Up With the Larks (30 page)

'That sounds so pagan.'

'Oh it is, it is.' Archie quite relished the thought. 'Up until
the fifth century, we were all great worshippers of fire, the sea
and the sun. You can't kill off the old faiths in just a couple
of thousand years or so.'

Now, at the party in the village, a great full moon beaming
down on the green, I can believe it. There are spooks and
skeletons, black cats and witches, wandering around eating
toffee apples, along with gypsies, pirates, spider ladies and
firemen. As Amy and Will run off to find their friends,
I crunch a piece of toffee and wonder why no one wants
to dress as a postwoman. Maybe I'll bribe Amy to do it
next year.

Ben has wandered off to find more substantial food than
a toffee apple and is talking to one of the neighbours who is
selling hot pasties at the food stall. Daphne and Joe come over
to talk, asking me about the kids, how the job is going. We
still haven't got to know them any better, though. Our relationship
with all the locals has gone so far, then no further. It's as
if an invisible wall stops us from going that extra pace, that
step that changes acquaintances into friends.

Daphne and Joe finally see some other farmers and excuse
themselves to catch up with them. For a short time I wander
around alone, looking for Ben. Before I can find him, I see
Emma and Martin watching with amusement a pumpkin
competition going on at a table set up on the edge of the
green.

I go up to them eagerly, wanting to thank them again for
the huge pumpkin they gave me for Amy and Will to carve
into a lantern. They wave away my thanks and the three of us
stroll about together. Ben comes along and I introduce him to
the Rowlands but Amy calls him away for some urgent advice
on the best way to bob for apples without getting her eye patch
wet. Taking it off is definitely not a solution, so Ben laughs
and lets her pull him away, apologizing to the Rowlands as he
leaves us.

I say to them, 'You must be glad the autumn half term is
over.' I know their B&B was full up that week.

Martin nods. 'And it looks like we made enough to close up
shop till after Christmas, anyway. That last sudden splurge of
guests was a godsend.'

'Great.' I'm pleased for them, though I'm not sure what
these energetic, hard-working people will do with themselves
during the next few months. They're not the type to rush off
and holiday in the sun or sit around at home all winter.

As if reading my mind, Emma says, 'We've got loads to do
in the next few months, if we're going to get the market garden
going. And then there's the goats – we're building up the herd.'

'Herd? Last time I counted, you had two nannies.'

'Ah, things have progressed since then. We're going to buy
quite a few more, eventually sell the milk and make yogurt
from it. And eggs – we're getting more hens.'

Martin looks happier than I've seen him for ages. 'We been
thinking it all out, Tessa. The B&B business 'tisn't us, not by
a long shot. The garden, though, has been booming – even
sold loads of pumpkins for Hallowe'en.'

'So we're expanding it, going into market gardening, see if
we can scratch a living that way.'

I'm amazed. 'Can you really?' The doubt must have sounded
in my voice, for Martin smiles ruefully.

''Twill be hard at first, touch'n'go, but mebbe one day.
Marilyn and Dave have found some good outlets for the
produce, some shops in Bristol actually and we got some good
orders already. Organic stuff, see? All the rage.'

Emma says, 'Of course it'll take time to get organic certification,
but bit by bit . . .'

They both look so hopeful with their new plans. I wish them
luck. 'That's great. So no more B&B at Trelak Farm?'

'Goodness, not so fast, Tessa,' this is Emma. 'We need the
B&B to finance the other stuff. But that'll be Dave and
Marilyn's job.'

I'm getting confused here. 'But – they live in Bristol.'

Emma and Martin look at each other with such a sparkling
look that I say, 'Don't tell me, they're coming back to Cornwall.'

Martin grins, 'Renting old Mr Hawker's cottage. He had
some great-nephew living in Scotland, some fellow he never
knew who inherited the house. This bloke don't care about
selling, got several houses Up Country apparently, so we made
a deal – a low rent and in return Dave and Marilyn do up the
place. After that . . . well, we'll see. One thing at a time.'

We talk some more. I learn that Dave and Marilyn, who is
also a physiotherapist, hope to get part-time work at the hospital
in Truro, work it in with the B&B business while Martin and
Emma crack on with the livestock and garden. 'And of course
Martin or I can do the B&B if it overlaps sometime with their
other work.'

I'm distracted for a few moments as Will goes by with a
mate, leaping about in a pretend sword fight and nearly
knocking me over. He's gone as fast as he arrived and I turn
back to Emma.

'You've got it all planned,' I tell her, admiration in my voice.

'You've got to plan, Tessa, if you want to stay in Cornwall.
We're all of us scheming and doing all we can to stay put here,
where we were born and bred.'

She doesn't mean anything by it, and maybe it's the strange
mood I seem to be in tonight, but those words make me feel
excluded. Will I never forget that I wasn't born and bred here?
More important, will anyone else ever forget and treat me like
one of them?

I'd had a sudden impulse, when I ran into the Rowlands, to
ask them over to our house to see the lantern the kids made
with Ben's help, out of their pumpkin. Perhaps we could have
a drink, get to know each other, give Ben a chance to get to
know this kind couple. But her words unintentionally stop me.
They probably wouldn't come anyway; after all, I remind myself,
they're not friends, they're my customers. I only see them on
my rounds, except for rare nights like tonight.

So I let it go, drift away from them, and wander to the other
side of the green, past the crowds of over-excited children,
indulgent parents and watchful villagers, until I'm standing in
front of the old church, its stone gleaming in the moonlight,
the tombstones in front lit up now and again by a wayward torch
beaming from the green.

It's chilly now. A sudden wind, sharp and autumnal, has
sprung up, ruffling the drying leaves of the trees, sending a
few scattering down over the graveyard. I shudder in the sudden
cold and button up my jacket.

Maybe I'll see the people-hating vicar, I think as my eyes
roam across the stones, wandering about looking for his
wayward parishioners. A figure stepping out of the shadows
makes me leap a foot into the air. My heart doesn't start beating
again until I see it's one of our neighbours, taking a short cut
through the churchyard to the Hallowe'en party.

He waves at me and I wave back. Then I make my way
slowly back to the house to put on a sweater under my jacket
and to bring warm clothes for the children. There are still fireworks
to come and a barbecue. It will be a long evening.

The leering face of our carved pumpkin lantern on the front
step seems as eerie as any spirit out roaming tonight and the
wind now whipping around the bushes of the front garden
makes a ghostly moan as it gathers strength. My body is telling
me there'll be another storm but not yet, not until the party
is over.

This early autumn storm will be different from the summer
ones. There'll be a chill of winter, a foretaste of what's in store
over the next few months. But the house itself looks warm
and welcoming, a few lights still burning to guide the family
back inside after the revelries end.

Tomorrow is November, the month I began this job. The
year is drawing to an end and I have a sense of other endings
too. Mr Hawker, for one. A death and a funeral. I think of
him for a moment, hoping his spirit is at peace, this night when
the dead are said to walk the earth. But this month has brought
some good endings too. The feud between Arnie and Charlie,
the father and son. And perhaps, with luck, the end of an
unsuitable occupation for Martin and Emma, an end of exile
for their son and his partner.

With luck.
So much depends on that, I think. No matter how
hard we work, strive to achieve, plan and scheme, we still all
need a little luck. Tapping the round pumpkin head grinning
on my front doorstep, I let myself into the house, find some
sweaters and jackets, and rush on out back to the party.

I am tiptoeing out of the bedroom the next day, the day after
Hallowe'en, as usual trying not to wake Ben at this ungodly
hour. But before I can leave the room he sits up and runs to
the bathroom where I can hear him being sick. I go to him
but he motions me away, indicates he'll be all right.

When he comes back into the bedroom he's not all right.
He's shivering with a severe chill, yet when I touch his forehead,
it's blazing hot.

'Don't know what's brought this on,' he says as I get him
water and some paracetamol for the fever.

'Probably the flu. It's getting towards that time of year again,
and I heard last night that one or two others in the village are
in bed with it.'

He groans, 'I'm on at the café for the lunch hour.' He's been
leaning back on the pillows and now tries to sit up then flops
back down, the movement having exhausted him.

'Not today,' I say.

I know he's really ill when he agrees to stay home in bed and
miss a day's work. I stay hovering until he tells me I'd better get
going, that I'll be late, and that he'll be fine, the kids will be fine.
'Just go, and don't worry about us. Amy and Will can get themselves
dressed and breakfasted and I'll surface long enough to
get them to school.' His face is drenched in sweat.

'Ben, are you in pain?'

He nods, 'My gut. Probably some wretched stomach bug.'

That would explain it, with the vomiting and everything. He
seems prone to stomach viruses; the last year or so he's had a
few minor attacks of pain and nausea but nothing as agonizing
as this one seems to be.

Ben says again, 'Tessa, you'd better get moving.' His eyes
close. 'I'll try to get a couple more hours sleep before the kids
get up. Don't worry, I'll be fine.'

I try to hurry my round, to get back home as soon as
possible. Ben phones me when he wakes again, saying he's
feeling a bit better but still has the bouts of shivering followed
by bouts of feverish sweating. Definitely the flu, so I make
him promise to get straight back to bed when he's taken Will
and Amy to school. I've already phoned the café owners, told
them he won't be in.

Of course today, when I'm in a hurry to return to Ben, is
the day when everything seems to hold me up. First is the
weather. As I'd thought the night before, there was a sharp
change during the night and though it's only the first of
November, we're having a cold blast of early winter with icy
rain and a Siberian wind that gets under my waterproof and
turns the skin under my fleece goosebumpy.

At Morranport post office, Nell looks like a cuddly toy in
a chocolate-coloured mohair jumper which frizzes up from her
shoulders, arms and bosom like the fur of a teddy bear. ''Tis
too early for this sort of weather,' she mutters, clapping her
hands together for a bit of warmth. As she speaks, a frenzy
of hailstones batters the window that faces the sea.

I agree, 'Flu season's already begun. Ben's down with it.'

She picks up a newspaper she'd been reading when I walked
in. 'Slanging season started too, m'lover. Look here at this
slanderous stuff.'

I take the paper reluctantly. 'Nell, you ought to stop reading
the newspapers. You take it all too seriously.'

'There be a conspiracy, maid, you better believe it.'

'By
whom
? About
whom
? And
why?
'

'You be saying I don't have a clue what I'm talking about?'

'Never, Nell, believe me, but I'm not sure who's behind this
so-called conspiracy.'

'The government, that's who, against us small post offices,
because they want to be ridding themselves of the lot of us.'

I sigh loudly and impatiently but I know I'll never get away
before I read yet another article about the Royal Mail. This
time, someone has uncovered the fact that huge amounts of
letters and parcels are lost every year, some by accident and
some by deliberate fraud.

'Nell, everyone knows that postal workers are like everyone
else, totally human. There're thousands of us, and maybe a
few are careless, and even a tiny few are corrupt. Happens
everywhere. But everyone also knows that the overwhelming
majority of us are honest and hard working.'

She won't have it. Straightening up to her full height of five
foot, her ship's prow bosom trembling with indignation, she
says, 'It be scurrilous scandal. You wait and see, maid, 'twon't
be long before every small post office in rural England is being
threatened with closure.'

I know better than to argue with her. Besides, she's probably
right about the post offices. It all comes down to money,
like everything else.

'Nell, can we finish this conversation another day? I've got
to get going.'

She's reading the article again, probably for about the fifth
time, not looking up as she waves me off.

The hailstorm has stopped but the road up the hill out of
Morranport is treacherous and slippery. My mood plummets
as I hear a strange noise coming from the van. It sounds rattley
and tinny as I edge up out of town. I put on the radio to
drown the sound but it seems to be getting louder and more
frantic, so when I get to the first lay-by, I pull over to see if I
can spot what's wrong.

One glance tells me the problem: I left the back doors open
when I zoomed away in such a rush.
Great start,
I think
. Really,
Tessa, you're such an idiot sometimes. Every ounce of Royal Mail
deliveries could have flown out of those back doors.

My cheeks burn when I think of the article Nell just gave
me to read. I'm glad I defended poor, human, accident-prone
postal workers. It can happen to anyone. But luckily, the mail
is intact with nothing missing and I can go on, now that I'm
soaked again by another lashing of hail.

The morning doesn't get much better. A flock of sheep on
the road keeps me idling behind them for ages and for some
reason the van is stalling every time it idles. I'll have to report
that. My door isn't shutting properly again either and there's a
leakage of icy water on my seat as I hop back into the van
after another delivery in the wet.

And oh no, oh dear lord, there's a letter for my worst delivery
place, a run-down farm at the end of the long track with three
five-bar gates to open and shut before reaching the house. That
means getting in and out of the van
twelve times
just for one
piece of mail.

I sit in the van in front of the first gate wrestling with my
conscience. The hailstones have changed to a slushy, cold, steady
rain drenching the windscreen, the wipers not able to keep up
with the deluge. How tempting it would be not to deliver it
but sneak it back to the post office and let the relief postie
take it tomorrow, my day off.

I've never done anything like that before but oh, how I am
tempted now. I'm still worried about Ben, despite his phone
call to say he's feeling better; I want to get home and see for
myself. But the vision of Nell, always loyal to the Royal Mail,
always trying to defend it from accusations of incompetence,
floats before me in all her bosomy righteousness. How can I
even be thinking of letting her – or the Royal Mail – down?

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.