And now I see that Archie really has finished talking. Along with his memories of the fishing, the tales heard at his grandfather's side, are his own stories and those of his long-dead parents and siblings. I know Archie is the last one of his family still alive.
Jennifer and I exchange looks as I get up to go. At the door she says, 'You've got to forgive us old dears, Tessa. We get a bit nostalgic now and again.' I tell her truthfully that I love to hear Archie's stories. Thanking her for the tea, I set off again, amazed to see that the storm is already dying out, the rain stopping, the sun shining and a brilliant rainbow arching across the sea.
It is Hallowe'en and there's a party on the village green. It's a cold but clear night, happily for all of us, especially for Will and Amy, dressed as pirates which is apparently all the rage this season.
But ghosts and spirits, the proper kind, are even more prevalent in the days leading up to Hallowe'en, or so I'm told by some of my customers. These are the spirits of all those poor souls shipwrecked over the centuries, their bodies never found, their souls unable to rest. They call out over the sea at this time of year, even venturing inland to sigh and moan and scare poor, innocent folk nearly to their death.
There's many a vicar too, I'm told, still haunting old rectories, churches and graveyards. Some were as odd in life as they seem to be in death. One apparently hated his parishioners so much that he chose never to see them, except in church where he had no choice. Ordering his food and other provisions to be left in a box at the end of the rectory path, he managed never to see anyone at all except at the church services.
He soon stopped seeing his parishioners there too, for naturally folk got fed up and refused to go to church. As they tailed off, the vicar made life-size figures out of wood or cardboard and placed them in the pews, to replace his vanishing congregation.
It's said that when the bishop finally got round to visiting that isolated village, he found his vicar preaching to rows and rows of life-sized effigies, without a real human being in sight. Even the organist was made of cardboard, her stick fingers stuck for ever on the organ keyboard.
'That ole vicar, he still come out every Hallowe'en, I heard tell from my ma, not just in his own church but in every church in Cornwall. He wanders around from one t'other all night long, looking for his lost congregation.'
This was Nell, adding to the story that morning in the post office. The Grenvilles had heard it, of course, and Archie added a story of the supernatural of his own. Or rather one handed down by his family, he told me.
It was about a smuggler, one of his great-uncles – or maybe it was a great-great one – who did a spot of harmless carting of illicit tobacco and brandy to earn a little spare cash. There was some kind of a tussle with another smuggler, this one part of a larger ring that thought great-uncle was muscling in on their business. There was a quarrel, knives were drawn and great- uncle's body was washed ashore the next morning, his chest still harbouring the knife that killed him.
'He's supposed to come out and roam the coast this time of year, on the first of November, with all the other unhappy spirits,' Archie had said. 'Even my grandfather claimed to have seen him. Scared the bejesus out of him, he said. Threw him a cider apple to placate his spirit.'
'That sounds so pagan.'
'Oh it is, it is.' Archie quite relished the thought. 'Up until the fifth century, we were all great worshippers of fire, the sea and the sun. You can't kill off the old faiths in just a couple of thousand years or so.'
Now, at the party in the village, a great full moon beaming down on the green, I can believe it. There are spooks and skeletons, black cats and witches, wandering around eating toffee apples, along with gypsies, pirates, spider ladies and firemen. As Amy and Will run off to find their friends, I crunch a piece of toffee and wonder why no one wants to dress as a postwoman. Maybe I'll bribe Amy to do it next year.
Ben has wandered off to find more substantial food than a toffee apple and is talking to one of the neighbours who is selling hot pasties at the food stall. Daphne and Joe come over to talk, asking me about the kids, how the job is going. We still haven't got to know them any better, though. Our relationship with all the locals has gone so far, then no further. It's as if an invisible wall stops us from going that extra pace, that step that changes acquaintances into friends.
Daphne and Joe finally see some other farmers and excuse themselves to catch up with them. For a short time I wander around alone, looking for Ben. Before I can find him, I see Emma and Martin watching with amusement a pumpkin competition going on at a table set up on the edge of the green.
I go up to them eagerly, wanting to thank them again for the huge pumpkin they gave me for Amy and Will to carve into a lantern. They wave away my thanks and the three of us stroll about together. Ben comes along and I introduce him to the Rowlands but Amy calls him away for some urgent advice on the best way to bob for apples without getting her eye patch wet. Taking it off is definitely not a solution, so Ben laughs and lets her pull him away, apologizing to the Rowlands as he leaves us.
I say to them, 'You must be glad the autumn half term is over.' I know their B&B was full up that week.
Martin nods. 'And it looks like we made enough to close up shop till after Christmas, anyway. That last sudden splurge of guests was a godsend.'
'Great.' I'm pleased for them, though I'm not sure what these energetic, hard-working people will do with themselves during the next few months. They're not the type to rush off and holiday in the sun or sit around at home all winter.
As if reading my mind, Emma says, 'We've got loads to do in the next few months, if we're going to get the market garden going. And then there's the goats – we're building up the herd.'
'Herd? Last time I counted, you had two nannies.'
'Ah, things have progressed since then. We're going to buy quite a few more, eventually sell the milk and make yogurt from it. And eggs – we're getting more hens.'
Martin looks happier than I've seen him for ages. 'We been thinking it all out, Tessa. The B&B business 'tisn't us, not by a long shot. The garden, though, has been booming – even sold loads of pumpkins for Hallowe'en.'
'So we're expanding it, going into market gardening, see if we can scratch a living that way.'
I'm amazed. 'Can you really?' The doubt must have sounded in my voice, for Martin smiles ruefully.
''Twill be hard at first, touch'n'go, but mebbe one day. Marilyn and Dave have found some good outlets for the produce, some shops in Bristol actually and we got some good orders already. Organic stuff, see? All the rage.'
Emma says, 'Of course it'll take time to get organic certification, but bit by bit . . .'
They both look so hopeful with their new plans. I wish them luck. 'That's great. So no more B&B at Trelak Farm?'
'Goodness, not so fast, Tessa,' this is Emma. 'We need the B&B to finance the other stuff. But that'll be Dave and Marilyn's job.'
I'm getting confused here. 'But – they live in Bristol.'
Emma and Martin look at each other with such a sparkling look that I say, 'Don't tell me, they're coming back to Cornwall.'
Martin grins, 'Renting old Mr Hawker's cottage. He had some great-nephew living in Scotland, some fellow he never knew who inherited the house. This bloke don't care about selling, got several houses Up Country apparently, so we made a deal – a low rent and in return Dave and Marilyn do up the place. After that . . . well, we'll see. One thing at a time.'
We talk some more. I learn that Dave and Marilyn, who is also a physiotherapist, hope to get part-time work at the hospital in Truro, work it in with the B&B business while Martin and Emma crack on with the livestock and garden. 'And of course Martin or I can do the B&B if it overlaps sometime with their other work.'
I'm distracted for a few moments as Will goes by with a mate, leaping about in a pretend sword fight and nearly knocking me over. He's gone as fast as he arrived and I turn back to Emma.
'You've got it all planne
d,' I tell her, admiration in my voice.
'You've got to plan, Tessa, if you want to stay in Cornwall. We're all of us scheming and doing all we can to stay put here, where we were born and bred.'
She doesn't mean anything by it, and maybe it's the strange mood I seem to be in tonight, but those words make me feel excluded. Will I never forget that I wasn't born and bred here? More important, will anyone else ever forget and treat me like one of them?
I'd had a sudden impulse, when I ran into the Rowlands, to ask them over to our house to see the lantern the kids made with Ben's help, out of their pumpkin. Perhaps we could have a drink, get to know each other, give Ben a chance to get to know this kind couple. But her words unintentionally stop me. They probably wouldn't come anyway; after all, I remind myself, they're not friends, they're my customers. I only see them on my rounds, except for rare nights like tonight.
So I let it go, drift away from them, and wander to the other side of the green, past the crowds of over-excited children, indulgent parents and watchful villagers, until I'm standing in front of the old church, its stone gleaming in the moonlight, the tombstones in front lit up now and again by a wayward torch beaming from the green.
It's chilly now. A sudden wind, sharp and autumnal, has sprung up, ruffling the drying leaves of the trees, sending a few scattering down over the graveyard. I shudder in the sudden cold and button up my jacket.
Maybe I'll see the people-hating vicar, I think as my eyes roam across the stones, wandering about looking for his wayward parishioners. A figure stepping out of the shadows makes me leap a foot into the air. My heart doesn't start beating again until I see it's one of our neighbours, taking a short cut through the churchyard to the Hallowe'en party.
He waves at me and I wave back. Then I make my way slowly back to the house to put on a sweater under my jacket and to bring warm clothes for the children. There are still fireworks to come and a barbecue. It will be a long evening.
The leering face of our carved pumpkin lantern on the front step seems as eerie as any spirit out roaming tonight and the wind now whipping around the bushes of the front garden makes a ghostly moan as it gathers strength. My body is telling me there'll be another storm but not yet, not until the party is over.
This early autumn storm will be different from the summer ones. There'll be a chill of winter, a foretaste of what's in store over the next few months. But the house itself looks warm and welcoming, a few lights still burning to guide the family back inside after the revelries end.
Tomorrow is November, the month I began this job. The year is drawing to an end and I have a sense of other endings too. Mr Hawker, for one. A death and a funeral. I think of him for a moment, hoping his spirit is at peace, this night when the dead are said to walk the earth. But this month has brought some good endings too. The feud between Arnie and Charlie, the father and son. And perhaps, with luck, the end of an unsuitable occupation for Martin and Emma, an end of exile for their son and his partner.
With luck. So much depends on that, I think. No matter how hard we work, strive to achieve, plan and scheme, we still all need a little luck. Tapping the round pumpkin head grinning on my front doorstep, I let myself into the house, find some sweaters and jackets, and rush on out back to the party.
November
I am tiptoeing out of the bedroom the next day, the day after Hallowe'en, as usual trying not to wake Ben at this ungodly hour. But before I can leave the room he sits up and runs to the bathroom where I can hear him being sick. I go to him but he motions me away, indicates he'll be all right.
When he comes back into the bedroom he's not all right. He's shivering with a severe chill, yet when I touch his forehead, it's blazing hot.
'Don't know what's brought this on,' he says as I get him water and some paracetamol for the fever.
'Probably the flu. It's getting towards that time of year again, and I heard last night that one or two others in the village are in bed with it.'
He groans, 'I'm on at the café for the lunch hour.' He's been leaning back on the pillows and now tries to sit up then flops back down, the movement having exhausted him.
'Not today,' I say.
I know he's really ill when he agrees to stay home in bed and miss a day's work. I stay hovering until he tells me I'd better get going, that I'll be late, and that he'll be fine, the kids will be fine. 'Just go, and don't worry about us. Amy and Will can get themselves dressed and breakfasted and I'll surface long enough to get them to school.' His face is drenched in sweat.
'Ben, are you in pain?'
He nods, 'My gut. Probably some wretched stomach bug.'
That would explain it, with the vomiting and everything. He seems prone to stomach viruses; the last year or so he's had a few minor attacks of pain and nausea but nothing as agonizing as this one seems to be.
Ben says again, 'Tessa, you'd better get moving.' His eyes close. 'I'll try to get a couple more hours sleep before the kids get up. Don't worry, I'll be fine.'
I try to hurry my round, to get back home as soon as possible. Ben phones me when he wakes again, saying he's feeling a bit better but still has the bouts of shivering followed by bouts of feverish sweating. Definitely the flu, so I make him promise to get straight back to bed when he's taken Will and Amy to school. I've already phoned the café owners, told them he won't be in.
Of course today, when I'm in a hurry to return to Ben, is the day when everything seems to hold me up. First is the weather. As I'd thought the night before, there was a sharp change during the night and though it's only the first of November, we're having a cold blast of early winter with icy rain and a Siberian wind that gets under my waterproof and turns the skin under my fleece goosebumpy.
At Morranport post office, Nell looks like a cuddly toy in a chocolate-coloured mohair jumper which frizzes up from her shoulders, arms and bosom like the fur of a teddy bear. ''Tis too early for this sort of weather,' she mutters, clapping her hands together for a bit of warmth. As she speaks, a frenzy of hailstones batters the window that faces the sea.
I agree, 'Flu season's already begun. Ben's down with it.'
She picks up a newspaper she'd been reading when I walked in. 'Slanging season started too, m'lover. Look here at this slanderous stuff.'
I take the paper reluctantly. 'Nell, you ought to stop reading the newspapers. You take it all too seriously.'
'There be a conspiracy, maid, you better believe it.'
'By whom? About whom? And why?'
'You be saying I don't have a clue what I'm talking about?'
'Never, Nell, believe me, but I'm not sure who's behind this so-called conspiracy.'
'The government, that's who, against us small post offices, because they want to be ridding themselves of the lot of us.'
I sigh loudly and impatiently but I know I'll never get away before I read yet another article about the Royal Mail. This time, someone has uncovered the fact that huge amounts of letters and parcels are lost every year, some by accident and some by deliberate fraud.
'Nell, everyone knows that postal workers are like everyone else, totally human. There're thousands of us, and maybe a few are careless, and even a tiny few are corrupt. Happens everywhere. But everyone also knows that the overwhelming majority of us are honest and hard working.'
She won't have it. Straightening up to her full height of five foot, her ship's prow bosom trembling with indignation, she says, 'It be scurrilous scandal. You wait and see, maid, 'twon't be long before every small post office in rural England is being threatened with closure.'
I know better than to argue with her. Besides, she's probably right about the post offices. It all comes down to money, like everything else.
'Nell, can we finish this conversation another day? I've got to get going.'
She's reading the article again, probably for about the fifth time, not looking up as she waves me off.
The hailstorm has stopped but the road up the hill out of Morranport is treacherous and
slippery. My mood plummets as I hear a strange noise coming from the van. It sounds rattley and tinny as I edge up out of town. I put on the radio to drown the sound but it seems to be getting louder and more frantic, so when I get to the first lay-by, I pull over to see if I can spot what's wrong.
One glance tells me the problem: I left the back doors open when I zoomed away in such a rush. Great start, I think. Really, Tessa, you're such an idiot sometimes. Every ounce of Royal Mail deliveries could have flown out of those back doors.
My cheeks burn when I think of the article Nell just gave me to read. I'm glad I defended poor, human, accident-prone postal workers. It can happen to anyone. But luckily, the mail is intact with nothing missing and I can go on, now that I'm soaked again by another lashing of hail.
The morning doesn't get much better. A flock of sheep on the road keeps me idling behind them for ages and for some reason the van is stalling every time it idles. I'll have to report that. My door isn't shutting properly again either and there's a leakage of icy water on my seat as I hop back into the van after another delivery in the wet.
And oh no, oh dear lord, there's a letter for my worst delivery place, a run-down farm at the end of the long track with three five-bar gates to open and shut before reaching the house. That means getting in and out of the van twelve times just for one piece of mail.
I sit in the van in front of the first gate wrestling with my conscience. The hailstones have changed to a slushy, cold, steady rain drenching the windscreen, the wipers not able to keep up with the deluge. How tempting it would be not to deliver it but sneak it back to the post office and let the relief postie take it tomorrow, my day off.
I've never done anything like that before but oh, how I am tempted now. I'm still worried about Ben, despite his phone call to say he's feeling better; I want to get home and see for myself. But the vision of Nell, always loyal to the Royal Mail, always trying to defend it from accusations of incompetence, floats before me in all her bosomy righteousness. How can I even be thinking of letting her – or the Royal Mail – down?
Up With the Larks Page 24
