Resolutely, or more accurately, resigned, I open the first gate, get back in the van, drive through it. Another moral quandary now – do I risk leaving the gate open for the time it'll take to deliver the post? I glance at the fields. The sheep are way on the far side, huddled near a copse of scrub oak, trying to shelter. They're not going to move from that spot for quite some time. But if they do? I know sheep can spot an open gate a mile away and then they'd be down the road and away as fast as you can say that bloody postwoman.
I get out of the van, shut the gate behind it. This whole routine is repeated twice more as I make my way up the track. I'm cold and wet and know, just know, I'll be joining Ben in bed with the flu before long.
After the last gate is past, there's another hurdle. Part of this farm track is actually a small stream, making it muddy at the best of times. During rainy bouts the water and mud can be quite deep, and sure enough, today it happens again. I've only been stuck here once before, last winter, but that was enough. I was hoping it would never happen again but today's not my lucky day.
I trudge up to the farmhouse for help after a great deal of revving back and forth to try to get the van unstuck with no success. Mr Barker, the farmer, comes out in the rain with tractor and rope and finally pulls the van out. 'Will you be wantin' a cuppa, maid? Wife'll be glad to brew one up. She be in kitchen.'
Tempted as I am, I decline and give him the letter. He takes a cursory glance at it and crumples it into a ball, stuffs it into his jacket pocket. 'Another of them circulars. Shouldn't of bothered, maid.'
I finally get home, wet and cold, longing for a hot bath. Ben is up but doesn't look great. He's pale, and there's a thin ridge of sweat on his forehead though his hands and face feel cold. He says he's better, though, 'Just these stomach pains. Quite bad at times. Must be a bug, or something I ate at the fête last night. I feel as if my whole body has been poisoned.'
That night, Ben hardly sleeps. Nor do I, worrying about him. He's feeling nauseous and the pains are getting worse but he's convinced by now it must be a stomach virus. In the morning I try to get him to the doctor's but he says, 'Give it time to get better, Tessa, it only started yesterday. If the pains are still bad tomorrow, I'll see the doctor.'
But he is getting worse, I can tell by his white face and the way he clutches his abdomen when the spasms of pain hit. By midday he's doubled up in agony and I call the doctor who immediately calls an ambulance. Ben is shaking uncontrollably despite layers of clothes and a hot-water bottle. I insist on going with him in the ambulance but he whispers, 'Amy and Will. You've got to stay home.'
I'm frantic. I can't leave Ben and I can't let the kids come home to an empty house. There's Jake too, growling at the ambulance men, nervous at all the strange activity. I feel trapped, not knowing what to do, only knowing that I can't be in two places at once. I feel helpless, bereft. Annie would help, or any of my old friends, but they're all in London. I've never felt so lonely, and so alone, in my life.
Desperate, I grab the phone, punch in the first local number I can think of, one of the first I was given after moving here. Susie answers on the third ring, 'Just got in, bird. What's up?'
When I tell her she says only, 'Go with Ben. I be there in half hour, leave the key under a plant or something.'
The hospital in Truro is large and impersonal as all huge institutions are. Everyone seems to know what they're doing and after what seems like days, but can only have been hours, Ben is in a clean ward, pain under control, with an intravenous tube feeding antibiotics into his system. A scan has confirmed the diagnosis of diverticulitis.
My heart stops when I hear this. One of my older relatives had this when I was a child, and died of it, so I'd been told. It had been undiagnosed, and that was many years ago, but still . . .
When Ben drifts off to sleep I find a helpful nurse and ask her exactly what diverticulitis is. She takes me to a tiny office, gives me tea and explains that it's an inflammation, or swelling, of an abdominal pouch in the intestine wall. These pouches are usually found in the colon and if they do get inflamed, as Ben's are, the pain can be excruciating.
'We're treating your husband with a high dosage of antibiotics, which should bring down the inflammation,' she says. She notes my stricken face and smiles reassuringly. 'Don't worry, he'll be home in no time, I'm sure. We just need to keep an eye on him as he's had an acute attack.'
I don't mean to, but I tell her about my relative. 'He couldn't really have died from diverticulitis, could he? I mean, Ben's not in danger, is he?'
She shakes her head. 'Your relative must have developed peritonitis, which can happen when the intense swelling causes a rupture in the colon. But Ben's not in danger of that, not now. The diverticulitis is under control; the antibiotics go to work at once.'
I can't ask anything more as she's called away, but now I understand why the doctor called an ambulance to take him to hospital so quickly. To prevent the rupture that very nearly happened.
It's nearly nine when I get home, but the children are still up. I've talked to them – and Susie – on the phone several times in the past hour but they wanted to wait up to hear the latest about their father. Susie very sensibly made no protest.
Stopping to fuss over Jake who is frenziedly wagging his tail and trying to get himself noticed, I go in to see the kids. They are in pyjamas and dressing gowns and look clean, wonderful, and practically asleep in front of a DVD of One Hundred and One Dalmatians. I tell them that their dad is on the mend, get them to bed gently, while Susie makes rich hot chocolate drinks for the two of us before she leaves for home.
I see that the hens have been shut in the hen house for the night, and the rabbits taken care of, and that there's the remains of a homemade cottage pie in the fridge, all thanks to Susie.
I try to thank her but she brushes me off and says, 'I been on phone to Daphne up the road, had a long chat.'
'You know her?'
'Bird, you forget I be knowing most folk in these parts, I was born here, remember? Now I reckon you be wanting to go straight onto hospital after you get the kids to school tomorrow, stay with Ben, so she's bringing 'em home to her place when she collects her own kids. Amy and Will are thrilled to bits, especially as they be getting a chance to see the new calf just born today. Oh, and Daphne'll be popping by here as well, see t'hens and rabbits.'
I'm stunned by all this, and mightily relieved. Then I groan, 'Work. God, Susie, I'm on tomorrow.'
'No you're not, bird. Eddie and me'll split your round, no problem. Already asked 'im.'
I burst into tears. Despite my terror as Ben was rushed to hospital, my fears for him all day, my exhaustion, lack of sleep and lack of food, I had managed, only by a thread, to hold myself together. Now I'm undone by all this kindness, this thoughtfulness, this generosity of time and compassion.
Susie lets me cry and cry, pats my shoulder and says, 'There, there, my bird, all's gonna be just fine now,' as she hands me tissues, gets me another hot drink. 'Oh, and by the way, I'm taking Jake home with me until Ben's home and you be back to normal.'
'But your cat . . . !'
'No problem. She practically hibernates in me bedroom from October to March. Jake'll not get a whiff of her nor she of him.'
I'm feeling much better for the good weep but still don't go to bed after Susie leaves despite hardly sleeping the night before. It's nearly eleven o'clock but I'm both exhausted and agitated, a poisonous combination where sleep is concerned.
So I'm still sitting in the living room when there's a ring of the doorbell. I go to the front door and open it without a qualm. I haven't a clue who's here at this hour but I don't think to ask before I open up.
Another thing I'd never do in London, that's for sure.
Daphne is standing there, apologizing for arriving out of the blue at that hour. 'I was coming back from a film club get- together just down the road and saw the light, saw you were still up. I'm so sorry about Ben. What can we do to help?'
&nbs
p; I ask her in and to my surprise she accepts, first making a quick phone call to Joe saying she'll be later than usual. She sits at the kitchen table while I open a bottle of white wine, a sudden impulse that Daphne seems to approve.
'I suspect you need this,' she says, as we drink the wine. 'What an awful day.'
She repeats what Susie has told me, that she wants to take Amy and Will out to her place tomorrow after school. 'They get on like a house on fire with my kids, Tessa, as you know. They may as well be spending the night and I'll get the lot of them off to school.'
Like Susie, she won't hear of any thanks, simply changes the subject. She stays an hour, and we drink the whole bottle, talking without a pause about everything under the sun. When I ask her about the film club she'd mentioned, she says, 'Oh, it's just an informal thing, taking turns watching new films and old classics on DVD at each other's homes and chatting about them afterwards. And I nearly forgot. Everyone there sends warm wishes, hopes Ben is better soon. And Clara said to ask if you want to join us. When Ben's home and better, that is, no need to be thinking about it now.'
Clara is another neighbour, a sparky Cornish woman around my age who lives a few houses away in the village. I hardly know her, though I've spoken to her in the shop and at various village functions. Like so many of the others, she was friendly but distant, too distant for me to make any overtures towards friendship.
I say uncertainly, 'Clara said to ask me? Are you sure?' I've never been asked before to anything in the village, except for the big fêtes and parties that everyone goes to.
'Of course we're sure, all of us. Anyway, think about it. There's only about eight of us, a good-sized group. Some you'll know from around the village and the others you'll get to know.'
When she realizes the time, Daphne giggles and says, 'I'd better call Joe, I can't really drive like this. Good thing my mum's staying with us, to be there with our kids.'
So Joe comes out in his battered old farm truck, stays about ten minutes to ask about Ben and send his regards. When they finally leave, I fall into bed and have no trouble falling asleep at once, not stirring until its time to get the kids ready for school. A quick phone call to the hospital assures me that Ben is still sleeping and has had a pain free night.
When I see him later, I begin to worry again. He looks pale and wan, his skin clammy. Though with this neon lighting I suppose I look just as bad. During the morning we learn that there is still concern about a possible rupture, so Ben is being monitored carefully. He's going to have another scan and some blood tests. There's talk now of a possible operation.
The day drifts, as hospital days do. I'm getting used to that pervasive hospital smell of milky drinks, bitter medicines, disinfectants and occasional cigarette smoke as visitors from outside walk in. When Ben dozes, I leaf through magazines or listen unashamedly to the Ozzie surfer in the bed opposite, talking on his mobile phone. 'Alright, mate, good, good! . . . Well actually tell a lie, buddy, not so good 'cos I'm in hospital, got hit by m'board in the old fella!'
He's been surfing in this? I look out of the hospital window at the rain still drizzling against it. It's November, for goodness sake, but of course the surfers are out all year now, thanks to wet suits. Far better you than me, mate, I think with a shiver.
Ben is being fed intravenously. He'll have to be on low fibre liquids for a time, to reduce the amount of material going through the colon until it heals. Later, we'll have to take special care of his diet, adding the fibre he'll be needing to keep his colon healthy and hopefully prevent this happening again.
He's more concerned about me. 'When did you last eat, Tessa? Go down to the cafeteria and get something, please. You don't want me to start worrying about you.'
It's the last thing I want so I finally go down, grab a ham and cheese baguette and a weak coffee. At first the food is hard to swallow, but once I start to eat my stomach tells me how hungry it is and I fill it rapidly.
When I go back up it's visiting time and to my surprise, Ben has a visitor. It's Susie, still in uniform having just finished her round and part of mine. She's brought a pile of magazines for Ben: a selection of news magazines, a science monthly and a men's health magazine. She doesn't stay long but before she goes, says she and Eddie can do my round again tomorrow, no problem.
I've talked this over already with Ben, so now I say, 'Thanks, Susie, but since Amy and Will are staying overnight at Daphne's and she's bringing them to school, I may as well work. I'll come to the hospital straight after. I'll have a couple of hours with Ben anyway before getting the children.'
'Well, if you be sure, bird, but don't be worrying pickin' up Amy and Will. At least a half dozen of the mums of their friends have phoned Daphne, offering to have them after school and overnight. Clara wants to do it next. Oh, and there be a rota going to feed the rabbits and hens. So you can stay with your man as long as you like.'
I'm so overwhelmed I can't think straight. Susie says, 'You not be needing to think, bird. Your friends be doing the straight thinking for you. Just you two concentrate on Ben here getting better.'
That afternoon Ben has several visitors. Joe comes, with homemade get well cards Amy and Will have made at school, signed by all the children and their teacher.
'They're over to our place now,' Joe says. 'Daphne's got them baking cakes with the eggs they just collected from your hens. You're not to worry about them.'
Harry visits next, with sandalwood scented soap, hand lotion and men's face cream. 'Why should you females get all the pampering?' he tells me as I smell the products and threaten to confiscate them for myself. 'You leave them alone, woman.'
Because Harry usually has lunch at the Sunflower Café, Ben knows him quite well. They talk easily, but like the other visitors, Harry sees Ben tiring and leaves before overstaying.
As soon as he's gone, one of the waitresses from the café, who shared shifts with Ben in summer, arrives with a bunch of carnations. 'Everyone in St Geraint sends piles and piles of love, Ben,' she tells him, planting a kiss on his forehead as she leaves. 'Don't you be doing this again, scaring us to hell being rushed to hospital like that.'
Later, as Ben is getting ready for sleep and I'm preparing to go, he murmurs, 'I didn't think we had so many friends in Cornwall.'
'I didn't think we had any. Oh, lots of people we liked, but I didn't know they were friends. Didn't know they'd come to our rescue like this, take care of us like . . . like . . . like family,' I shake my head in wonder. 'I'm completely bowled over.'
'And I'm completely whacked,' Ben says, his eyes closing. 'It's been a long day.'
We say goodbye, kiss, and I leave the hospital, go straight to Daphne and Joe's farm. I've never been there but when I talked to her earlier, to see how the kids were, she asked me to stop by, have a bite to eat. They've got a comfortable old beamed farmhouse, two golden Labradors and a casserole waiting for me in the Aga.
Will and Amy are in bed but Daphne takes me to see them so that I can kiss them goodnight. Amy stirs, wakes up for a moment and asks, 'How's Dad?'
'Doing really well. I'll take you and Will to see him tomorrow.' She's back asleep in seconds.
Daphne and Joe have eaten, but they open a bottle of red wine, have a glass with me as I tuck into a succulent lamb stew, thick with gravy and vegetables. We talk about everything and nothing whilst I have two helpings. It's incredible how I feel at home here, in this house I've never even set foot in before.
The night nurse on Ben's ward doesn't mind my phoning her in the early hours, before I start work the next day. Ben's had a good night, he's sound asleep, and yes she'll give him my love, tell him I'll be in later. She sounds calm, unharassed, unlike some of the day nurses yesterday. And who can blame them? They're overstretched, overworked.
I ran into one of them, Rachel, coming out of the ward yesterday. She's a sweet young woman in her late twenties and I know her slightly as she is still, out of necessity, living with her parents who are on my postal route.
At the post office in Morranport, Nell accosts me at the door. 'You be asking me, why did I not be coming out to see you, come out to see what's to be done?' she scowls at me accusingly.
Before I can answer she tells me, 'Because no one had the sense to tell me, that's why. Not till late last night, too late to go over and give some comfort or mebbe make a pot of tea, some supper, give a hand doin' summat or other.'
I'm slightly bewildered. 'Give a hand doing what, Nell?'
'Why anything that need be doing,' she says in the tone of voice one uses for stating the obvious. 'Looking after your kiddies, cookin' a meal – whatever.' She shakes her head at the missed opportunity but brightens as she adds, 'But now you be here, you can let me know what I can do.'
'Nell, thanks, you're a star. But Susie, and the neighbours, everyone has been great. Not anything to do.'
She's not sure of this but decides to leave it for a minute. 'Poor Ben, but at least he be having a good sleep now, so don't you go worrying, me handsome.'
I start to nod then wonder how she knows this. It turns out that Rachel had a last peep at him when her shift finished, found him sleeping peacefully. She told her folks who rang Nell to give her the news, if she hadn't heard already, that the postie's hubby was in hospital but doing just fine, according to Rachel.
When I've finally got the mail sorted and am on my way out of the door, Nell blocks it. She won't let me go unless I promise to let her know if there's anything, anything at all, that she can do.
That day is surreal. The news of Ben in hospital seems to have spread through all my customers and I'm inundated with fruit and chocolates, cards, good wishes, prayers, a couple of loaves of homemade bread, books and magazines for Ben to read, and offers of help.
By the time I get to the Rowlands I'm all talked out and ready for a break, and accept gladly when Emma asks me if I want a coffee. They, like everyone else, are full of commiseration and offers of help; in fact, they'd already left messages on our answerphone.
Up With the Larks Page 25
