animals? Give yourself a chance to recover.'

  I say, 'It would probably be better if we just left. Anyway, your customers are wondering what's up.'

  Sure enough, there are a cluster of farmers around us, peering at Annie who looks as if she's bawling her eyes out, giving a few hostile looks at Pete for ignoring their needs to administer to an obvious city gal.

  To my surprise, Annie actually flutters her eyelids at him, which isn't easy given their swollen state, and says, 'Oh thank you, Pete, that's so kind of you,' and lets him lead her away into the cool dark recesses of his agricultural tent.

  I start to trot after them but Will and Amy are pulling me to get something to eat. I call to Annie, 'We're going off to battle the food queues. Shall I bring you anything?'

  She says she's not hungry. When we get back, nearly an hour later, fed up with the long wait for our burgers and chips, Annie, still talking to Pete in the back of the tent, says, 'Oh, that was quick.'

  'Quick?' Will shouts the word. 'We were ages!'

  Annie has the grace to look embarrassed. Amy says, 'Aren't you hungry? I thought you said you were starving.'

  'Actually, Pete very kindly found me a pasty somewhere. Lovely homemade Cornish pasty, bliss.' She looks at him through her still swollen eyelids as if he were Apollo bestowing upon her the food of the gods.

  Oh dear, I think. Oh my, oh my, oh my. He smiles at her as if she were Aphrodite.

  My first impulse is to congratulate them both and open a bottle of champagne but I pull myself together and try to act rationally. This is just some crazy flirtation brought on by the heat, an allergy and a wayward llama.

  So I say, 'Uh, Pete, business must be slow today.'

  He looks sheepish. 'Well, actually we've been pretty busy. I was flat out all morning.'

  Annie says, 'Pete's been having a bit of a break. The other sales people have taken over while he has some well-deserved lunch.' She glances at him and their eyes meet and hold for longer than necessary.

  He finally, reluctantly, pulls away. 'Guess my time's up now, though. Better get back to the customers.'

  On the way home Annie is oddly reticent about the encounter. 'Pete's terrific. I really liked him. But we'll probably never see each other again so what's the point of talking about it.'

  This is so unlike Annie, not wanting to dissect every moment, analyze every gesture, that I know she's been smitten.

  The day after the show I'm back at work, Ben is busy at the café – he's taken on extra hours during the summer months – and Will and Amy are back at school for another week, so Annie borrows Minger and decides to do some exploration on her own. 'Just let me borrow a map and a flask as well, and I'll be off. No need to worry about me, I'll be fine. There's so much of Cornwall I haven't seen yet. I'd like to get to know the place better.'

  Alarm bells go off in my head. 'This wouldn't be anything to do with meeting Pete, would it? If so, Annie, you've got to be careful. You're worlds apart . . .'

  She interrupts me, 'No lecture, please. Don't I know it? This has nothing to do with him. I hardly know him.'

  I notice a note of wistfulness in her voice. We shall see, I think, glad that Pete is one of my customers and I can sow some seeds there if necessary, forgetting completely my misgivings about their complete incompatibility.

  The house feels empty when I get back from work, with everyone gone. I potter around, prepare some veg to stir fry for the evening meal, have a long leisurely bath and put on a skirt, for once. Must be Annie's influence, all those great clothes, her wonderful style. She's reminded me that I had that too, once. 'What do you mean, had?' I'd said to her.

  'Oh darling, don't get prickly, you still have style, oodles of it. It's just different from your old city style. More . . . more Cornish funky, I'd call it. I like it, I truly do.'

  By the time Annie gets back, Ben is home and we've already opened a bottle of wine. We're sitting in the kitchen and though the days have been warm, the evenings are cool and we still have to leave the window in the other room open for the swallows. The three eggs have hatched and are being fed by their parents, much to our delight.We've closed off the sitting room so that the swallows don't get frightened and leave, especially with Jake leaping about the place.

  Annie thinks we're mad, of course, as it's the best room in the house and was newly decorated before the birds nested there. Now swallow guano is covering the walls and they'll have to be repainted once the birds go. But she was as thrilled as we were when she had her first peek of the babies, all huge, open beaks and tiny, fluffy bodies.

  Annie rushes into the kitchen now in a state of high excitement. Ben says, 'You've been gone ages, we were getting worried. Are you all right?'

  I hand her a glass of wine but she's too fraught to take it. 'Oh, you won't believe what I've found. I can hardly believe it myself. It's in the car, come look – no, don't look, not yet. I'm not sure it's not dangerous, maybe I shouldn't have brought it home.'

  'Annie, what are you talking about?'

  She slumps down on a kitchen chair. 'I think I'd better have that wine now.' She takes a huge gulp. 'Oh what have I done? Maybe it's contaminated? Maybe I'm full of radiation poison.'

  'What, the wine? Annie, what're you talking about?' I give Ben a look that says maybe we shouldn't have let Annie loose in the Cornish countryside. I let the dinner wait while we open another bottle of wine and try to get some sense out of our London friend.

  Finally she starts to talk coherently. 'I was on the coastal path then decided to go inland, across a field.'

  'A field?' Ben asks. 'With all your allergies?'

  'Yeah, well, it was dumb I know, looking back, but I thought I'd get to the car quicker if I went that way rather than going back on the path. I was starting to get itching eyes again so I thought it was time to head for home. Anyway, it was getting late. Up to then, I'd been fine.'

  'You seem OK now.'

  She nods, 'I must be getting immune to the countryside.'

  I don't remind her that she said the same thing before her last bad attack.

  'Maybe I'm getting immune to everything. Minger and the rabbits and the chickens. And Jake.' She gives the dog, lying at her feet, a pat. 'Poor Jake, I suppose I could have taken you, but you're just so hairy, and stuck in a car with you on a long trip . . .'

  'Annie, stop rambling. What happened in the field?'

  'Well, I was very nearly back to where I'd parked when I saw something in the ground, giving off a weird glow. I looked closer and it was some kind of strange stone, sort of glittering and gleaming in the light, in a spooky kind of way.'

  Another look goes between Ben and me. Ben says, 'Annie, have you been overdosing on those antihistamines?'

 
; She ignores him. 'The more I stood there looking at it, the more I was sure it wasn't like anything I'd seen, or seen in photos, or even read about. I know what stones and rocks look like, and this wasn't anything like one on earth.'

  I look warily at her. 'Annie, are you saying that it was supernatural?'

  She gets defensive. 'Look, if you'd seen it, giving off that strange glow, a kind of eerie sparkle, you'd have said it was supernatural too. But I'm not saying it's magic or anything. I think it's something from space – a bit of a star, a meteor, whatever. Things are always falling from the sky, apparently, and I'm sure that's what my rock is.'

  She's speaking calmly now and I'm starting to believe her. So too is Ben. Annie is an intelligent woman after all and not given to weird fantasies.

  Ben's voice is eager as he says, 'And it's in Minger? You actually brought it home? Let's go have a look.'

  'No!' Annie's shout stops us from our rush to the door. 'That's what I've been worried about. What if it's contaminated or radioactive? It's possible, probable even. I've read that those things are, those rocks that drop to earth from space. I could kick myself for picking it up; I should have left it there. I just didn't think and the car was close by, so I prised it up, heaved it back to the car . . .' she stops.

  Ben looks grave. I take a step back from Annie, wondering if the glow on her face is radiation or simply too much of the wonderful Chablis she brought us from London. 'You shouldn't have done that, Annie. You shouldn't pick up anything from the fields or moors. It's one of the basic rules of the countryside.'

  She looks miserable. 'I was just so excited, I didn't think.'

  We are by now hazy with wine, dinner long forgotten. We don't know what to do next, quite. I look out at Minger and imagine I see blue radial lights shining out its windows.

  Luckily, at this point the doorbell rings and in comes Susie, carrying a wet paper parcel. 'Some fresh-caught mackerel, thought you'd like some, m'bird. Just given me by a fisherman mate, can't eat it all meself.'