Up With the Larks
Authors: Tessa Hainsworth
UP WITH THE LARKS
STARTING AGAIN IN CORNWALL
Tessa Hainsworth
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ISBN 9781409050568
Version 1.0
Published by Preface 2009
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Tessa Hainsworth, 2009
Tessa Hainsworth has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
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First published in Great Britain in 2009 by
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9781409050568
Version 1.0
To the magical charms of Cornwall
which has seduced many a heart into staying . . .
To my dearest Richard, Tom and Georgie
will all my love and to my amazingly
supportive friends and family
and
To Nigel, Jules, Jacki, Adrian, Jeremy
and all their families
To the beginning of an amazing journey – I owe special thanks
to Karen Hayes without whom this book would never have seen
the light of day. Huge thanks also to my agent Jane Turnbull,
to Brian Perman and to the great team at Preface Books.
Two books have been a valuable source of background
information on Cornish history, legend and landscape:
Lawrence O'Toole's
The Roseland
and Daphne du Maurier's
Vanishing Cornwall
.
The names of places and people featured in the book have
been changed to protect their privacy.
I'm having my lunch break on the estuary in Creek, a tiny Cornish
village tucked away between a rolling hillside and the sea. The tide is out
and I'm perched on an old sea wall nibbling on a homemade pasty given
to me by one of my 'customers'.
It is winter now, a glorious December. It's nearly the Solstice and yet
the low sun gives enough warmth for me to sit outside and bask in it.
The seabirds are basking too, scuttling along the wet sand and chirping
at each other as merry as spring. They hop and preen amongst the few
old rowboats and the clumps of seaweed, looking at me now and again
with inquiring eyes, for I'm the only person here in this secluded haven.
The sky is as blue and cloudless as any summer day, and the water beyond
the estuary is as green as shamrocks.
I finish my pasty and brush away the crumbs. The smell of sea, the
lap of waves, the sound of gulls, lulls me into a half-doze, and I forget
that I'm not on some idyllic holiday but actually at work. And I can't
believe my luck. After all the upheavals, the false beginnings, the struggle
not to give up, I'm exactly where I want to be. This time, it feels
permanent.
Picking up my bag, I saunter over to my van parked by the sea wall.
It's the red van of the Royal Mail and yes, I'm the driver, the one who
delivers the post.
I'm a postwoman for the Royal Mail in Cornwall and a year into the
job, it still feels like a dream.
It's not even two years since I lived and worked in London – and
abroad – in a high-powered exciting job with a lifestyle many people
would die for. But the stresses of juggling family and work, of too much
to do and not enough time to do it in, was taking its toll and tearing our
family apart.
It had to change, and it did, finally. What none of us were prepared
for were the near-disastrous consequences of that change.
I'm thinking about the past as I get into the postal van, of how I got
from there – that glitzy glamorous life – to here: dressed in a Royal Mail
uniform and on my way to deliver the post to the next tranquil seaside
hamlet.
As I drive along the narrow curving lanes, catching glimpses of the
December sun glinting on the sea beyond green fields and grazing sheep,
feeling contentment and joy ooze out of my pores like rich Cornish clotted
cream, I remember the beginning – the weirdness of that first day. That
surreal feeling that I'd walked into another life, an alien life that I thought
then would forever remain strange and alarming.
My first day as a postwoman for the Royal Mail and the first
shock is the odour. Male sweat – the sorting room reeks of it
– not rancid nor unclean, just ordinary bloke secretions, with
all that testosterone crammed together in one room. I feel as
though I'm in the wrong story, the one about warriors and
adventures and manly prowess; a story that begins far too early,
before dawn.
I turn to Susie, the postwoman who is showing me around
the huge warehouse of the mail room. 'Are we the only women?'
I ask, watching the riot of navy and red clad figures rushing
about sorting the masses of post.
She shakes her head. 'No, but we're a minority. And let's
face it, bird, in these uniforms, we don't look much different
from the men. Hard to tell us apart, to be honest.'
I look down at my clothes: baggy dark blue trousers, far too
big for me. Dr Martens boots, unflattering red shirt, shapeless
navy fleece, all with the bright red Royal Mail insignia.
Waterproof jacket as big as a tent, but necessary for the icy
deluge lashing Truro on this early November morning. It isn't
that warm in here either, which is probably just as well. The
strong masculine air is overpowering enough now; goodness
knows what it will be like on a hot summer's day.
I take a deep breath. It's like being locked up with the
England rugby team after a tough first half.
'You OK?' Susie says. 'Anything wrong?'
'No, fine . . . It's just that . . .' I trail off. Susie gives me an
odd look, half suspicious, half scornful. 'Not got cold feet,
have you?'
She isn't talking about the weather, or about the cold floor,
where about 50 to 70 men, and very few women, are gathering
their post from the sorting boxes. It looks like something between
a strange choreographed dance and complete confusion and
chaos.
She is waiting for an answer.
My reply is flippant. 'Not just
cold
feet –
freezing
. I should
have worn thicker socks with these boots.'
She gives me the look my pathetic attempt at humour
deserves. I try to seem at ease. 'It's just . . . just a bit different,
that's all. From my last job.'
I think of my work over the last twenty years, travelling all
over the world for The Body Shop, an international cosmetics
company, latterly as its UK Marketing Manager.
As I take another deep breath and inhale the earthy odour,
that male smell mixed with cardboard, metal, paper, print and
damp, I remember other rooms, just as busy where the scent
was of the sweetest perfumes, lemongrass and lavender,
mimosa and magnolia, fruity and flowery fragrances that
permeated my clothes and stayed with me day and night.
Delicate rose bath oils, moisturizers and night creams of myrrh
and frankincense, shampoos and rinses of tea tree and aloe
vera.
I look around at this warehouse which reminds me of an
aeroplane hangar. The huge rubber doors at the end are flapping
like the wings of menacing ravens as the post deliverers
come in to collect their stash and go back out with it loaded
on huge trolleys.
My last place of work was a lush boutique office, designer
decorated and scented with discreet but expensive aromatherapy
oils.
Susie, normally an attractive healthy Cornish woman, looks
stark and yellow at 4.30 in the morning under the rows and
rows of overhead neon strip lighting and I'm sure I look just
as bleak in the harsh glare. My colleagues at The Body Shop
were all fashionably smart and stylish, trendy hair and bodies
pampered with our products.
Susie is still looking at me, her face unreadable. 'I'm fine,' I
repeat. 'It's just a bit different, that's all.'
She nods. I can almost see her thinking,
This one won't last a
week.
But all she says is, 'OK, let's get to work.'
'Right,' I say, with more bravado than conviction in my voice.
She plunges into the scrum, nodding to me to join her in
the noise and confusion.
'Let's get to work,' I echo, and follow her into my new job
and my new life.
The journey that led me to that Royal Mail sorting office had
begun the year before, during that slump that happens sometimes
over the Christmas holidays when the kids are in bed,
the fussing and feasting nearly over, and the parents, exhausted,
overfed and over-indulged, collapse in a heap in front of the
telly.
That's exactly what Ben and I were doing. It had been a
hectic day, with our six-year-old son Will and four-and-a-half-year-old
daughter Amy running riot with new toys and
over-excitement. Now, however, they were in bed and we were
settling down to watch a Jack Nicholson film,
As Good As It
Gets
. I don't remember much of the movie now, but the title
changed our lives.
Is this as good as it gets? I kept repeating to myself. To this
day I haven't a clue what the film was about, but those few
words in the title wouldn't leave me alone. Ben was half asleep,
half snuggling me as we sprawled about on the sofa trying not
to spill the glasses of Sancerre we were sipping. Gradually he
began focusing on the movie, but instead of doing the same,
I couldn't concentrate. The title kept repeating itself like a
mantra.
Why?
I wondered aloud. Ben, by now totally engrossed in
the film, nudged me to shush but the noises in my head wouldn't
keep quiet.
Why does that title bother me?
There seemed to be no rational answer. Ben and I had everything,
or so it seemed. We were in love and we had two gorgeous
children. We also had a satisfactory working arrangement: I
had the executive job which brought in the money, and Ben,
a professional but out of work actor, was doing a brilliant job
as house-husband, in charge of cooking and all the other
aspects of keeping home and family together.
I'd just completed a successful Christmas Campaign for The
Body Shop, with a massive budget. The twenty years I'd been
in the job had been tremendously satisfying and adventurous,
challenging and creative, too. In the past years I'd set up a £1.9
million visitors' centre for the firm; I'd met numerous stars
and celebrities and even royalty, including Princess Diana and
Prince Charles on separate occasions. I had been with Anita
and Gordon Roddick, the founders of the company, since the
earlier days and I loved being part of such an exciting and
unique enterprise, for The Body Shop was at the forefront of
the move towards more natural cosmetics.
It was exhilarating. I went all over the world organizing
conferences for as many as 500 delegates, many of whom were
well-known, respected, inspiring, as our company was the first
to advocate fair practices in cosmetic testing as well as introducing
organic and ethical ingredients in the product. When the
company set up franchises in America, I had the opportunity
of living in New York City for nearly a year, creating their
Communication Office linking new franchises in the USA and
the UK. I had loved my job, passionately.
But . . . but? What was the
but
? And why in my mind was
I using the past tense when I listed the things I loved about
my job?
I must have spoken aloud again, for Ben filled my wine glass,
thinking I'd asked him for more. I murmured a thanks and
snuggled up to him, determined to shut out the crazy voices
in my head and concentrate on the film.
Is this really as good as it gets?
The question wouldn't go away.
Over the next few weeks it pecked at me like a great carnivorous
bird, preying on my stressed mind, my unexercised,
unhealthy, exhausted body.
My work had changed considerably since the earlier headier
years. The company had expanded far beyond anyone's expectation,
and in the past few years I'd found it more stressful than
inspiring. Though I was often in London where most of my job
was based, we lived in a faceless commuter neighbourhood on
the outskirts of the city in a house that often seemed less a home
than a hotel where I crashed out after meetings, conferences and
business entertaining. When I wasn't travelling, I came home
some nights well after the kids were in bed, shattered after the
day's commuting. Getting to and from work was a nightmare of
crowded trains that arrived late, tube lines closed, buses missed
and taxis that never came. I hardly saw my kids, hardly saw Ben.
I went from one extreme to the other, either revved up from the
stresses of the job, or totally limp and exhausted.
'You've got to take it easier,' Ben said.
'I can't,' I snapped. 'I've got about six people after my job
as it is.'
There was nothing to say to that, so we'd moved onto the
children. 'By the way,' Ben said, 'the kids' school play is next
week, remember?'
'Oh no, I nearly forgot.' I felt terrible.
'Amy needs a unicorn's horn, and Will wants to be a
hedgehog. We've got to get the costumes together by Friday.'
It was Wednesday and I had to be in Brighton the next day.
I was supposed to be entertaining people from Sydney the
following week and would miss the play anyway. But when Ben
reassured me that he'd already made the costumes and that I
wasn't to worry, I felt even worse.
Ben comforted me. 'Never mind, love, it can't be helped.
That's the way things are at the moment.'
He spoke quietly and I noticed the pensive look on his face.
It reminded me that he too had had to accept the fact that life
hadn't worked out as smoothly and perfectly as we'd hoped,
when we both agreed to our working arrangement. I knew he
missed the theatre, and acting. He was a good actor, and
passionate about his profession, but had accepted that at this
point in our lives, he couldn't pursue his career with the steely
dedication required.
Though he didn't talk much about it these days, I knew that
being a house-husband in the commuter belt of London wasn't
the best substitute for the life he'd dreamed of.
Missing the school play was a kind of catalyst, I think, looking
back on it now. I'd always missed not having enough time to
be with the children, but now it worried me night and day. I
had to leave for work early and some days came home so late
I never saw them at all. After that first round of tears over
the unicorn and hedgehog costumes, I realized that lately I had
been doing a lot of crying, like the evening I got home to find
Amy and Will distressed and disgruntled. They'd gone to school
in their uniforms only to realize it was a special non-uniform
day and all their mates were in jeans and trendy tops, while
my two darlings were trussed up in their uniforms.
A small thing, perhaps – but not to them. Nor to me either,
for I was the one who'd opened the note for the parents one
morning on the way to work and forgotten to tell Ben or the
children. I felt I'd failed them yet again.
Seeing their sad little faces, I once again felt the tears rolling
down my face. It had been a bad day anyway; I'd had to fire
a single mum against my will and I was crying for her too. Will
and Amy, still feeling mortified at being the only children in
school not in cool trendy clothes, decided to join me, and we
were all bawling when Ben came in from the kitchen to say
that dinner was ready.
'Oh God,' he said as he witnessed the sorry scene in front
of him. 'Not again!'
'You're not very bloody sympathetic.'
'Tessa, I've been sympathizing with the kids ever since they
got back from school in tears. Now let's all calm down and
eat, OK?'
I wasn't hungry, and said so. He asked what was the point
of cooking something special as he might as well have cooked
fish fingers if only Will and Amy were going to eat.
We argued. Luckily the children had left the room by then
– or unluckily I suppose, because we never argued around
them. In fact we used to never argue at all. What was happening
to us?
From that day, we seemed to go from bad to horrific. The
children had a rash of illnesses, nothing serious but enough
to keep them from school. Enough to keep Ben frazzled,
and me tearful yet again because I couldn't be home with them.
I couldn't concentrate at work for my focus was on home not
the job. I came back tired and miserable, not much good to
either Ben or the children.
And Ben was having a hard time too. We'd hoped that
somehow we could share the work out, that I'd be able to ease
my hours while he took on some acting roles, but it never
worked out that way. My job entailed total commitment and
long hours. Ben had just turned down, through necessity, a
chance for a part in a short rep run from a director he knew.
There was no way he could have taken it, but it left him
restless and fidgety.
For weeks I brooded. The crying didn't stop, either – in
the mornings, kissing Will and Amy a hurried good-bye,
hoping I'd see them for that brief hour before they went to
bed; in the evenings when I got home too late to see them
awake. I cried even more when I left the country, spending
long hours pacing the departure lounge in Heathrow or
Gatwick wishing I were home with my family. This wasn't
like me, these tears.
I can't do Supermum any more,
I thought,
in the heaving throng on the train, the tube, in the London
streets. I felt hemmed in and claustrophobic. I got angry at
myself for being depressed and then I got depressed for
being angry.