He smiles at me, a secret, knowing smile that I return. Then I turn guiltily towards my guests, wondering if they've seen our little exchange. No chance. They're too engrossed in each other, with Pete telling Annie all the beautiful places in Cornwall he'd like to show her and Annie radiantly nodding her head as if I've not dragged her around those same places months ago.
I'm thinking of this a few days later, after Annie leaves. She and Pete spent every minute together when he wasn't working and both seem to be wild about each other. She left this morning in tears, wishing she could stay longer, saying she'll be back as soon as she can.
I'm so thrilled at this bit of romance that I'm whistling as I trot into Mrs Pappy Apple's house. Her real name is a nightmare of consonants about five syllables long, compliments of her Bulgarian husband who is in his nineties. I've nicknamed her because every day, rain or shine, she waits for me in the window of her house to give me an apple from the fruit bowl on the deep windowsill. Usually the apple is wrinkled and soft but of course I take it anyway, thank her profusely for her gift. She's a dear sweet old lady, struck with Alzheimer's, being cared for by her loving husband, and I feel quite protective of the two.
Mrs Pappy Apple's front room looks over the garden, where she sits all day watching the birds feed from the dozen or more feeders crammed onto a tiny lawn. There are also gnomes of all shapes and sizes, green ceramic frogs, pottery cats of a ferocious ginger colour, china flower pots and ornamental figures. It's like a child's toy box, so colourful and bright.
As with many of my customers, we have a daily ritual. When she sees me, Mrs Pappy Apple opens the window, hands me – or any other postie delivering to her – an apple and we have a bit of a chat. In fact it's the exact same chat every day – the weather, my health (fine, thank you), hers (not doing too badly, dear), her husband (he's so good but she does so worry about his joints). I have a little game with myself, to see if I can make her smile, for her face is usually solemn and weighed down, understandably, by life. When I succeed, I feel such pleasure that it invariably lifts my mood a notch or two, no matter how high or low it was to start with.
Today, my loud whistling entices out that smile even before we start our conversation. I'm so delighted that it doesn't even register until I'm back in the van, that for the first time ever, she hasn't given me an apple but a banana.
I panic. For months I've had what I think is a brilliant routine, a solution both to the apple disposal and to the harassment I was subjected to from the flip-flop family – a half dozen geese at the next house on my run, whose feet, rushing towards me, sound like flip-flops on tarmac. Discovering quickly that the apples were inedible, yet hating to merely throw them away as they were such a kind gift, I hatched a cunning plan. As the geese came charging at me, honking their blasted heads off, when I ran from the van to the front door I threw the apple as far as I could in the opposite direction. By the time they'd got to it, squabbled over it and demolished it, and were ready to have a go at me again, I was safely back in the van.
Not only did this save me from a nasty peck or two, it also made good use of the apple, ensuring that it didn't go to waste. But today, I have a banana. Do geese eat bananas? I have a feeling they won't be thrilled at the idea.
Since I've been at this job, I've handled bad-tempered domestic cats lying in wait to sink claws into my unsuspecting hand, I've dealt with demon dogs – Batman comes to mind – and lived to tell the tale, I've been chased by a cockerel, and by that bad-tempered pheasant, and even once, a turkey. But the geese are my real nemesis. They are big, can be vicious, attack together, and are seriously scary.
I drive up to the house and sure enough, there they come, honking for postie blood again. Will the banana work? I've got no option but to give it a try. Thinking ahead, I peel it, in case they're dumb geese and don't recognize a treat when they see it with the skin on. As usual, I leap out of the van before they get to me and fling my sacrificial fruit as far away from the house and van as possible.
You can almost hear the screeching of their heels on the tarmac drive as they stop their pursuit of me and turn abruptly, then run as fast as their goosey legs will carry them in the direction of the banana. I don't stop to see their reaction but dash like a demented woman to the door, shove in the letters and race back to the van.
As I drive away, I'm whistling again. Whatever they thought of the change of fruit, they fell for it and I reached the van before they did. Making a triumphantly rude gesture to the honking geese now following my van down the drive, I head for my next drop.
A week later, the weather's changed; it's still warm, but thunderstorms have rolled in again from the sea. One minute I'm engulfed in waterproofs, splashing through puddles in potholed tracks to deliver the post, the next minute I'm in my baggy shorts and polo shirt, my sun visor on to keep the glare out.
I've been issued with an adapted old golf cart by the Royal Mail to lug the post around St Geraint. When I first use it, I feel I could be mistaken for a serious golfer on holiday until I remember the unflattering shorts and my sturdy boots.
The bad weather has driven many of the holiday makers home a few days early. I arrive at the Rowlands' B&B and stop for a drink of cold apple juice in between storms. Dave is down again from Bristol and is in the garden helping Martin pick a load of spinach to freeze. Emma and I sit on the front doorstep sipping our juice, soaking up some sun while we can. Around us there are rumbles of thunder and in the distance streaks of lightning emanating from black clouds fast approaching.
I incline my head towards a couple of nanny goats in an enclosure near the house. They are a new acquisition, as are the dozen hens pecking around the new chicken house Martin built. 'Are those for the guests, to give them that farmyard feel?'
Emma shakes her head. 'We got them for us, to have some animals about. When we had to get rid of the dairy herd, it nearly broke our hearts.'
Dave's girlfriend, Marilyn, who's also here for the weekend, comes out from the house to join us. Grinning, she says, 'Good thing Dave's not like his dad. He'd be a God-awful physio if he couldn't bear the hassle of dealing with people.'
Emma agrees, then says, 'But like Martin, he's not happy in a city.'
'I know how he feels,' I murmur. 'I couldn't bear it now.'
Marilyn nods, 'It was cool at first, leaving Cornwall, the only place I'd ever known. But I'm like Dave now. I'd love to come back but . . .' She shrugs, tailing off.
I leave after another few minutes, despite Marilyn's offer for me to stick around a while. 'I've made some scones, they're in the oven now and ready in a minute. Wait and sample one. Not as good as Dave's mum's but not too bad.'
I get back into the van regretfully, wanting to be around these friendly people longer. Marilyn is the sort of young woman Cornwall shouldn't be letting go. Dave too, belongs here.
Still brooding about the couple, I don't notice at first that Mr Hawker is taking a long time to get to the door. The rain's started again and I'm huddled inside my waterproof, waiting for him to answer. He's normally there at the first knock and opens it eagerly. We do our usual ritual of my handing him the post with one of the tiny KitKats tucked away between the junk mail, and he solemnly thanks me and tells me I shouldn't have done it. Then we stand in his doorway discussing the weather, my family and his health – he always says he's fine – until I make a move to go. He never detains me, rarely asks me in except when it's pouring and then we always stand no more than a foot or two inside the door, but equally he's never, ever, the first to make the move to go.
I'm worried, now. No one in the village and surrounding area can remember when Mr Hawker last left his cottage, not even Emma and Martin. I try to open the door and peer in, but it's locked. Uneasily, I go around to the back but there are so many nettles and brambles covering the concrete path, that I don't even attempt to get through. Besides, it'll be locked too – it probably hasn't been open for years.
I try peering in through the grimy windows bu
t can't see anything through the dust and filth and the driving rain making streaks on the outside. Cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning aren't helping my unease. None of the windows are even slightly open. I try to prise one up but it's solidly embedded into the window frame. Frantic now, I knock on the window again but the only sign of life is a thrush warning me to get off its patch.
I remember Mr Hawker's cough then sigh with relief. Of course, Martin and Emma had told me last week that they were going to overrule his protests and get him to a doctor. I'm sure now that's what has happened. The doctor, rightly concerned, must have put him in hospital to make sure the chest infection cleared. Because Mr Hawker gets very little post, I don't see him every day. It's probably been three or four days by now.
The Rowlands didn't mention that Mr Hawker was in hospital, but I assume that's because they forgot, with Dave and Marilyn there and their guests only leaving today. But I need to make sure, so I drive back up the road to find Emma or Martin.
All four of them are in the garden now, oblivious to the rain which lasted no more than ten minutes then suddenly stopped. They're inspecting the courgettes and having a good-natured argument about whether they should be picked today or allowed to grow a tiny bit more. I refrain from getting involved, saying I'm far too diplomatic a postie for that, and ask about Mr Hawker.
They're horrified when they hear he's not answering the door. 'No, he's not in hospital, Tessa, in fact we even got Neil, our doctor, to come out a few days ago but Mr Hawker wouldn't even let him in the house. Opened the door a fraction to tell us politely to go away, there was nothing wrong with him. We couldn't force him, had to leave him there.'
Martin had seen Mr Hawker the day before, in the morning. 'Looked the same, still coughing, still wouldn't listen when I mentioned the doctor again. I'll go right down now, see what's up.'
I offer him a lift in the van but Martin says, 'I'll cut across the fields. Quicker that way than going along the road.'
I want to go too but I'll only be in the way. The poor man is probably ill, unable to get out of bed. In some ways I'm relieved – this time he'll have to let a doctor look at him and take him to hospital if necessary; at least get some antibiotics into him, to cure his cough once and for all.
I get through the rest of my round with my thoughts still on Mr Hawker. In the doggie hamlet, Great-Grandma notices my concern and is uncommonly cross with Batman for growling and grizzling at me from the other side of the fenced garden. 'Can't be hearing meself think, Batman. Do shush.'
He actually does. He even looks meek. I never thought I'd see the day.
She asks me what's wrong and I tell her about Mr Hawker, how he won't see a doctor and now we're afraid he's really ill. She's not in the same village but she knows him; he's a local after all, and the same generation. 'Stubborn old bugger, that one, but 'twould be hard to find anyone with a kinder heart.' She looks wistful. 'Us'n be sweethearts once.'
'Really?'
'Not for long, mind. He be a bit older'n me, well, a few years mebbe, but such a looker.' Her voice is dreamy. 'But he was that peculiar with folk even back then. A real loner.'
'Do you ever see him? When he's not ill, I mean.'
'You must be joking, maid. Hardly no one gets a look in. Like I say, peculiar. But a good soul for all that. Sorry to hear tell he be ill.'
Back at the Morranport post office a couple of hours later, Nell rushes out from behind the counter in the midst of a transaction, leaving the customer who is trying to post a package, looking at her with annoyance. Obviously a stranger, he raps his knuckles on the wooden counter to let her know he's still there.
She ignores him and pulls me to the side. 'Mr Hawker,' she says bluntly.
'I know, Nell. He's ill. I couldn't get into his house, but I guess the Morranport grapevine has told you that already. Martin and Dave Rowland were going down to see what's up. Have you heard anything else? Is he in hospital or at home?'
She turns her back on the now glaring customer. 'Not one nor t'other.'
'What do you mean?'
'He be gone, maid.'
I still don't understand. 'Where?'
Her look tells me everything. 'Oh Nell, no.' I'm devastated.
She says, 'Martin and Dave found him, already gone, in his bed. Had to break the door open. Happened some time in the night.' She sees my face, pats my shoulders and says, 'There, there,' as if I were a child. 'He'd of wanted to go that way, maid, in his own home, his own bed. A hospital would of killed 'im.'
The logic is a bit off but I know what she means. At least his spirit remained intact, dying where he belonged. But I still feel so sad.
The funeral the next week at the church in Creek, right by the sea, is simple and moving. A vicar who retired ages ago comes back to take the service, as he actually knew Mr Hawker before he became quite so reclusive. A couple of eighty-plus-year-olds stand up and say a few heart-felt words, a couple of well-known hymns are sung, and everyone is out in the September sunshine once again.
Mr Hawker would, I think, have been pleased. Over the months I delivered to him, I'd become convinced that his fear of seeing people, of going out of his house, was not antisocial as much as extreme shyness, aggravated by old age and illness. Not being well enough to keep himself and his small cottage clean and tidy, he would not embarrass himself or others by letting anyone in, not even to help. It was a way of retaining his dignity. But the number of people in the church today, all milling outside now looking at the sea, reluctant to leave this beautiful spot on this serene day, is a testament to Mr Hawker. Though most of them here have not seen him for years, they remember him fondly. I hope fervently he somehow knows this, wherever he is.
Now that the storms have gone back wherever they came from, the air is still and clean, warm but invigorating rather than muggy. Though I love autumn, I'm feeling slightly melancholy when the day comes that the birds' nest on our window sill is empty and the youngsters gone for good. The swallows are gathering together now, getting ready to leave, and I look for my little ones, wish them well on their long flight south, ask them silently not to forget us and to come back home to us next year.
I go out blackberrying as much as possible, bringing the juicy berries home to make pies to freeze and great pots of jam for the winter. Out in the fields the farmers are busy harvesting their maize and the sounds of their tractors and forage harvesters echo through the valleys. I pick elderberries and make refreshing cordial for the family. Next year I'll try making elderberry wine. There are holly berries out too, shiny red amongst the glistening green leaves, a joy to the birds as they forage around the hedgerows.
I'm inundated with apples. We don't have any trees of our own in the garden, not yet – we hope to plant some – but I'm given box loads to take home with me, more than we can keep. I can't give them away as everyone has a surplus this year, so once again I'm baking, stewing, preserving. I've never done anything like this before but soon feel the same as I do about my postie round, as if I've been doing it for years.
Another golden day and I feel in perfect harmony with the world as I drive up to a care estate at the end of my van round. There's a warden on the premises, a quiet but watchful man who greets me politely enough but doesn't say much. I think he's too conscientious, too intent on keeping his eyes and ears on red alert in case trouble breaks out on his patch.
Not that there's been any, as far as I know. Most of the residents in their individual homes are struggling to overcome drug or alcohol addiction, or mental illnesses; they've been rehabilitated, and the project is a kind of halfway house between life in a hospital, prison or care home for the mentally ill and life alone in the real world. Like the warden, the residents are mostly polite but silent, focused on their own recovery as if afraid it will fracture if they lose their concentration even for a moment.
I'd be quite at ease delivering here if it weren't for one of the men, Jamie Newton. I like some of the residents and admire all of them. Some have made
a total mess of their lives but are now bravely trying to struggle through. It can't be easy, especially given the background many of them come from.
Jamie is a different case altogether. I'd been told when I first started the job to keep an eye out for him, as he could be unpredictable if he mixed alcohol with his medication. He's a tall, powerful, young man with a shaven head and huge, wild, brown eyes, and though he's never harmed me or anyone I know of, there's something I find threatening and scary about him.
There's a small porch area where Jamie lives, with two front doors: Jamie's and a middle-aged woman who asked me once to call her Poll. Every time I see her she still asks, 'So what's me name, me luvver?' When I say cheerily, 'Poll, of course. Short for Polly,' she beams and pats my shoulder as I give her the post, as if I were her very best friend ever.
Jamie's door has a letterbox, and a few times when I've thrust the letters inside, junk mail mostly, he's grabbed my fingers. I still yelp when he does it, though I know now it's only eagerness to get his pathetic post as he lets go at once. I still can't help getting nervous, though, hoping he doesn't flip one day and break my fingers.
I've learned now to deliver his post first, hoping to divert him while I turn my back on his door to push Poll's letters into her slot. The few times I delivered Poll's first, Jamie crept out of his door and before I realized he was there, stood breathing down my neck, too close, far too close. He's got no idea of personal space, or if he does, ignores it.
Most days he wanders around, weaving crazily along lanes and main roads, tugging obsessively at his shaven skull as if he's trying to pluck nightmare thoughts from his poor head. Whatever the temperature, he always has a thick, dirty yellow scarf around his neck.
I feel sorry for him. Known as the local nutter, he's constantly being picked on and made fun of by the local kids. I've heard their parents telling them off for it, thank goodness, but when do kids listen to their folks when they're with their peers? Still, I was glad when I heard Jamie being defended. It's another thing I've discovered about closely knit communities; they'll protect one of their own and Jamie was born and grew up around here. He's a misfit now, the resident crazy, but he's still one of them.
Up With the Larks Page 22
