As she finishes speaking a man in khaki shorts and a white tee-shirt comes out, accompanied by a woman dressed exactly the same. They look sour faced and don't answer our 'good mornings'. The man says, 'We've been waiting for our breakfast.'
'We've been in the dining room for ten minutes, waiting.' The woman's voice is as brusque as her husband's.
Emma starts apologizing, says she didn't realize they were downstairs and she'll get it straight away. But Martin says, 'You said last night you wanted breakfast at 9 o'clock. It's not even 8.30.' His voice is dangerously soft.
The couple ignore him but Emma, recognizing his tone, gives him a warning look as she ushers the guests back inside.
'Wouldn't hurt to say please now and again,' Martin says but luckily for his business, they don't hear him. 'Bloody rude bastards. I hate working with people. At least animals have an excuse for bad manners, not being able to talk an' all.' He looks wistfully towards the vegetable garden. I notice that he's cultivated a bit more of the grassy field next to the one where he's planted potatoes.
I say, 'Martin, are you planning on feeding an army?'
His face brightens. 'Well, would you believe, Baxter in Morranport says he'll buy whatever we grow, in the summer months. We're thinking of expanding even more next year, the garden has done so well so far. It beats dealing with paying guests, that's for sure.'
'Oh come on, they're not all that bad. Are they?'
'No, not all. Most guests are nice enough. But the bad'uns put you off folk for life,' he sighs. 'Better go help Emma get the breakfast but if they be rude to her, don't know what I'll do.'
I brood on this decent, kind couple, once farmers now B&B proprietors. They're so out of their depth in their new job.
Emma had told me they might just sell up and move. 'Not worth the hassle, Tessa. Trouble is, it's a no-win situation. We either run a business so we can keep the family home, or else sell and move to town somewhere, though lord knows what we'd be able to afford.'
I sympathized. She went on, 'Trouble is, we're selfish I guess. We don't want to lose our home, but we also want to do a job we like.'
Isn't that what we all want? I think as I drive away.
My next stop is in Creek to have my lunch. The tide is in, and the few boats moored in this part of the old harbour are bobbing about on the quiet sea. Even now at the height of summer, this spot isn't too crowded, not at this time of the morning anyway. I see a young man fishing from a rowboat and a couple of dog walkers along the lane parallel to the water but that's all.
I'm munching on a homemade pasty I picked up at Baxter's shop and sitting on the sea wall, breathing in the ozone. I feel so much a part of it: the sea, the two cormorants diving into the water, even the tiny molluscs clinging to the rocks at the edge of the water. I feel it more and more as I go on my rounds, noticing ladybirds and stick insects, stopping to watch ducks and moorhens at the edge of rivers.
As I finish eating, my thoughts turn to my morning's customers. After the Rowlands, I saw Mr Hawker, who has a nasty cough. He's had it a few weeks now but won't see a doctor, not even Martin and Emma can persuade him. He's terrified of being admitted to the hospital, feels he'll never come out if he does. I tried to tell him that just seeing a doctor won't necessarily mean being carted off to hospital but he wouldn't listen.
Afterwards I commiserated with a woman whose only daughter had moved permanently to New Zealand, gave her a tissue and tried to comfort her as she shed a few tears. Another woman gave me a recipe for runner bean chutney and still another rushed out to tell me she was pregnant after years of trying and wasn't life absolutely wonderful?
Comparing these conversations with those I used to have at work with my colleagues at The Body Shop, I realize that already I've got to know my postie customers on a much more personal basis than I did in my last few years in the other job. Of course we talked there but it was mostly work-related. We were far too busy to do otherwise.
I finish my pasty and watch the man in the boat pull up a great mass of seaweed on his line. I'm feeling serene and tranquil as the sea is today. I realize I never once felt this way working in London.
My lunch finished, I stand up and get ready to go back to work. It's so still you can hear the whoosh of a bird's wings flying overhead. In the distance I can hear the cry of a pheasant. Bliss, I think. Pure bliss.
I change my mind about the blissfulness of pheasants an hour or so later. I'm delivering to an old farmhouse at the end of a dirt track when a cock pheasant rushes out from the foliage at the side of the road and flies towards my van. At first I think he's ill and confused but I suddenly realize the bird is actually trying to attack me, for he's coming towards the open window. I shriek and the pheasant retreats, making dreadful, aggressive noises. Then he does it again but this time I get the window shut just in time as he brushes past it.
He must have stunned himself for he doesn't try again. I've stopped the van, trying to calm my beating heart, and roll down the window cautiously when the farmer's wife comes out to get the post. 'I saw 'im, that pesky pheasant, going for you. He don't be likin' red vehicles, y'know.'
'What?'
She nods, 'He don't bother us in they ole blue car, but when we be off in the red pick-up, he be after us just like he did with you.'
'Oh great. Maybe I better tell them in Truro that they'll have to paint my van navy blue.'
She doesn't get irony. 'Best be doin' that, maid,' she says solemnly.
I say goodbye and as I drive away, the blasted pheasant is at it again, following the van, attacking it from behind and squawking like a demon bird until I'm finally on the main road again. Maybe I really should try to talk the Royal Mail powers-that-be to get me a different coloured van, to protect their poor harassed postie.
My next stop is the mysterious hamlet of Trescatho- Brigadoon. Only it's not that any more. Over the last few months the place has been taken over by second homers and there are only the two near-derelict and slightly creepy farmhouses left, whose owners I still haven't seen.
I spot the latest second homers, outside giving orders to the painters and decorators on the scaffold. When the newcomers started encroaching on the village, a few months ago now, I noticed the proliferation of Farrow & Ball colours and now each time I come up I try to identify another one from the colour chart. The house on the end I'm sure is 'Dorset Cream' and last time I was here, I spotted an 'Ointment Pink'.
The Ointment Pink has post today so as I put it into the swish new letterbox outside the new door, I peek inside (the door luckily has a window). Aha! That's 'Porphyry Pink' in the hallway, or I'll eat my post bag.
Another of the cottages is being renovated now. This was the old schoolhouse once. Now there's scaffolding up here too and the outside walls are being painted. Thank goodness it's not pink this time or the whole hamlet will look like a giant candy floss. Oh good, it's a stone-y colour. I'm convinced it's 'Elephant's Breath'.
Only my precious red mail box is safe from being sold to second homers and decorated in Farrow & Ball. It's still concreted into the wall with the snail family safely inside. The day I come here to find it painted 'Middleton Pink' is the day I quit my job.
Nell is fuming again when I return to Morranport. She's fuming a lot lately, mostly with good reason because once again the Royal Mail is being threatened.
'Look at this,' she says without a preamble, her indignant bosom thrusting out at the world in a ruby red tee-shirt.
I read the newspaper article. It states that the £2 billion lifeline the government was supposed to hand over to the Royal Mail, to replace aging equipment and reduce a growing pension deficit, might be in jeopardy.
'This isn't conclusive,' I say. 'Doesn't even say why the money might not come through. Just a rumour, Nell, I shouldn't worry.'
She heaves her shoulders and bosom up then down in a massive melodramatic sigh, surprising me by saying, 'You be right, y'know. 'Tis too many other things to be worried about.' Her fury seems
to have evaporated completely. Then she catches my eye and I know it's been redirected.
I dread asking but know I must, 'Such as?'
She points out over the harbour, 'Look at all them boats. More every year.'
'Yes, well, it happens. That's why lots of people come to Cornwall, for the boating.'
'Ain't good.'
I'm surprised at this. Nell hasn't minded the pink shirt brigade before, not in general, as they bring business to her shop. They're nice to her too; even the thoughtless ones don't dare to complain in her post office about the pong when the local farmers are muck spreading, or being woken up by cows or lambs mooing or baaing in the middle of the night. Those that tried in the past got short shrift from Nell.
'What's the matter with the boats, Nell?'
'Nothing, if folk can drive 'em. Too many think that driving a boat is a piece of cake. And too many drink and drive too. 'Tis dangerous. Why only last night poor Arnie, out doing some evening fishing, was nearly hit by a speedboat. Could have been another fatality but Arnie was luckier than t'other poor lad last month.'
'Arnie? Charlie's dad?'
'That's the one. Came in this morning, all shook up and raging at the boat that hit 'im. Brand new it was, fancy like, must of cost the earth. Arnie said the bloke couldn't drive the thing, was either drunk or blind. Poor man's still shook up about it.'
The whole community is rightly worried about this. The sea is getting crowded just like everywhere else.
Next day Nell's gloom is gone. I go into the post office and find her in the sorting room, laughing her head off.
'What's up?'
I'm starting to giggle myself without knowing what it is that's so funny. Nell's laugh is infectious, great deep chuckles that shake her chest and echo throughout the shop.
She says, 'Hope that gig rowing back along gave you some arm muscles, my handsome. You sure be gonna need 'em direckly.'
She points to the large canvas sack where the parcels are put before being sorted. I don't see anything unusual. Nell goes on, 'Not in there, too heavy for the bag, maid. Look over next to it, on the floor.'
There, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, is a huge package. The shape is familiar; in fact you can't mistake it, as bits of the metal ends are poking out between the wrappings. 'It's an anchor!' I exclaim.
'The look on your face. Just like I imagined it. Oh, shouldn't laugh, not funny really. You got to carry the thing.'
I peer at it, trying to see who it's addressed to. To my surprise, it's for Arnie, the fisherman. Charlie's father.
I'm flummoxed. 'Doesn't his boat have an anchor then? I don't get it, Nell.'
But Nell knows everything. ''Tis a special sort of anchor. Fancy like. Arnie's wife got some cousins or nephews up Scarborough way, fisher folk, found the anchor for him.'
'Lucky old Arnie,' I say with a sigh, wondering how I'm going to cart the anchor into the van and then to the house.
It's solid metal, heavy and bulky. I can't believe someone has sent an anchor through the Royal Mail. I can't believe I have to deliver an anchor to a fisherman.
Nell has already picked up one end. 'Here, maid, I'll help you toss it in the van.'
I shriek at her to stop. 'Why?' She looks genuinely puzzled.
Because you're old and might injure yourself, I nearly say but manage not to. Nell, reading my mind, says, 'You be thinking I be old, is that it? Do meself some harm, you be thinking?'
She sounds so belligerent that I lie quickly, 'No, of course not, but let's face it, a thing like that could injure anyone trying to pick it up from the floor, no matter how young or fit they are.'
'So we do it together.'
Which we do and manage to get it into the van. I decide to forego my routine and head for Arnie's cottage first to get rid of it. He and his wife live in one of the villages about a dozen miles inland. I don't usually see them as Arnie is either out fishing or sleeping after a night on the sea, and his wife works long hours cleaning houses for the holiday makers. Today, though, instead of putting the post in the box attached to the front gate, I have to knock on the door as someone needs to sign for the parcel.
Arnie, surprisingly, is home and awake. After we make suitable comments about his anchor (a beauty, in'it?), the weather (hot today already), the emmetts (more than last year for sure), I commiserate over the near miss in his boat a couple of nights ago. He's still shaken up about it and tells me, 'The bloke was drinking, no doubt about it. No sober bloke would be driving like he be driving.'
From there we talk about the fishing and the difficulties of his profession: the scarcity of fish and the huge trawlers taking the best pickings; the price of fuel going up and the price of fish (to the fishermen anyway), going down.
When he winds down I say, sincerely, 'I don't know how you lot make a living. It's tough I know.'
'Might have to take on somethin' else, part time mebbe. Hate to, me life's always been on the sea, but might have no choice.'
I nod in sympathy. 'So many people have to do that, down here. Even your son Charlie, he's such a brilliant artist he should be doing it full time but instead he has to cut hair to earn a crust. Luckily he likes doing that, too.'
Arnie frowns. Whoops, I think, I've done it again, spoken without thinking. I had completely forgotten about his wrath over his son not being a fisherman.
'Charlie's just messin' about, not settling like he should. He could of had me boat all to hisself in a few years, when I retire.'
I risk more wrath by saying, 'But you just said the profession is dicey. Fishing, that is.'
He's about to yell at me, I can tell, his face is getting all red. I hate confrontation and curse myself for getting into this fix, so before he can speak I say, 'Look at me, happy as a lark these days, being a postwoman. I used to have a fancy job, loads of travelling, great salary, but in the end I wasn't happy. So I gave it all up to live in Cornwall. Hasn't been easy, but I love what I'm doing now.'
His anger has cooled but he looks at me as if I'm a weirdo, wondering what this has to do with Charlie and the fishing profession. I go on, 'Isn't that what's important? Doing what makes you happy?'
He doesn't say a word so I plunge on recklessly. What the hell, you might as well get hung for a sheep as for a lamb, Tessa. 'You love fishing, you just said so, earlier on. Well, Charlie loves making his wonderful boxes and paintings and installations and sculptures – and all of the sea too, which he loves just as much as you do. How could any father want to take that away from his son?'
I've gone too far, I can tell. Cursing myself for opening my big mouth in the first place, I say, 'Omigod, look at the time, I'd better get on. Bye now, enjoy your anchor!'
I jump in my van and don't look back in case he's throwing something at me.
The August heat wave settles in. The beaches are packed, as are the seas and harbours, full of boats of all kinds, the sailboats colourful with bunting on regatta days, the sky full of fireworks to celebrate a good day's boat racing. On each of my days off I take Minger, rush to the beach with Amy and Will, and Ben if he's not working, and we spend lazy hours swimming, paddling, snorkeling, making elaborate sand castles and in general idling the lovely hot days away. And the beauty is, this is not a holiday. When September comes, we'll still be here. What a delicious thought that is.
September
The summer days of the last week of August linger into September but after the Bank Holiday, Cornwall begins to empty. When school starts again the next army of holiday makers arrive, composed of those not tied down to terms and timetables. This seems to be a favourite month for retired folk, many of whom have been babysitting the grandchildren most of the summer while the parents worked and are now taking a well-earned break for themselves. It also seems to be a month for babies and toddlers not yet school age. The beaches are full of them, the parents fondly holding them in the water for their first experience of the sea.
Annie visits again, only this time it's not just me she's co
ming to see. She and Pete have been emailing each other and plan to meet again. I invite him to dinner the day she arrives. Pete comes with two bunches of flowers, yellow roses for me and crimson ones for her. These are totally unexpected and it's the first time I have seen Annie flustered. She's touched, embarrassed and speechless, so unlike her that I stare rudely at both of them as she buries her face in the flowers, pretending she's taking in the scent. The look on Pete's face is one of delirious delight.
It looks to me like their emails have already gone far beyond friendship. And then Annie sneezes. And does so about ten times in a row.
'It's the roses,' I say to Pete as I take them away and lead her upstairs to find tissues.
I hear him say to Ben, 'Is she allergic to everything?'
Ben says, 'Afraid so. Especially in the country. That's why she hates it, only comes to see Tessa.'
Pete's voice is uncertain. 'She hates the countryside?'
Ben nods. 'Just doesn't understand how we can live here.'
I can't give him a kick under the table or a pinch in the elbow to keep him quiet because the two men are downstairs in the corridor and I'm in the bedroom with Annie, eavesdropping. I swear at myself for not telling Ben about her and Pete's relationship but then I remember they don't have a relationship; they've only met once briefly and exchanged some emails.
Ben obviously hadn't seen the way they'd looked at each other, though, when Pete arrived. I needn't have worried. By the time we sit down to eat, Annie's hay fever is under control. She's looking ravishing in a skimpy, clinging top, a chunky-knit cardigan thrown over her shoulders and stone-washed jeans that look absolutely made for country living.
Even as I think this she says to all of us, 'Oh, it's so good to be back in Cornwall. You don't know how much I miss it when I'm away.'
Ben looks at her open mouthed and this time I'm close enough to give him a swift soft kick beneath the table before he says anything. Luckily the penny drops. I see sudden realization hit him as surely as if a cartoon balloon had appeared over his head saying, 'Aha, so that's how it is.'
Up With the Larks Page 21
