Even as I think how admirable this is, I feel my usual vulnerability as I step into the tiny porch. I'm a fairly tall woman, and strong from all my months outdoors delivering the post, but Jamie towers over me, makes me feel fragile and weak. I've heard him talking jibberish behind his front door, seen his agitation as he roams the streets. I might feel compassion for him, but he still frightens me.
Poll had picked up her mail outside as I'd parked my van. After our exchange over her name she grinned and waved, walking away towards the shop on the corner. I'm a bit edgy knowing that hefty Poll isn't behind the other thin front door in case Jamie grabs my fingers a bit too hard this once. If he ever does, naturally I'll report it and won't have to deliver to him again, but by then I'd have a few broken fingers, so it's a scenario I hope never happens.
My imagination begins running riot. There are only a few circulars and a white envelope which contains a form letter from the local council about rubbish collections. I'm tempted to bring them back to the post office and let the relief postman deliver them tomorrow as it's my day off.
I'm tempted like this every time I have to deliver to Jamie but talk myself out of it each time. You wimp, Tessa, I scold myself. All you have to do is shove the letters in the slot but keep your fingers well back. I'd learned that trick ages ago but sometimes you can't quite get the post through without a finger or two pushing it in.
Wondering if he's home, I put my ear to the door to hear if there are any sounds. I nearly fall on my face as the door opens suddenly and Jamie is standing right there. He looks manic, his pupils abnormally large, dark circles underneath wild eyes. He's wearing a black tee-shirt, black jeans, and as usual his yellow wool scarf is wound around his neck, wrapped so tight you wonder he's able to speak properly.
I stand upright, tall as I can, and start to bluster. 'Oh, hello, I wondered if anyone is at home. I've got your post here.'
Instead of giving it to him, I'm so flustered – and scared – that I clutch it tightly to my chest. He doesn't say a word but takes a step closer. I take a step backwards and he takes another step forward. This goes on for a couple more steps until I'm backed against Poll's door and Jamie's only a fraction away from me, breathing fire down at me.
Well, alcohol fumes anyway. Oh God, he's mixing the booze with the drugs again, I think, frozen with terror. I want to scream but I know there's no one around to hear me. The warden is way down at the other end of the housing estate and there are only Jamie's and Poll's places here.
Jamie lunges at me and then I scream. He jumps, more terrified than I am it seems. I try to run but he grabs my hand. I scream again. I'm going to be killed, I think, feeling the blood run cold, just as they say in the cheap thrillers. But it truly does. I never knew that blood actually does turn cold with fear. I feel as if ice is coursing through my veins.
I'm trying to push Jamie away as he tries to grab me. Or so it seems. Then he suddenly lets go. He retreats, some scruffed up paper in his hand, and bolts back into his house. He gives me a fearful look, frightened and pathetic, before the door slams. I can hear locks clicking as he barricades himself inside against the weirdo postie.
I feel like a fool as I realize what's just happened. Jamie had come out for the post, like any of my regulars, and after telling him I had some for him, I clutched it to my bosom like some ridiculous Victorian maiden. He wasn't trying to attack me, just trying to get his mail, since it looked like I was keeping it from him.
Driving back to St Geraint, I'm still brooding over the incident. Though it was my stupidity that triggered it, technically I should probably report it. He had grabbed my hand after all as he tried to get his pitiful bits of mail from me.
I park the van, trying to stop thinking about it, focusing on the sea – calm and azure and as serene as summer, despite the late September day – and then looking out at the shop fronts. Harry, in front of his office, waves at me and I wave back. Passing the sad old-fashioned shop, the closed sign still on the door, I commiserate with the dejected looking mannequins, arms missing, faces dusty, fifties-style nylon wigs sitting awry on their heads. I feel sorry for myself too. I'd acted without thinking at the care estate, letting my fear run away with me. If I'd handed the post to Jamie, he'd have taken it, walked away like he'd done dozens of times before when I'd met him in that porch, when he wasn't behind the door waiting.
I'd have to report it. The frustrating part was, whatever I said, it would still be Jamie who got into trouble. Whatever fear made me do, the authorities would say he still shouldn't have touched me.
I walk glumly into the post office. Margaret picks up my mood, asks what's up. I shake my head. 'Nothing.'
'You sure? Has anything happened?'
I take a breath and look her in the eye. 'No, honestly, I'm fine. Just tired, that's all. Late night last night.'
Without thinking, I've made up my mind. No one, not even the village crazy, is going to suffer for my over-reactions. Feeling much better, I make my way to the Sunflower Café. Ben's on today and if it's not busy maybe he can grab a coffee with me.
Passing the grocery shop, I see Lulu standing in the doorway, gazing out towards a yacht setting out from the harbour. 'Ah, Mrs Posh Post Lady, how are you?'
I assure her I'm just fine. 'And how are you, Lulu? How's the English going?'
I know it's practically flawless now, clever girl that she is, but I also know she likes being asked, takes an understandable pride in her new knowledge. 'Oh good I think.' She frowns, worried that this is immodesty on her part. 'But of course I know improvement can always be made.'
'Your English doesn't need any improvement,' I say and her whole face dimples in smiles.
'Yes and now I can go back home. Soon.'
'For a holiday? To see your parents?'
'Oh no. For good.'
Surprised, I say, 'But all that serious study you've been doing, learning the language and the culture. And now you're leaving? What made you change your mind?'
'Oh, I always am planning to go back.' She frowns again. 'Or I should say: I always did plan to go back. Or should it be, I always planned to go back?'
'Either one, Lulu. Did you?'
'Yes, to teach English to the village children so they have something for the future. Your language, Mrs Posh Postie, is world language now. Children in my country need to learn English, even poor children like those in my village. Only then can they help make a future for themselves.'
I wish her luck, impressed at her intelligence, her dedication. I can't help comparing Lulu to Jamie. They must be about the same age, but how different life is for the two of them. Not only a world of difference in backgrounds but in their futures too. There is one similarity, and it's the one of community solidarity. Jamie, in a loose sort of way is protected by his community, and Lulu is going back home to do all she can to help hers. This thought cheers me immensely. I skip once or twice as I say goodbye to Lulu and head towards the café and Ben.
'Mrs Posh Postie,' Lulu calls after me, laughter in her voice. 'Be careful. Remember how you fell that time, before Christmas, when you hopped too close to the edge of the path.'
Hopped? I have a fleeting vision of how she sees me, how she'll describe the local post deliverers in England to her charges back in her tiny Asian village. Like jumping rabbits, she'll say, making the little kids laugh as she gives a demonstration. Little bunnies. Or like kangaroos, children. Now, do you remember where kangaroos live?
I skip into the café, which is thankfully empty. Ben kisses me, and I'm pleased to see how well he looks, and how content. He's realized, since we talked about moving back to London, how very much he too loves our lives here. Making the decision to stay has somehow liberated him, and his face, his body language, reflects this.
He says now, 'I see you've had a good day.'
'Oh I have. An amazing day.'
We sit down and I tell him all about it. Predictably, he's worried about me, about Jamie. I say, 'Ben, if he'd wanted to hurt me, he co
uld have done it easily. He grabbed my arm but was aiming at his post. Even in his wild state, even with the booze in him he still wasn't violent. In fact, I'm kind of glad it happened. I don't think I'll ever feel so frightened of him again.'
Ben is still worried, but he accepts my judgement, after warning me that if anything like that ever happens again, I'd have to report it, or he would.
I agree, and we spend the next half hour talking about the things that have become important to us: the rhythms of the sea, the seasons, our new life. Though we don't yet feel fully integrated into our Cornish community, and sometimes wonder if it'll ever happen, we're going with the flow, taking on the tempo of life here and trying not to rush things. We've learned you can't force anything in the countryside and it hasn't been easy at times adjusting to a rural life. As we lapse finally into silence, looking out through the glass front of the café onto the harbour, our minds still and hearts at rest, I know. For this moment anyway, we're part of it all.
October
The first week of the month is perfect. The temperature is a steady 70 degrees with no wind or clouds, just a gentle sun. It's a glorious perk before the winter months looming ahead. Bookings are suddenly up in the guest houses and B&Bs for the autumn school break and I marvel at the optimism of the English. Just because it's perfect weather now doesn't mean it'll be like it tomorrow, let alone in another few weeks.
The fine weather brings many of the second homers down for an unplanned weekend but during the week Cornwall is fairly quiet, the visitors sparser. The locals are settling down to think of autumn carnivals, Hallowe'en, school fund-raising fêtes and all the activities leading up to Christmas.
The leaves are slowly beginning to change colours, the beeches glowing yellow in the sunlight, adding to the golden haze that seems to be caressing the countryside. The oak, ash and birch trees start to add their tinge too and every shade of bronze, orange, yellow and red appears.
One midweek day the peace in St Geraint, dozy after the frenzy of summer, is shattered by the boom and roar of four Harley motorbikes, their guttural engines revving through the little place like the Hell's Angels everyone thinks they are.
It takes about five minutes for every shopkeeper, postie, fisherman, baker and local resident to hear about the newcomers, as they park their bikes in the car park at the end of the village. St Geraint doesn't do bikers, or rather bikers don't do St Geraint, so everyone is askance and in a tizzy. Eyes peer behind shop windows as the bikers strut through the town in their black leather jackets and heavy boots.
When they go into the Sunflower Café and order basil and mozzarella salads with olive ciabatta, the locals there realize they can't be Hell's Angels, not with those accents. The waitress, a local woman (Ben's not on duty) spreads the word around. 'Talked posh,' she whispers. 'Asked if there be sun-dried tomatoes in the salads.'
This intrigues the locals so one of them begins a conversation. It turns out that the Harley tearaways are middle-aged men having a mid-life crisis, though of course they don't admit to that. They've rented the bikes and are roaring through England on them. 'If we don't do it now, never will,' one of them says.
'Trip of a lifetime,' adds another.
They nod solemnly. The locals wish them luck, then chuckle behind their backs. I listen to it all and remember a trip I took across the States on the back of a Harley, from Miami to San Francisco, courtesy of an old boyfriend. How he'd laugh if he saw me now, driving about in clapped-out Minger and a postal van that's seen far better days.
Coming out of the café I see Harry going to the bakery. I haven't seen him to chat for a while, so I run to catch him up. We both have time, so we sit at the rickety table for two outside the bakery on the harbour and order tea and Millie's delicious scones.
After we've chatted to both Millie and Geoff about the bikers, and Geoff brings us tea and Millie the scones, Harry and I settle down to talk.
I find myself telling him about Jamie, and his reaction is the same as Ben's, worried for me and warning me to be careful. But Harry knows Jamie; he and Charlie live in the same village as the care estate. I tell him about my feelings about the local community, how I think they keep an eye on their own, even if their own is a bit odd.
Harry agrees with me, 'When I first moved down here with Charlie and we set up house together in the village, I know there was talk. We're the first gays openly living together there, so it caused a stir. But because it was Charlie, whom everyone knew from a kid, it was OK. I feel more or less accepted now, probably more than you do, only because Charlie's a local. I think they're proud that even after going off to the big city, becoming a successful stylist with a top salon, he still wanted to settle back home.'
'Except his dad,' I say, biting into my jam and cream layered scone. 'Ironic isn't it, that his own father is still fuming at him.'
Harry puts down his own scone without taking a bite, 'Oh Tessa, I forgot, we've not talked properly for ages. I think Arnie is coming round at last.'
'What?'
Harry nods, 'He stopped by Charlie's workshop a while back, said he wanted to have a look at what his son was up to.'
I've stopped eating too, so surprised by this news, 'What brought that on? He's never done that before.'
'No, never. Refused to even talk about Charlie's work. Charlie did a double take, he told me later, seeing Arnie standing there, watching him for a few minutes without him realizing.'
'Did Charlie find out what caused the change of heart?'
'Not sure what did it. Arnie said something about thinking things over, about being lucky enough to do what he's loved all his life and maybe he shouldn't be so pig-headed about Charlie only wanting to do the same.'
I'm stunned. I think of my conversation with Arnie a month or so ago. It never occurred to me that it might influence his own thoughts in any way.
A few days later I'm delivering in Morranport. Though the weather has held until now, I feel it's changing. Just as birds and animals seem to know when a storm front is on its way, I do too, after nearly a year in this job. I don't exactly start to ache in the joints, as some of the older folk do, but my body feels different. It feels tenser, almost electric. It felt like that when I left the house this morning, so though it was still warm and the sky cloudless, I grabbed my waterproofs.
Good thing too, for by the time I reach the Grenvilles' house at the end of the village, I see a black mass looming on the horizon. The wind has whipped up and is blowing the storm this way fast, driving the rain with it. When Jennifer Grenville opens the door and asks me in for a cup of tea, I nip inside gratefully.
As usual, Archie is sitting at the kitchen table with his books but he leaves them to watch the storm with me as Jennifer brings out the brown teapot and some Rich Tea biscuits.
'It's come up so fast,' I say, still awed at the power and speed of these flash storms that lash and flood the village, then disappear without a trace leaving the sky a clear rinsed blue.
'Typical autumn storm,' Jennifer says, pouring out the tea and handing it around.
'I'd hate to be a fisherman,' I muse, thanking her as she offers me a biscuit. 'Can you imagine being caught in that?'
Archie says, 'I can remember my grandfather and uncles out in storms like these, the women at home praying. Then the worry getting stronger as the weather got worse and they'd all set off out of the house to stand on the shore in the driving rain, us kids huddled alongside not larking around for once, looking out and waiting for our fathers, older brothers and granddads to get home safe.'
I munch on a biscuit, 'What kind of fishing did they do?'
'Oh, anything. Years ago, just about anyone, no matter how poor, could manage to own an old boat, find a hidden cove, catch some fish. Not all fished full time; they did it for extra cash, to feed the family whenever they had spare time. Even the farmers hereabouts often had a little boat to get about in, then.'
'And your grandfather?'
'He was full time all right. Did all
sorts, in all weather. But of course the big catch in Cornwall used to be for the pilchards. The sea was rife with them, years ago.' He goes quiet, remembering.
Jennifer and I sip our tea, listening to the rain hurling against the big window, watching the sea froth and foam.
Archie goes on. 'My granddad often spoke of the great days of the pilchards, the ones he recalled from his own childhood, in the 19th century that would be. They used nets, the seine nets. You'll have heard of them, no?'
I have but didn't know much about how they were used. Archie explains. 'They used huge nets that were kept down with weights at the bottom. It took several large boats and many men; it wasn't easy, believe me. When a shoal was spotted the boats set out with the seine nets and circled the pilchards, tried to herd them into the shallows. They had to be really skilful, each man knowing his stuff, working together . . .'
He pauses again, for so long that I think his reminiscences are over and I make a move to go, but he goes on, barely noticing me. 'Pilchards provided the livelihood for years, for my family way back, and for nearly all the fishermen in Cornwall. All the houses had fish cellars where they stored the pilchards and cured them. Matter of fact, our spare bedroom downstairs used to be the fish cellar.'
'I've seen some of the pilchard lookouts,' I say, as he seems to have stopped again. 'Old sheltered places with wooden or stone slabs to sit on, high up on cliffs and ledges.'
He nods. 'A few of them were left, saved from dereliction and preserved as a tiny reminder of the past. I remember Grandfather talking about being sent on pilchard duty in the summer months, he and the other kids sitting at the lookouts, staring out to sea until they spotted a shoal. They'd race like maniacs to be the first into the village to cry out the news. The men would dash for the boats and the women and children, the old men, all ran down to see them off, to wish them luck with the catch.'
Up With the Larks Page 23
