'So what's happened now?'
Susie tells me. It seems Eleanor confided to her the fact that she had furtively encircled the trunk of the tree with a thin copper wire. 'It's so thin that Perkins will never see it,' she had told Susie gleefully, 'but it'll cut into the bark, stop the tree breathing. Get rid of it once and for all.'
'Oh dear.' I am all attention now, and so are the day-trippers next to us. Susie hasn't thought it necessary to lower her voice. 'Does that really work? Could a bit of wire really kill the tree?'
Susie shrugs. 'Never heard tell whether it works or not, though I've known a fair few folk who've tried it. I doubt if Eleanor knows for certain either, but she sure be giving it a try. Anyway, that's not the point. The fact is, she's giving it a go. I told her that it's attempted murder, what she be doing, that it be an underhanded and nasty thing to do.'
'And she said – ?'
'She said what about her greenhouse!' Susie practically snorts with indignation.
'Oh dear,' I say again. Then, 'Well, what about her greenhouse? I mean, of course I think it appalling that she's trying to kill the tree, especially as it's not even hers, but Eleanor does love her greenhouse I know.'
Susie looks at me scornfully. 'She could move her greenhouse. And I told her so. She told me to mind my own business and get off her premises if I didn't like what she's doing. I said I be going straightaway as I be wanting no truck with a tree killer anyhow. She said if I ever came back she'd call the police and I said if she did I'd expose her to all of South Cornwall as the tree-killer she is.'
I'm quite stunned by the vehemence of Susie's anger, as well as such an unfortunate outcome to this long-standing battle between neighbours. I say, 'Well, however you both feel, you've still got to deliver the post there.'
'No way. Either she puts a postbox on top of her lane, or she be getting no post from me, for sure.'
We are silent for some time. The day-trippers, sensing there will be no more colourful stories of life in rural Cornwall, get up and move away. I feel languid in the heat, despite being upset by Susie's story. Finally I say, 'Are you going to tell Perkins?'
She stares at me in some surprise. 'Tell him what?'
'Why what Eleanor has done to his tree.'
'You be getting as daft as everyone else in this hot sun. Course not. T'ain't my conflict now is it? Nothing worse than getting involved in someone else's feud. Just ain't done, bird.'
On Susie's day off a few days later, I start to drive up Eleanor's lane and there, tied haphazardly to a branch of a beech tree at the edge of the track, is a plastic container. On top of it are the words POST written bluntly in red letters.
I saw Susie this morning at the Truro sorting office and she said she'll never forgive Eleanor for attempting to kill the beech tree, even though it seems that Perkins discovered the sabotage and removed the wire.
Now, seeing the new postbox, I doubt if Eleanor will ever forgive Susie for telling her what to do in her own garden. I have a sense that this new breach will not be mended for a long time.
Another lesson I've learned about rural communities, I think as I put Eleanor's post into the precarious box. Feuds can flare up without warning and last for ages. People can hold grudges for just as long here as they can in the city, or maybe longer, with less busy-ness to distract them. Already I've heard of families at odds with neighbours because of some squabble their parents had years ago.
I wonder if I should go to see Eleanor Gibland, try to plead Susie's case, tell her the good things Susie's said about her. Or try and remind Susie of how much she has always meant to Eleanor. But even as I think this I know it's an idiot's thought. As Susie said, there's nothing worse than getting involved in someone else's feud.
Before long I'm whistling again, thinking that on a warm day at the end of April, there's no better place to be than driving down a rural road in a postal van in Cornwall. There's a blue sky above with a couple of buzzards circling, there's the sea to my left, and on my right, a mass of rhododendrons blazing pink and purple. I'm happy as a skylark, and if this is being bovine, as Annie accused me of being last time she was here, I'm the most contented creature on God's good earth, and that's a fact.
May
I'm having a clothes crisis this month, thanks to the bizarre weather. Some mornings I wake up to freezing rain and a sharp wind that makes me grab my heavy Royal Mail waterproof and wear it over a thick woolly. Then by the time the first light breaks, the sun is gloriously warm and I'm sweating in my wintry gear for the rest of the day.
Often it goes the other way, when I wake up to a balmy dawn and think: Hurrah, summer is here. Tugging on nothing more than a red polo shirt and a pair of ghastly Royal Mail shorts which reach my knees and make me look like a bag lady, I skip outside merrily humming jolly songs about summertime and the livin' bein' easy. Then of course the wind shifts, clouds snarl over the horizon and the temperature drops twenty degrees.
I'll be glad when the weather turns warm and stays warm for a bit, not just for my sake but for the sake of my whole family. On these unspring-like days when a cold wind blows, we've got to put on extra layers as we read or watch telly or relax in the sitting room, for we can't close the main window. A swallow has made a nest there and if we shut the window we'll crush the three speckled eggs we've spotted. Already the newly painted wall is dappled with swallow guano but we don't care; all of us are thrilled that this delightful family is making a home with us.
Luckily the windows are tall, and high up, so that Jake can't get to the nest. The mother bird seems oblivious to his noisy presence both inside and outside the house; she seems totally at home here. I wonder if perhaps our window has been a favourite nesting place for generations of swallows. I hope so. I tell Amy and Will that we must make them as welcome as we can, to keep them coming back to us.
Annie came down for a very brief weekend after the swallows had made their nest. Shivering as a blast of cold wind came through the open window, she pulled her cashmere cardigan tightly around her. We were all huddled in thick fleeces and blankets, watching the late news on telly. Annie, her teeth clattering with cold, muttered, 'This is why I come down here so often, y'know. To get more stories about you barmy people to dine out on.'
Annie's not the only one who has taken to coming down often. To our consternation, Morgan and Glenda, and their two children, came back for a second time. When Glenda rang to inform me of the impending visit, I didn't know how to say no. She didn't exactly ask, I realized when I got off the phone, but had informed me they were coming down, in such a way that somehow I couldn't demur.
This time they hadn't forgotten the wine, though it was a far cry from the 'exquisite' wine Morgan had promised us (but never delivered) last time. It was actually cheap plonk from Tesco, which still would have been fine if Morgan hadn't ordered a very expensive Chianti at the Italian restaurant he took us to in Truro. 'The dinner is my treat,' he'd said expansively. 'I looked the restaurant up on the net, supposed to be good.'
It wasn't bad – cheap and cheerful – and Morgan did pay. We only had one course, because Glenda said, 'I've heard they do huge portions here, so we mustn't order a starter.' And after we'd finished, Morgan boomed, 'That was filling! You'd have to be a glutton to want dessert. Shall we go back to your place for coffee?'
When the bill came, Morgan paid for the food but seemed to expect Ben to pay for the wine, even thanked him profusely for offering to do so. Rather than making an awkward scene, Ben let it go, but with the exorbitantly priced wine, of which we'd had two bottles, plus the babysitter I'd booked to look after the four children (who were squabbling even more this time than they had last visit), it was the most expensive night out we'd had for months.
The really galling thing was, Morgan and Glenda kept referring to 'that great little restaurant we took you to' for the rest of their stay, making sure they didn't have to open their wallets, or help with the preparation of any of the other meals for the rest of the weekend.
/> Never again, I think, remembering that visit. I forget them, and everyone else, as I drive around the quiet lanes. This morning the dawn seems earlier than ever, the light haloing the pale, delicate green of the new leaves, glittering on the spider webs still wet with dew on the fresh grass.
It's so beautiful, so tranquil, that I stop the van and open the door to feel the early warmth, smell the damp grass, hear the skylarks. They're out in full voice today, their harmony and song as pure as the new morning.
I sit and listen for ages, until I can hear the sound of a tractor approaching and know I must move; he's probably going into the gate I'm blocking. But the larks will be here tomorrow, I think as I drive away. And so will I.
When I worked at The Body Shop, we had to do a community project – called Walk the Talk – which entailed some kind of social service, like working with the young, or the elderly, or with animal rescue groups. Anita Roddick believed strongly in keeping communities alive; she used to say that loneliness would be the number one disease if communities fell apart.
I think of her words now as I go about my rounds today. Already in my time as a postie I've helped an elderly woman who's broken her arm to put on her cardigan and sat in a young mother's kitchen for ten minutes guarding her sleeping baby while she ran down to the corner shop for milk. I've helped wash out cuts, put plasters on elbows, looked through old photo albums with isolated, lonely pensioners. I've rushed ill people to hospital and made cups of tea for semi-invalids. I like this part of the job. I've had so much myself, I feel lucky to be able to give some of it back.
Right now I'm delivering the post in Poldowe. There are a sheaf of cards addressed to Mrs Taylor, whom I know only slightly; she and her husband have always seemed a bit reclusive. I noticed there were batches of greeting cards yesterday too, so today, when Mrs Taylor comes to the door, I say brightly, 'Happy Birthday!'
She looks at me blankly. Her eyes are red; she looks as though she's been crying. 'Oh dear, sorry to intrude,' I say, flustered. 'Uh, these are for you, I thought it must be your birthday. Sorry to disturb you.'
I thrust the cards at her as she says quietly, 'My husband died a few days ago. These are sympathy cards.'
I slink away feeling miserable and embarrassed. There is still so much to learn. I must never assume, I mutter to myself as I drive away. After all these months I still make mistakes and often they occur when I'm feeling smug with myself and with the job. Serves me right, I say to myself when another one of these incidents takes place.
Yesterday I was feeling wonderfully smug because I'd figured out who a letter was for. It was addressed to 'J-J and Wuffle the Mongrel, St Geraint, Cornwall.'
'Not another one with no proper address,' Margaret sighed a few days ago, handing it to me. 'I haven't a clue who this one's for, nor does Susie. D'you have anyone called J-J, with a dog called Wuffle?'
I studied the envelope, puzzled, 'Can't think of anyone off hand but I'll take the letter. Maybe it'll come to me.'
As I delivered to my regulars, I asked a few if they knew who J-J was, or a mixed breed dog called Wuffle, but they were as perplexed as I was. It wasn't until I called in at Trescatho, my Brigadoon village, the one with the spooky werewolf (or just an ordinary man with exceptionally large canine teeth) that I remembered. One of the houses, an old stone cottage that had been empty for ages, had been sold. I had been so surprised to see someone walking around the deserted place that I'd stopped, shocked, to stare.
The woman who stared back at me was middle-aged, smartly dressed and obviously from Up Country – a second homer, I thought dismally. Up until now this hamlet had been spared. The people who lived here might be reclusive but they lived here all year round.
I had my baggy, ugly Royal Mail shorts on, my Dr Martens boots and a red polo shirt, my hair pulled up in a tight band on top of my head. I know I looked a sight but that was no reason to look through me, turn her back and go into the house. I made a face at her retreating back.
As she went inside, I heard her call a name which, thinking back, was definitely Wuffle. And sure enough, following her into the house from the back garden was a funny looking mongrel type dog with big paws, black shaggy fur and floppy ears.
Miss Marple, eat your heart out, I thought as light bulbs went off in my head. I bet she's the one the letter is addressed to. And sure enough, there was a bank statement to be delivered to the house and the name was Mrs J Jackson.
I looked at the by now scruffy envelope addressed to J-J and Wuffle the Mongrel. It all fitted. I couldn't wait to tell Margaret and Susie how my sterling detective work had solved the Problem of the Mysterious Letter, how the Royal Mail got through yet again. All in a day's work, I said modestly in my head as I was praised by the Postmaster General.
My reverie was broken by J-J, or Mrs J Jackson, or Granite-Face Woman as I was addressing her in my head as she stared coldly at me. I'd followed her into the garden to hand her the post and now she was frowning and saying something to me. She looked cross; I couldn't think why.
Her voice was over-the-top posh. 'What's this?' she demanded, giving me back the grimy envelope addressed to J-J.
'Oh, why, I think it's for you. In fact I'm sure it must be,' I gave her my most endearing (I hoped) smile. 'You're Mrs Jackson and your first initial is J.'
'That might be so, but no one, ever, has called me J-J. They wouldn't dare. And I don't know anyone in Australia,' she thrust the letter back at me again.
I didn't take it. 'But it must be yours,' I blurted out. 'Because it's addressed to your dog too. Wuffle. I'm sure I heard you call him that. And it looks like, well . . .' I began to grope for words. It looks sort of like a . . . wuffle.'
I couldn't say mongrel. Something in this woman's face forbade it. She looked at the envelope again then at me with her scary stare. She had pale skin and pale unsmiling eyes, and looked terrifyingly forbidding. 'My dog is called Truffle.' Her voice was the opposite of pale. Black, actually. 'He is a pedigree Labradoodle. Will you please take this envelope away now? And leave all future correspondence in the letterbox I will have installed at the bottom of my path.'
I took the letter and scarpered.
'Did you ever find out who Wuffle and J-J are?' Margaret had asked when I walked back into the post office that day.
'No, not yet. But I'm working on it.'
I'm back in Trescatho today, hoping the stony looking Mrs J-J (she'll always be that to me) and her scruffy wuffle dog (he'll always be that to me) aren't in the garden. They're not, despite the lovely day. But to my horror, there is scaffolding up on another house with a SOLD sign and painters are already hard at work. This wonderful house, in this idyllic village, is being painted an atrocious bright salmon pink.
I groan out loud. My lovely mysterious Brigadoon is vanishing, taken over by the pink house brigade.
May Bank Holiday, and the emmetts are flocking into Cornwall. The continuing fine weather has brought not only the second homers but the spur of the moment holiday makers, getting into their caravans, taking out their tents or frantically phoning every B&B and guest house in the country to see if they can book a last-minute place.
Glenda phones to say they'd be happy to spend the May Bank Holiday with us. Since I never asked her, and indeed haven't heard from her or Morgan since their last visit a couple of months ago, this is slightly surprising. But I'm on to her now. I say, sweetly, 'I'm so sorry but we've already got visitors, I'm afraid.'
This is true. Seth is coming down again but with a different girlfriend. 'I think Samantha had a bit of an alcohol problem,' he says on the phone when he asks if he can bring his new woman, Philippa, for an overnight stay.
'I hope you've learned your lesson,' I say, a bit briskly I know, but I've known Seth a long time. And I haven't forgotten how wimpy he was over Samantha.
So Seth and Philippa are already here when, despite being told we couldn't see them this weekend, Glenda, Morgan and their children appear unannounced at our kitchen door just as
we are sitting down to a lasagne lunch.
'Oh, don't mind us,' Glenda trills. 'A cup of coffee would be fine. I'm sure we can find somewhere to eat in St Geraint.' She says this doubtfully. 'Though I know how crowded all the pubs get on a bank holiday.'
Morgan looks grave. 'We'll have to find somewhere, Glenda. The children are starving.'
All four stare at the lasagne, sitting untouched at the kitchen table. While I get four more plates and hastily throw together more salad and cut more bread, Ben introduces Seth and Philippa, who have only just arrived. Seth asks Glenda where they are staying.
'A holiday home, owned by one of my colleagues in the law firm,' Morgan booms. 'He wasn't using it this weekend.'
'It's very near here,' Glenda gushes. 'We can all get together every day!'
Seth looks shocked. He's taken an instant dislike to them already. Philippa, on the other hand, is leaning over the salad exposing masses of suntanned cleavage to Morgan, asking him about his firm in London. She's looking deeply into his eyes, slightly smiling. She's flirting with him, I think, and then my second thought is: why? Morgan is deeply unattractive.
I soon realize why. Philippa – tall, willowy, bosomy and beautiful – is a flirt. As far as I can make out during the time she is with us, this seems to be her profession: flirting. She doesn't seem to have a job and is vague when we ask her about work. God knows where Seth found her.
But I'm grateful to her, for not long after lunch, Glenda suddenly packs up the family and says they must go, much to Morgan's surprise. 'Why Glenda darling, I thought we'd take all these nice people out to dinner somewhere tonight,' he murmurs, as Philippa stares seductively into his eyes and smiles as if he's just offered her a luxury weekend in Dubai.
Seth looks starry-eyed at her despite the fact that she doesn't seem to mind Morgan's hand on her knee. My old friend is a complete fool about the women in his life, I realize.
Up With the Larks Page 16