Up With the Larks (2 page)

It had to stop.

One night after a particularly bad day for both of us –
children ill with nasty coughs, Ben just getting over the flu,
me struggling not to succumb to illness during a particularly
sensitive turnover at work – we began to talk seriously of
change. We were slumped in the living room, on edge because
Amy's cough was particularly bad and we were afraid it was
about to turn into rather nasty croup.

'Ben, I've had enough.' I leaned back against him on
the sofa, trying to relax but still listening intently to any sounds
coming from the bedrooms.

'You're just tired.' He began to massage my shoulders in the
way I loved, loosening the knots of tension.

'Not
just
tired. Totally exhausted. But that's not the problem.
I'm not happy at work any more. I've been thinking loads
about it.'

'I know you said the job's changed a lot.'

'Enormously. You know how the company's grown from the
small cosy firm I started with to this huge multinational. I don't
speak its language any more, Ben. Don't particularly want to.'

'Is it getting that bad?'

'Starting to. I'm fed up with London too, with the
commuting, with everything.'

'Tessa, we chose this way of life, remember? You loved your
job and wanted to keep it on.'

'I know. But the heart's gone out of marketing for me. It
used to be creative and exciting. Now it's like looking in a rearview
mirror.'

He dug his fingers deeper into my shoulders, trying to
massage me out of what he saw as a temporary mood.

I was starting to unwind but I kept on talking. 'And the kids.
I hardly see them. They're growing so fast – I want time with
them. And with you too.'

He stopped kneading the tight muscles in my neck and
flopped back against the cushions, closing his eyes. I could see
the tension, the tiredness, in his face too. 'Oh Ben,' I wailed.
'
Is
this as good as it gets? Don't you feel something is missing?
Maybe we should be doing something else, something entirely
different from this crazy life we're living.'

'It's the life we wanted, Tessa. There are problems, I know,
but nothing's perfect.' Ben was sympathetic but firm. 'You're
just having a bad patch. It'll pass.'

Before I could answer, we heard Amy begin to cry. Forgetting
everything else, we both ran upstairs to her.

I brought up the possibility of change again and again, but
we never got very far. The problem was, I didn't know then
what the change should entail. Changing my job? Moving
abroad? My sister lived in France so perhaps that was a
possibility, but what would we do there?

And then we went on holiday.

Luckily, spring half-term was coming up and I had some
time off from work. We decided to go to Cornwall, as we had
so often in the past.

Though we'd stayed in various parts of the county before,
we felt most at home on the South coast where we would holiday
again this time. Cornwall, like Devon, is composed of many
different landscapes, we had discovered as we went back year
after year. There's the central backbone running up the middle
with the unique and exotic landscape created by the old mining
industry: around the Eden Project it looks like the craters of
the moon; and all the way down to Cape Cornwall, amongst the
heather and the little Methodist chapels, are fantastic old mine
workings and industrial ruins.

And then there's West Penwith, the area below St Ives and
around Lamorna, with the stone circles and wild moorland
that some people think is the real Cornwall. Not for them the
rugged North coast with its tremendous seas, surfs and trendiness;
the Cornwall 'Posh Rock' and restaurants run by Jamie
Oliver and Rick Stein cheek by jowl with caravan parks and
Newquay. It is surfy heaven and a favourite venue for hen and
stag nights.

Our favourite place for years now has been the South coast
which is another Cornwall altogether. Here, there are gentle
beaches sloping down to a usually tranquil sea, perfect for
swimming or sailing. There are dozens of small green creeks
meandering through lovely ancient forests that stretch to the
water's edge. It's so unspoiled that you can imagine you're on
a tributary of the Amazon, especially with the fertile soil and
micro-climate that nurture the vast tree ferns and palms that
grow nowhere else in England, only in the West Country.

Since the Bronze Age, this area has been a place of farming
and fishing, and also the perfect area for smuggling, with its
little inlets and creeks hidden by the lush foliage and woodlands.
This was the area that inspired Daphne du Maurier to
write books, like
Rebecca
and
Frenchman's Creek
.

It's an area that has always inspired me as well. I always
returned from visits feeling calmer and yet energized, ready to
tackle again the job of working mother back in London.

So as usual, we headed for the South of Cornwall, finding
self-catering accommodation in a village called Poldowe, up
the hill from the sea with a tiny harbour and beach. The village
had one small post office and shop and to me it was perfect,
like stepping back into the 19th century.

It was early spring, and though in London not even the
daffodils had managed to emerge from their winter covering
of grime, here it was almost summer. The camellias were
exuberant: they seemed to be everywhere and so colourful that
my eyes seemed permanently dazzled after the grey of winter.
Even the primroses were out, blooming alongside the snowdrops
that no doubt had appeared weeks earlier but refused
to go, rather like a white cat curled on a favourite chair in a
sunny room. South Cornwall was at its best that spring. It was
as if, knowing our dissatisfaction, she was luring us to her.

The night we arrived at Poldowe, there was a thick fog. It
enveloped the nearby harbour village of Morranport and crept
up the hill to envelope the houses, the trees and the old church
in the centre of a square. It was late when we got in so we
unpacked the night clothes and the bag of provisions we'd
brought, had a makeshift supper and piled into bed, relieved
to be off the busy holiday roads and into our own cottage.

The next morning the sea mist still clung to the harbour
and village like fine dewy cobwebs. I woke early and walked
down along the footpath to the harbour then down the beach
to the sea's edge with Jake our spaniel. My face and body were
being moistened and moisturized by the clean, fresh sea-mist,
better than by any of the potions and scented oils I dealt with.

I stood for ages at the edge of the sea, Jake jumping in and
out of the waves like a lunatic dog from some kiddies' cartoon.
The mist was beginning to lift, and sharp shafts of sunlight
pierced the opaque whiteness like dozens of golden needles,
darting on the smooth undulations of the sea and changing
the colour from a dull grey to deep blue and turquoise.

I stood, mesmerized. My senses were being bombarded: the
earthy smells of sea and stone and damp, the sounds of waves
churning over the pebbly beach and of sea birds calling to
each other overhead, and I could almost taste the salt in the
air, it was so strong and pungent.

I was oblivious to Jake and his splashing, to his odd bark
at the seagulls that landed too close. I watched those golden
streaks on the sea, the mist snaking around as if it were playing
hide and seek with the sun, and I knew, knew with all my heart,
without a shadow of a doubt.

This is where we must go. This is where we belong, by the sea, in this
place.

The knowledge, the certainty of my feelings made me
suddenly wild and exhilarated. Jake, sensing my excitement,
began barking and circling as I stood at the water's edge, daring
me to go in. I didn't hesitate. I wanted now to
feel
the sea on
my body, I wanted to actually taste the salt water on my lips.
I wanted a baptism too, although I didn't form that thought
till later. I wanted to immerse myself in my new certainty.

There was no one around as I tore off my clothes. I'd only
worn jeans and underpants, hurriedly throwing on a pink sweatshirt
without bothering with a bra. My jeans were boot-legged
and wide enough to pull off with my trainers and socks still
on, and I was in such a hurry to get into the water that I didn't
bother to take them off, plunging stark naked into the icy sea
whooping and shouting, Jake barking and splashing beside me.
Together we created holy mayhem, both of us manic in our
separate joy.

I didn't stay in long – it was freezing. The mist had gathered
again as I staggered out, feeling like the first creature to crawl
on dry land, looking around me at the awesome world I had
not truly looked at before. I hadn't had the
time
to look
before, or, if I
had
a rare moment to myself, the whirling
voices in my head – planning, worrying – kept me from
seeing anything.

So there I was, dancing about in my shoes and socks and
nothing else but a goose-bumpy skin, still delirious with happiness.
Then I looked down the beach and in the distance saw
people walking along the sea's edge, coming quickly towards
me. It was time I got dressed.

I came back to earth with a whoosh when I tried to get
back into my clothes. Not only was I wet, they were too, for
I'd left them too near the incoming tide. My flimsy, see-through
red knickers had nearly washed out to sea, floating in a rock
pool like an alien jelly-fish. I grabbed them and pulled them
on, but there was no way my tight wet jeans would go on to
my wet body, especially over the soaking shoes and socks that
I hadn't had time to take off. I didn't come out of the house
with a bra, but where was my sweatshirt? I couldn't find it
anywhere.

Jake was barking again, trying to bully me into going back
into the water to play. A sudden horrific thought went through
my head. Jake had taken Amy's shoe once on the beach and
carried it into the water; he was a dog who always had to have
something in his mouth when he was larking around. Sure
enough, there was my sweatshirt, a big pink blob, floating out
to sea, too far away to retrieve.

What to do? The walkers were approaching fast, and I had
to walk past them and through the waking village on my way
home. So I improvised. So what if my creative skills were no
longer needed at work, I said to myself, they're bloody well
needed now.

As I walked past the post office shop on the harbour, a
heavy-set man with grey hair wearing a postman's uniform was
helping a lorry driver unload boxes of fishing tackle. 'Morning,'
I glittered at them, smiling brightly and quickly moving on.
'Lovely morning for an early swim,' I called back, catching the
looks of stunned disbelief on their faces.

I might have looked strange, but at least I wouldn't be
arrested for indecent exposure, not quite anyway. Before I'd
left the beach, I had taken the belt from my sopping jeans,
tied it around my hips, and hung masses of green and brown
hunks of seaweed from it so they hung down nearly to my
knees. This hid enough of the sheer wet bikini panties to
prevent my immediate disgrace.

As for the top half of me, I'd flung my jeans across my
shoulders, so that one leg was draped modestly, if a bit drippingly,
across each breast, tucking the flapping boot-legs into
the belt around my hips. I was so pleased with my attire that
I'd completed the outfit by placing dozens of shells in my hair,
which by that time was so tangled and curly with salt that only
a half dozen fell out as I made my way nonchalantly up the
street and home to my still sleeping family.

I woke Ben with the news. 'We've got to move to Cornwall.'

A few seashells fell onto his face and the duvet. I'd shed
the wet jeans but the seaweed was still clinging to me. Somehow
he wasn't surprised. Not by my appearance or by my announcement.
I guess he knew me too well.

'Are you crazy or what?' Ben tried to sit up to see if I'd
completely flipped, but I was rolling about with him on the
bed trying to shed the seaweed. He was half shrieking at me
to get off as I was soaking him and half laughing hysterically
as I tickled him mischievously.

'I've had an epiphany. We're moving to Cornwall,' I said
again.

'Don't be daft.'

'We've always loved it. The kids love it – it'll be a dream
come true for them, living near the sea. We'll sell up, move
here. To the South coast, our favourite place in the world.'

'It's completely impossible, you know that.'

'Nothing's impossible, Ben,' I muttered, stopping my tickling
and beginning some kissing.

His voice got a bit huskier. 'And what about work, about
jobs? What in God's name would we do in Cornwall?'

'Time enough to think of that later. For now, just hold on
to that thought – we're moving to Cornwall! Forget about the
rest. Now, are you going to start kissing me back or not?'

We moved to South Cornwall in the autumn, less than six
months after that momentous epiphany by the sea.

Amy and Will were delighted from the start, but it took
some convincing to get Ben on our side. Having put his acting
career more or less on hold during the period when my work
kept me away from home for so many long hours, his was the
practical voice of reason in the midst of our wild fantasies.

'What will we do in Cornwall?' he continued to ask. 'You'll
never get a high-powered job like you've got now.'

'I don't want one any more. You know that.'

'And what could I do? It's hard enough in the London theatre,
where will I get an acting job in Cornwall?'

'But Ben, you'll have more time, as I'll have sole responsibility
for Amy and Will. There are films and television –
actors have to travel all over the world these days, so it
shouldn't matter where you live. And you've said yourself that
in some ways, regional theatre has more exciting opportunities
for actors than the London theatre now.' I took his hand.
'Look, we'll find something. Both of us are willing to work,
to do anything.'