Up With the Larks (25 page)

'Annie,' I say after a long pause. 'It's a salt-lick.'

Later, after more wine and food, and a bowlful of fresh
strawberries that were given to me by one of my customers,
we are still laughing. Susie has stayed for dinner and she can't
wait for work tomorrow to tell everyone about the Salt-Lick
from Outer Space.

Annie is shamefaced but graceful enough to laugh with us.
'What do I know about the countryside? I'm a London lass,
remember? How would I know that farmers put great lumps
of salt in the fields for cows and sheep to lick?'

Ben says, 'Maybe for your birthday we can send you a
subscription to
Farmers' Weekly
magazine.

When she leaves, Annie says to me, 'Tessa, you won't tell
Pete, will you? If you see him? About the salt-lick? He'll think
I'm a right city slicker.'

'Well, you
are
. I'm sure he knows it.'

'Anyway, I'll probably never see him again, so I suppose it
doesn't really matter.'

'You keep saying that. How do you know you won't?'

She shrugs, 'Just don't tell him, OK?'

I shake my head at her, 'Sorry, Annie. You know I'd keep
any secret in the world for you. But remember Susie was there
too. By now the story will be all over South Cornwall. It's far
too good to keep.'

The next day, I see a note in the front porch of Pete's
ramshackle terraced house in one of the villages, in bold red
felt tip pen he's written: 'Tessa, here are two bales of straw for
your hens. By the way, I liked meeting your friend. When she
comes down again, please let me know and maybe we can all
meet for a drink.' He's underlined 'Please' three times.

I'm being inundated with gifts from my customers. They all
seem to have gardens overflowing with produce and they're
generous with sharing it out. I'm grateful, because Ben and I
haven't had a chance to try our hand at gardening this year,
being too busy struggling to get the house in order and to
keep going financially. So I'm grateful for all those courgettes,
cucumbers, salad leaves, runner beans, fresh peas and broad
beans that are handed to me wrapped in newspaper or in a
carrier bag.

The weather is hot but there are fierce thunderstorms nearly
every day for a week. I'm forever popping my Royal Mail
waterproof off and on over my shorts and shirt when one of
these squalls hit, for the rain is always torrential.

The constant gales are proving a bit of a handicap to the
boating season. Summer is the time of regattas, for locals and
second homers getting out in everything from leaky rowboats
to flash luxurious yachts and the noisy electric storms have
put a damper on things.

The sea is not always the source of joy and pleasure, though,
as every fisherman knows. One sad day everyone is shocked
at the news that the evening before, a warm-hearted young
man liked by everyone who knew him, had been killed. He
was coming home from a nearby harbour town in his small
fishing boat when there was a collision with his craft and a
speedboat.

The news flies from village to village, hamlet to hamlet, to
all the rural isolated farms and the tiny coastal coves. The
whole south coast is devastated by the tragedy. Many of my
customers talk of the young man with tears in their eyes, even
those who only have a slight acquaintance with the family,
or who only knew him by sight. I'm aware of the tightening
of community bonds, of the gathering of community spirit,
as if collectively their grief can be shared, and somehow, in
some small way, ease the suffering of the lad's family.

Archie and Jennifer Grenville, like everyone else, are blown
away by the tragedy. 'So many people have boats these days. I
worry that folk sometimes forget the dangers when they are
out in one.' Archie begins talking about other losses through
the years, 'The parish records go back centuries and there's
one entry after another of people, mostly fishermen, losing
their lives.'

We're silent for a moment, paying our respects to all the sea
has taken. Then I say, 'No wonder the youngsters don't want
to be fishermen. Not only is it a dangerous way to make a
living but precarious too, these days.'

Archie and Jennifer agree but then Archie adds, 'Poor lad
who died wasn't a fisherman, though. Just an ordinary local
lad going out on his boat.'

I leave soon after. From house to house, we talk of nothing
else. In the post offices customers shake their heads, buy
sympathy cards, wanting to do something but feeling helpless
in their anger and sorrow.

The summer has become subdued in our area. The tragedy
of a needless death, that of a beloved Cornish son, has affected
all of us who live here. Even the thunderstorms have given
way to warm, grey, humid days, as if the air itself were grieving
for the loss of that one young man.

At last the misty sky clears and the sun shines again, much to
the joy of all the holidaymakers crammed into Cornwall. They
pack out the place, taking all our parking places, getting to the
bakeries before we do and clearing the shelves. To sate all
the second homers, Baxter has to order the
Guardian
by the
truckload, something he never has to do in winter. He gets in
another batch of books on Cornwall, everything from well-known
novels and histories to obscure self-published
pamphlets.

The little wrought iron balconies in front of the Georgian
terraced houses along the back streets of Morranport are hung
with wet suits and today as I deliver there I pass a couple of
men in their Ralph Lauren polo shirts and shorts off to get
their early morning croissants at Baxter's. The delightful gardens
in front of these wonderful houses are well kept and colourful.
It's hard to believe how bleak and lonely these places look in
winter with the South Westerly winds lashing the gravelled
grassy paths and no one to be seen but the odd local gardener,
employed to keep the places tidy over those empty months.
Now, it's packed full. Every house is lived in, cared for, loved.
It saddens me that it's not this way all year round.

Still looking for ways to become part of my Cornish community,
I take up gig rowing. There's a club at Morranport that
seems eager to have me, obviously knowing nothing about my
rowing skills which are zilch. Actually, to be truthful they take
anyone. On certain days, anyone is allowed to join them, to
have a go to see if it suits them.

Having rowed furiously on the rowing machines in the gym
at various times in London, I give myself a pep talk and start
off feeling jaunty and confident. But that's before I get into
the boat. I hadn't realized gig rowing boats were so huge when
I watched them zipping across the water from the shore. Close
up, they seem not only enormous, but unwieldy, sitting low
and large in the water.

The boat wobbles crazily as I get in. I'm trying to do it
elegantly, acting cool and poised in front of the onlookers, but
I trip over an oar and nearly fall over the side.
Terrific start,
Tessa
, I groan inwardly. And the boat hasn't even left the shore.

There are six rowers and six numbered oars, as well as the
cox in front giving instructions. I sit where I am told, grab an
oar, before I can take a deep breath, or any kind of breath –
never mind trying to find my sea legs – we're off and rowing
furiously. I have a moment of panic when I realize we're out
at sea, way out it seems to me, without even a life jacket. I
start rowing faster to get to safety, or rather to the next cove
or wherever we're heading, but the cox pulls me back and
before long I feel I'm getting the hang of it, getting into the
right rhythm.

It feels great! I'm at one with the sea, the sky, my fellow
rowers, the world! Well, for a few moments it does. Then my
concentration breaks for a nano-second and the oar is nearly
ripped out of my hand, almost breaking the two wooden pegs
that hold the oar in place.

'That's called "catching a crab,"' one of the rowers says
cheerfully after I've got control of the oar, and myself, again.
'When the pegs break.'

For the rest of the time, I concentrate so fiercely that I've
got a splitting headache by the time we get back.

'How was it?' Ben asks that evening.

'Oh fantastic.'

'Then why are you rummaging for the pain killers?'

'Headache. Too much sun.'

'And what's wrong with your hands?'

I show him the blisters.

'Hmm. Are you sure you enjoyed it, Tessa?'

'Who said anything about enjoying it? It was hell but still
fantastic. Once the blisters heal and I get the hang of it, don't
have to concentrate too hard, it'll be better than fantastic.'

Later that night, I try doing some press-ups to build strength.
Annie, on the phone from London, laughs hysterically when
I tell her, 'You, rowing a boat? Tell me you're kidding.'

'Oh ye of little faith, Annie,' I try to sound stern but her
giggles are contagious. Within moments neither of us can speak
as we clutch our separate phones, miles apart, but doubled
over in helpless laughter.

When we regain some kind of control over ourselves, I say,
'You wait, for my first race. There's a big regatta at the end of
the month and I'll be in it, you'll see. I might even invite you
down, if you stop laughing.'

This sets her off again. But I don't care, because I'm seeing
it all in my head right now: me in the boat rowing powerfully
yet gracefully, our gig racing ahead of the other contestants as
the crowd on the quayside shout encouragement . . .

'Tessa, are you there?'

'Yeah, Annie, but gotta go now. I need to do more press-ups,
strengthen my arm muscles a bit.'

She's still laughing as we hang up.

I doggedly go back, four or five times more. Some days it's
good, other days I seem to do everything wrong. One day, I'm
out there again and it feels everything is going right. It's a windless
perfect day to start with and all we rowers seem to get
into a fine rhythm from the start. For the first time I feel really
relaxed and confident.

After a time I notice that the cox is ordering constant instructions
to oar Number Five. I'm not sure who that is but I'm
Number One and that's all I need to know. I glance at my oar
to double check: yep, Number One.

I keep rowing, well into my stride, feeling like a dolphin, a
mermaid, a sea god, skimming above the water. The cox is still
badgering Number Five, 'Pull harder, Number Five; Number
Five, you're losing the tempo.' It goes on and on.

Poor Number Five,
I am thinking, not without a teeny bit of
smugness. Doing everything wrong today. I wonder who it is?
Number Five doesn't seem to get any better, because the cox
keeps shouting instructions at the same oar for a good half
hour.
He's really got it in for this Number Five, glad it's not me
, I
think. Suddenly, the cox tells us to stop. Wondering what's up,
we put up our oars and the gig comes to a halt, bobbing gently
up and down in the calm water.

The cox looks straight at me and says, 'Have you been
listening to anything I've been saying? Anything at all?'

I look blankly at him. Why is he pointing at me, not Number
Five?

'Well?' he's waiting for an answer, staring at me.

'Excuse me,' I say. 'But you haven't given
me
any instructions.
I'm Number One oar. Look.' I wave my oar at him so
he can see the number.

He looks bemused. Then everyone looks at their oars and
it turns out we've all got the wrong numbers. The cox was
calling out Number Five because that's where I am sitting,
apparently, in the seat usually rowed by Number Five oar.

We exchange oars, have a bit of a laugh about it, and set
off again. Though I only pretend to laugh – deep down, I'm
mortified. All the time I was so sure I was rowing perfectly,
and all those directions were for me!

Coming back, I concentrate like a demon. I have to, for
now the cox has my correct oar number and he's belting
me with instructions, do this, do that . . .
Can't I do anything
right?
I don't seem to, not today anyway, and I'm working,
rowing, as hard as I can . . . When we get back my cheeks
are red with exertion, my palms more blistered than ever
and the headache I had on the first day is back with a
vengeance.

At home, Ben asks how the practice went. 'Oh, it was a
gorgeous day. The sea was the calmest I've ever seen it,' I say.

He looks up from preparing some huge crayfish he's brought
home. 'That's not what I asked.' How well he knows me.

I tell him about it. In the telling it sounds quite funny and
now I'm sincerely laughing, not forcing it as I was doing with
the other rowers.

'You'll learn, Tessa. You're tenacious enough to learn
anything.'

I'm grateful for his praise but I know my limitations. I'm
not going to carry on, not this summer anyway. It's our first one here and
there's so much else to do. All that practice time has taken me away from
the kids for a start. I want to enjoy Cornwall without any pressure to improve
my rowing skills. And besides, I'll need weeks for my blisters to heal.

The weather this August is not too bad, some rain here and
there but not enough to spoil things. As Cornish summers go,
so far this is a good one.

I'm inundated with courgettes from my customers, masses of
them, now that the peas and broad beans seem to be over. I'm
learning the signs of the seasons – courgettes mean summer is
slowly coming to an end and the next vegetables will be the
squashes of autumn. The trees are heavy with dark leaves nearing
the end of their leafy life and all three baby swallows in our nest
are taking their first wobbly flights into the wide world of our
front garden. I'll miss them when they go, we all will.

Most of the regattas this year have had the blessing of stunning
summer days. With my job making me familiar with every
nook and corner of South Cornwall, I know the best vantage
points. There's nothing more idyllic than sitting in the sun in
a meadow overlooking the harbour and watching the boats set
off; whether it is gig racing or sailboats or whatever, it's a
dazzling sight.

We've been inundated not just with courgettes but with visitors
again, though no one has been as troublesome as Glenda
and Morgan and Seth's various female friends. Seth has been
dumped by the seductress Philippa, and visits us with 'a new
hot date' as he put it when he rang.

This one, Becky, does not stop talking for the entire visit,
following either me or Ben from room to room as we prepare
meals, feed the hens or try to deal with the children. She
doesn't stop waffling, mostly about people we don't know, or
restaurants in places we've never been to and most likely never
will. No one else, not even Seth, can interrupt this monologue.
The next time Seth phones to say he's coming down, I'm going
to suggest he comes alone.

As for Morgan and Glenda, the problem seems to be solved.
Every time Glenda phones to announce their imminent arrival,
I hint that Seth and his woman might be with us that weekend
too and so Glenda backtracks, suddenly remembering a
previous commitment. I don't tell her that the voluptuous
Philippa is long gone and she has no need to worry that Morgan
will succumb to her charms.

The joy of visitors is that they finally go and we have our
lives back again. On our own once more, I feel even more
attuned to the countryside around me, to the cycles of nature
that before I only saw through an office window or as I flashed
past in a car. At this time of year I'm acutely aware of the
heaviness of the foliage, the leaves on the trees and hedgerows
turning a darker green, the wild blackberries still red but
ripening already in this lush climate.

There is still colour everywhere. Masses of flaming orange
montbretia on roadside banks clashing brilliantly with pink
hydrangea. One of my customers told me about choosing a
Carnival Queen in one of the towns on August Bank Holiday,
of how the locals went out the night before and snipped the
hydrangea heads to make a magnificent throne of the flowers
for the queen.

The fuchsias are still growing wild everywhere, adding to
the colour, and the sweet peas in our garden are having a last
fling, throwing out their deep purply colours with abandon.
Most gardens have sunflowers too, at least a couple, tall and
whimsical, nodding their yellow heads and making me smile
whenever I see one.

Whatever vegetables and fruit I don't get from my customers,
I've been buying at a roadside stand on a narrow lane at the
beginning of my route. It's been there for ever, selling onions,
carrots, leeks, potatoes and often fresh eggs if the few hens
owned by the gardening couple have had some prolific days.
Unfortunately the honesty box for the produce is gone now.
Several times in the past two months I've seen signs up: 'Will
the person who took a dozen eggs and all the potatoes and
leeks and forgot to pay please leave the money now.'

The next week there was another sign: 'Will whoever took
ten pounds from the honesty box please return it as we are
sure it must have been an accident.'

None of the polite requests worked; instead both money
and produce were stolen again. Now, there is a secure metal
box with a lock, firmly attached to a stake driven into the
ground and concreted in.

'A sign of the times,' Martin Rowland sighs when I comment
on the metal box with the lock. 'A few years back, even a year
or so ago, we all had a stall out near the road to earn a few
pence from any produce we couldn't use ourselves. Helped out
with the finances that's for sure but hardly anyone bothers
now. A box with a key keeps the cash safe but who's to stop
someone coming along and nicking the veg?'