Up With the Larks (28 page)

They're horrified when they hear he's not answering the
door. 'No, he's not in hospital, Tessa, in fact we even got Neil,
our doctor, to come out a few days ago but Mr Hawker wouldn't
even let him in the house. Opened the door a fraction to tell
us politely to go away, there was nothing wrong with him. We
couldn't force him, had to leave him there.'

Martin had seen Mr Hawker the day before, in the morning.
'Looked the same, still coughing, still wouldn't listen when
I mentioned the doctor again. I'll go right down now, see
what's up.'

I offer him a lift in the van but Martin says, 'I'll cut across
the fields. Quicker that way than going along the road.'

I want to go too but I'll only be in the way. The poor man
is probably ill, unable to get out of bed. In some ways I'm
relieved – this time he'll have to let a doctor look at him and
take him to hospital if necessary; at least get some antibiotics
into him, to cure his cough once and for all.

I get through the rest of my round with my thoughts still
on Mr Hawker. In the doggie hamlet, Great-Grandma notices
my concern and is uncommonly cross with Batman for growling
and grizzling at me from the other side of the fenced garden.
'Can't be hearing meself think, Batman. Do shush.'

He actually does. He even looks meek. I never thought I'd
see the day.

She asks me what's wrong and I tell her about Mr Hawker,
how he won't see a doctor and now we're afraid he's really ill.
She's not in the same village but she knows him; he's a local
after all, and the same generation. 'Stubborn old bugger, that
one, but 'twould be hard to find anyone with a kinder heart.'
She looks wistful. 'Us'n be sweethearts once.'

'Really?'

'Not for long, mind. He be a bit older'n me, well, a few
years mebbe, but such a looker.' Her voice is dreamy. 'But he
was that peculiar with folk even back then. A real loner.'

'Do you ever see him? When he's not ill, I mean.'

'You must be joking, maid. Hardly no one gets a look in.
Like I say, peculiar. But a good soul for all that. Sorry to hear
tell he be ill.'

Back at the Morranport post office a couple of hours later,
Nell rushes out from behind the counter in the midst of a
transaction, leaving the customer who is trying to post a
package, looking at her with annoyance. Obviously a stranger,
he raps his knuckles on the wooden counter to let her know
he's still there.

She ignores him and pulls me to the side. 'Mr Hawker,' she
says bluntly.

'I know, Nell. He's ill. I couldn't get into his house, but I
guess the Morranport grapevine has told you that already.
Martin and Dave Rowland were going down to see what's up.
Have you heard anything else? Is he in hospital or at home?'

She turns her back on the now glaring customer. 'Not one
nor t'other.'

'What do you mean?'

'He be gone, maid.'

I still don't understand. 'Where?'

Her look tells me everything. 'Oh Nell, no.' I'm devastated.

She says, 'Martin and Dave found him, already gone, in his
bed. Had to break the door open. Happened some time in the
night.' She sees my face, pats my shoulders and says, 'There,
there,' as if I were a child. 'He'd of wanted to go that way,
maid, in his own home, his own bed. A hospital would of
killed 'im.'

The logic is a bit off but I know what she means. At least
his spirit remained intact, dying where he belonged. But I still
feel so sad.

The funeral the next week at the church in Creek, right by
the sea, is simple and moving. A vicar who retired ages ago
comes back to take the service, as he actually knew Mr Hawker
before he became quite so reclusive. A couple of eighty-plus-year-olds
stand up and say a few heart-felt words, a couple of
well-known hymns are sung, and everyone is out in the
September sunshine once again.

Mr Hawker would, I think, have been pleased. Over the
months I delivered to him, I'd become convinced that his fear
of seeing people, of going out of his house, was not antisocial
as much as extreme shyness, aggravated by old age and
illness. Not being well enough to keep himself and his small
cottage clean and tidy, he would not embarrass himself or
others by letting anyone in, not even to help. It was a way of
retaining his dignity. But the number of people in the church
today, all milling outside now looking at the sea, reluctant to
leave this beautiful spot on this serene day, is a testament to
Mr Hawker. Though most of them here have not seen him
for years, they remember him fondly. I hope fervently he
somehow knows this, wherever he is.

Now that the storms have gone back wherever they came from,
the air is still and clean, warm but invigorating rather than
muggy. Though I love autumn, I'm feeling slightly melancholy
when the day comes that the birds' nest on our window sill is
empty and the youngsters gone for good. The swallows are
gathering together now, getting ready to leave, and I look for
my little ones, wish them well on their long flight south, ask
them silently not to forget us and to come back home to us
next year.

I go out blackberrying as much as possible, bringing the
juicy berries home to make pies to freeze and great pots of
jam for the winter. Out in the fields the farmers are busy
harvesting their maize and the sounds of their tractors and
forage harvesters echo through the valleys. I pick elderberries
and make refreshing cordial for the family. Next year I'll try
making elderberry wine. There are holly berries out too, shiny
red amongst the glistening green leaves, a joy to the birds as
they forage around the hedgerows.

I'm inundated with apples. We don't have any trees of our
own in the garden, not yet – we hope to plant some – but I'm
given box loads to take home with me, more than we can keep.
I can't give them away as everyone has a surplus this year, so
once again I'm baking, stewing, preserving. I've never done
anything like this before but soon feel the same as I do about
my postie round, as if I've been doing it for years.

Another golden day and I feel in perfect harmony with the
world as I drive up to a care estate at the end of my van round.
There's a warden on the premises, a quiet but watchful man
who greets me politely enough but doesn't say much. I think
he's too conscientious, too intent on keeping his eyes and ears
on red alert in case trouble breaks out on his patch.

Not that there's been any, as far as I know. Most of the residents
in their individual homes are struggling to overcome
drug or alcohol addiction, or mental illnesses; they've been
rehabilitated, and the project is a kind of halfway house between
life in a hospital, prison or care home for the mentally ill
and life alone in the real world. Like the warden, the residents
are mostly polite but silent, focused on their own recovery as
if afraid it will fracture if they lose their concentration even
for a moment.

I'd be quite at ease delivering here if it weren't for one of
the men, Jamie Newton. I like some of the residents and admire
all of them. Some have made a total mess of their lives but
are now bravely trying to struggle through. It can't be easy,
especially given the background many of them come from.

Jamie is a different case altogether. I'd been told when I first
started the job to keep an eye out for him, as he could be
unpredictable if he mixed alcohol with his medication. He's a
tall, powerful, young man with a shaven head and huge, wild,
brown eyes, and though he's never harmed me or anyone I
know of, there's something I find threatening and scary
about him.

There's a small porch area where Jamie lives, with two front
doors: Jamie's and a middle-aged woman who asked me once
to call her Poll. Every time I see her she still asks, 'So what's
me name, me luvver?' When I say cheerily, 'Poll, of course.
Short for Polly,' she beams and pats my shoulder as I give her
the post, as if I were her very best friend ever.

Jamie's door has a letterbox, and a few times when I've
thrust the letters inside, junk mail mostly, he's grabbed my
fingers. I still yelp when he does it, though I know now it's
only eagerness to get his pathetic post as he lets go at once. I
still can't help getting nervous, though, hoping he doesn't flip
one day and break my fingers.

I've learned now to deliver his post first, hoping to divert
him while I turn my back on his door to push Poll's letters
into her slot. The few times I delivered Poll's first, Jamie crept
out of his door and before I realized he was there, stood
breathing down my neck, too close, far too close. He's got no
idea of personal space, or if he does, ignores it.

Most days he wanders around, weaving crazily along lanes
and main roads, tugging obsessively at his shaven skull as if
he's trying to pluck nightmare thoughts from his poor head.
Whatever the temperature, he always has a thick, dirty yellow
scarf around his neck.

I feel sorry for him. Known as the local nutter, he's constantly
being picked on and made fun of by the local kids. I've heard
their parents telling them off for it, thank goodness, but when
do kids listen to their folks when they're with their peers? Still,
I was glad when I heard Jamie being defended. It's another
thing I've discovered about closely knit communities; they'll
protect one of their own and Jamie was born and grew up
around here. He's a misfit now, the resident crazy, but he's still
one of them.

Even as I think how admirable this is, I feel my usual vulnerability
as I step into the tiny porch. I'm a fairly tall woman,
and strong from all my months outdoors delivering the post,
but Jamie towers over me, makes me feel fragile and weak. I've
heard him talking jibberish behind his front door, seen his
agitation as he roams the streets. I might feel compassion for
him, but he still frightens me.

Poll had picked up her mail outside as I'd parked my van.
After our exchange over her name she grinned and waved,
walking away towards the shop on the corner. I'm a bit edgy
knowing that hefty Poll isn't behind the other thin front door
in case Jamie grabs my fingers a bit too hard this once. If he
ever does, naturally I'll report it and won't have to deliver to
him again, but by then I'd have a few broken fingers, so it's a
scenario I hope never happens.

My imagination begins running riot. There are only a few
circulars and a white envelope which contains a form letter
from the local council about rubbish collections. I'm tempted
to bring them back to the post office and let the relief postman
deliver them tomorrow as it's my day off.

I'm tempted like this every time I have to deliver to Jamie
but talk myself out of it each time.
You wimp, Tessa,
I scold
myself.
All you have to do is shove the letters in the slot but keep your
fingers well back.
I'd learned that trick ages ago but sometimes
you can't quite get the post through without a finger or two
pushing it in.

Wondering if he's home, I put my ear to the door to hear
if there are any sounds. I nearly fall on my face as the door
opens suddenly and Jamie is standing right there. He looks
manic, his pupils abnormally large, dark circles underneath wild
eyes. He's wearing a black tee-shirt, black jeans, and as usual
his yellow wool scarf is wound around his neck, wrapped so
tight you wonder he's able to speak properly.

I stand upright, tall as I can, and start to bluster. 'Oh, hello,
I wondered if anyone is at home. I've got your post here.'

Instead of giving it to him, I'm so flustered – and scared –
that I clutch it tightly to my chest. He doesn't say a word but
takes a step closer. I take a step backwards and he takes another
step forward. This goes on for a couple more steps until I'm
backed against Poll's door and Jamie's only a fraction away
from me, breathing fire down at me.

Well, alcohol fumes anyway. Oh God, he's mixing the booze
with the drugs again, I think, frozen with terror. I want to
scream but I know there's no one around to hear me. The
warden is way down at the other end of the housing estate
and there are only Jamie's and Poll's places here.

Jamie lunges at me and then I scream. He jumps, more terrified
than I am it seems. I try to run but he grabs my hand. I
scream again. I'm going to be killed, I think, feeling the blood
run cold, just as they say in the cheap thrillers. But it truly
does. I never knew that blood actually does turn cold with fear.
I feel as if ice is coursing through my veins.

I'm trying to push Jamie away as he tries to grab me. Or so
it seems. Then he suddenly lets go. He retreats, some scruffed
up paper in his hand, and bolts back into his house. He gives
me a fearful look, frightened and pathetic, before the door
slams. I can hear locks clicking as he barricades himself inside
against the weirdo postie.

I feel like a fool as I realize what's just happened. Jamie
had come out for the post, like any of my regulars, and after
telling him I had some for him, I clutched it to my bosom
like some ridiculous Victorian maiden. He wasn't trying to
attack me, just trying to get his mail, since it looked like I
was keeping it from him.

Driving back to St Geraint, I'm still brooding over the incident.
Though it was my stupidity that triggered it, technically
I should probably report it. He had grabbed my hand after all
as he tried to get his pitiful bits of mail from me.

I park the van, trying to stop thinking about it, focusing
on the sea – calm and azure and as serene as summer, despite
the late September day – and then looking out at the shop
fronts. Harry, in front of his office, waves at me and I wave
back. Passing the sad old-fashioned shop, the closed sign
still on the door, I commiserate with the dejected looking
mannequins, arms missing, faces dusty, fifties-style nylon
wigs sitting awry on their heads. I feel sorry for myself too.
I'd acted without thinking at the care estate, letting my fear
run away with me. If I'd handed the post to Jamie, he'd have
taken it, walked away like he'd done dozens of times before
when I'd met him in that porch, when he wasn't behind the
door waiting.