Up With the Larks

by Tessa Hainsworth

  I've heard this before, lots of times, but this time Nell looks more serious than usual. I say, 'You can't retire. The poor owners, off on their travels, entrusting their beloved post office to you. So many people have taken the job then quit, but you've been the staunchest. How can you let them down?'

  She harrumphs and snorts and shakes her head but I know my pep talk has hit its mark. Nell is as loyal as she is honest. She won't retire until the owners finally come back and either take over the post office or sell it to someone else. And as everyone in the village knows, that won't happen for a long time.

  Before I leave Morranport I go to pick up some cheese at Baxter's, an incredible shop on the outskirts of the village that sells absolutely everything. It's been there for ever and even has its own bakery. As I go in, I'm bowled over as usual by the delicious aroma of freshly baked pasties, bread and croissants.

  Baxter greets me as I buy feta cheese and bread. He's a man past retirement age with a lion's mane of thick, white hair covering a broad head on top of a tall, broad body. He's been around for ever too, or so it seems. He's warm, friendly and open to everything, especially if it concerns his shop. I brought Annie here last time she visited and in the course of their conversation Baxter asked her what was new in London, food wise. Annie mentioned some kind of chocolate pots Waitrose were selling that everyone she knew had tried. 'Gorgeous, rich chocolate in delicate tiny pots. Not only to die for but make great hostess gifts. Dreadfully expensive, though.'

  Sure enough, next to his racks of books on Cornwall, I see a special shelf in a prominent place filled with elegant chocolate pots. Didn't take long, I think with a smile to myself. Baxter is laid back, easy going and superficially shambling but he's also a keen businessman.

  On the way out I meet Harry going in. 'Why aren't you at work?' I ask.

  'Early closing today, remember?'

  'What, for accountants? I didn't know your office closed.'

  He looks sheepish. 'All right, I'm taking the afternoon off. I'm on my way home but need to get some provisions. Charlie's parents are coming round for tea.'

  'I thought there was a big bust-up last time.'

  'There was. But his mum keeps trying to get a reconciliation, so she's managed to talk the old man into popping over for a cup of tea and a chat.'

  'Good luck. Hope it goes well.'

  Harry looks doubtful. 'Yeah. Me too. But somehow I doubt it. I'll go and see if Baxter has a few freshly baked cakes or pies to thaw the heart of a hardened fisherman.'

  On my way back to St Geraint to drop off the van, I take a short cut and once again I'm face to face with a tourist on a narrow lane. This time it's a woman in a Range Rover that looks as if it's never been on anything less than a three lane motorway in its life.

  Once again, I know there's a lay-by only a short distance back which she could reverse into easily but the look on her face is the petrified stare of a woman looking into hell itself. She's so terrified about backing up that I don't even wait but immediately begin to reverse around yet another curvy bend.

  The story of my life, I think as I manoeuvre the van back along the lane. Always in reverse. Then I begin giggling to myself. Maybe it's not such a bad thing, living in reverse. After all, to move here, we had to back down from our stressful life in the fast lane and reverse into something entirely different.

  When the woman passes me, tucked neatly against a farmer's gate, she's so intent on keeping her Range Rover in the middle of the lane, not wanting to scratch the sides, that she doesn't bother to give me a thank you wave or nod of the head. Rudeness usually makes me fume, but this time I feel so laid back that I don't bother to get irritated. The van windows are open and some wild flower, I don't know what, is wafting its scent my way. In the field some placid, bovine mooing is going on and there's not another sound except a light swishing of beech and oak leaves in the warm breeze. I close my eyes, let the scents and sounds enclose me in a cocoon of serenity. Above the faraway mooing and the rustle of the trees, I'm sure I hear the cry of a buzzard.

  Within minutes I'm asleep and don't wake up for at least twenty minutes. Refreshed, I start the van, pull away from the gate and slowly drive back to St Geraint and the post office car park by the sea, filled with the contentment at having finished another good day's work.

  Something happens at the end of June that stirs the whole family and forces us to question again our move to Cornwall, our decision to leave London. Ben has had two small parts in the new television series starring Martin Clunes, called Doc Martin, filmed partly in London and partly in Cornwall.

  In his first role, in episode two, he played a man on a petrol forecourt. He was then asked to play the role of pub landlord in episode six. Both Martin Clunes and the director, Ben Bolt, liked what he did and said that if a second series were to be made, he'd be on as a regular. This is such wonderful news that we all go out to celebrate. We can't afford dinner at the Roswinnick, not yet, but we go to our favourite pub restaurant in St Geraint.

  'Will you be famous, Dad?' Amy wants to know.

  Ben laughs, 'Hardly. I don't want to be famous; I just want to act.'

  'I'd rather you were famous,' Will says. 'Like Harry Potter.'

  Despite the cost, we order champagne, and fizzy apple juice for the children, and before long we're all high on hope and excitement and that amazing tremulous feeling of being on the very brink of a dream-come-true.

  'I can't believe our luck,' I say to Ben. 'We've got Cornwall, and now this. You don't have to give up acting after all.'

  'Hold on, it's not set in stone yet. We don't know for sure if they'll even do a second series.'

  'Of course they will. The first one got great audience ratings.'

  'That's no guarantee . . .'

  I interrupt him, 'It'll happen, Ben. They wouldn't have mentioned a second series if they weren't fairly sure.' I reach across the table to touch his hand. 'I know how hard it's been for you to give up acting, believe me.'

  He shrugs, 'I've missed it, yes. I love it here, but . . .'

  I take off where he trails off, 'But you love acting too. And soon you'll get a chance at it again.'

  He smiles. His face looks young and happy and full of hope. He's had a chance to do the work he was meant to and there is a good chance he can continue doing it.

  Despite my positive words, I'm as nervous as Ben is, waiting to hear if a second series of Doc Martin is to be made. When news comes that it definitely will be, we are light-headed with relief, joy and mounting excitement. Ben is completely over the moon; he's soaring over the news. At last nearly everything about our life here has come right: I've got time and space for both me and my family and Ben will finally be doing the job he loves best.

  This euphoria lasts for some time as we wait for the scripts for the second series to be written, and for Ben to see the ones which entail the pub landlord. But nothing happens. No scripts appear.

  Finally, Ben talks to some of the other cast members who have already got their scripts. Each of these conversations leaves him feeling more and more uneasy, especially as he still hasn't received a script himself. Then, after talking to others and seeing other scripts, it becomes clear. Nothing has been written in about pub landlords. His projected part has been cut.

  'Ben, no, I don't believe it,' I say as we sit at the kitchen table to digest the news.

  'Nor do I.' He's just got off the phone to his agent, who has confirmed the news. He looks bewildered, like a man who's lost his way. I feel so sorry and angry, so frustrated. But there's nothing I can say or do.

  Ben stands, running his fingers through his hair, bemused, stunned. 'Everyone was so positive. The role was going to be expanded, for God's sake, not cut.'

  He sits down, shaken. I go to him to put my arms around him. We stay like this for a long time, trying to come to terms with this new blow.

  And then, a few days later, the agent phones again. Once more Ben hangs up and comes to look for me but this time his face is
not drained and forlorn but positively hopeful again.

  'Have they changed their minds?' I ask. 'About the landlord?'

  'No, nothing like that, but there's good news, Tessa. They've decided to film the entire second series in Cornwall, not use the London set at all. My agent thinks that there's a good chance at getting another role for me, since I'm here anyway.'

  Once again we're up in the stars, trying not to hope but unable to stop ourselves. His agent feeds this hope, believing that Ben, having attracted good notice in the first series, will surely get to audition for other decent parts.

  'It's only a matter of time,' I tell Ben. 'You'll get that phone call soon, you'll see.'

  We try to be patient. Ben stops talking about it, because he wants it so much. He carries on at the Sunflower Café as usual but when I go in there, I can tell by his face that he's miles away. In his head he's not a waiter, or an aromatherapist, or any of the other things he's been since moving to Cornwall. He's what he should be, what he's always wanted to be: an actor.

  Nothing happens for over a week. Ben knows they are casting now for the next series, yet the phone remains silent. Finally, on the last day of June, he phones his agent.

  They talk for ages but the gist of it is, the only part he's offered is a couple of walk-on one-liners, which Ben quite rightly refuses. He's a professional actor, not an extra. Everything else has been cast in London.

  Ben and I talk about it late into the night. We're in the sitting room, the window open not so much for the nesting swallows but for the warm summer's breeze that is wafting in tonight after a hot, humid day.

  'I don't understand,' I say, not for the first time. 'You're living here in Cornwall, they're filming in Cornwall, yet all the parts that you could possibly play are going to actors based in London.'

  Ben nods. He looks ashen, drawn. 'That's the way it works, Tessa. We've always known it. I just had it all explained to me again by my agent. They go to the London agents first, for all the top roles, and only then, when those parts are filled, do the Cornish agents get a chance. By then, there's nothing left but the walk-ons.'

  I take a long deep breath. 'What can we do, Ben?'

  He tries to smile but it's not much of one. His unhappiness radiates out of his eyes, his posture, his whole face. 'We can't do anything, can we? That's the way it is, and as I've said before, we knew it when we came here.'

  He's right, we did know it, but this episode had given us hope that Ben would eventually find good acting jobs despite where we lived. Now that's gone and at an especially bad time for Ben, having just had a taste of acting again, having remembered only too clearly what an integral part of his life it has always been. We don't say much after that but as we get into bed, miserable and low, I wonder now if we have done the right thing, moving here. What has it done to Ben?

  Much as I love Cornwall, I can't stay here if Ben is unhappy. If he's pining to be back in the theatre or in films, and if it can't be done from here, we'll have to go back. As soon as I think this, I feel such desolation that I have to shut my eyes tightly to prevent sudden tears from falling. Leave here? It will be like losing part of myself, a deep important part that I don't want to let go. But in staying here, the same thing will happen to Ben. Acting has been his life for a long time, much longer than we've lived in Cornwall.

  We'll have to go back. I'll tell him soon, when the moment is right, when I've thought it all through and we have time to talk properly. Now I must get to sleep, to be up at four tomorrow. Yet I lie there awake for ages, brain churning. Next to me Ben is awake too, but pretending to sleep so as not to disturb me.

  I feel that the decision has already been made. There is no way we can remain in Cornwall. It's far too big a sacrifice for Ben to make.

  July

  There are hydrangeas everywhere, coloured bright blue to startling pink and every shade in between depending on the soil. The summer has settled down into being a normal one weather wise, with sunny days interspersed with the odd days of rain. For now the sun has the edge and everyone is happy, the beaches filling rapidly as the season gears up. Everyone is happy but us, that is.

  For the first few days of July, Ben and I have no chance to talk alone for any length of time, as he's had to fill in at the café a few evenings to cover a staff illness. I know he's welcomed the extra work, not just for financial reasons but because it stops him from thinking about what might have been. I've thought of nothing else for days and I'm now determined. Ben must have his chance to get back into acting.

  I've got it all figured out. We've done a great deal to the Cornish house since we moved, so hopefully we can sell it for a profit and either buy something much smaller in London or rent until we can afford to buy. We'll then have enough money to tide us over while I find some kind of work during the day while the children are at school. Ben can then devote most of his time to renewing his London contacts, to making a wholehearted effort to get back into his professional life.

  Finally, Ben and I have a chance to talk. Will and Amy are asleep and we're sitting outside on the small terrace, watching a half moon make its way over some willow trees in a neighbour's garden. We're drinking chilled white wine, ostensibly enjoying the warm, almost sultry evening. There's no breeze and the moon looks languid, as if it too is going with the flow of summer.

  I want this moment to last for ever. I don't want to speak, to talk about moving back to London. But then I see Ben's face, pale in the moonlight. He looks tired, preoccupied. As if it's all, finally, too much for him.

  So then I begin to talk. I try to make my voice sound eager, as if this is a great new adventure for both of us, going back to our old life.

  'But we left that life,' Ben says, 'because we wanted more, something better.'

  'I did. I was the one who was stressed and unhappy.'

  'We were both unsatisfied, Tessa. In the end, I wanted to move as much as you did. And let's face it, I wasn't doing much acting anyway, up in London.'

  I sip my wine, absentmindedly stroking Jake who is lying quietly at our feet. The moon rises higher. 'Ben, you weren't doing much acting because of me, my job at The Body Shop. Someone had to be home for Will and Amy. This time, I'll get a less demanding job, one that doesn't consume me for twelve hours a day. That'll free you to focus on finding an acting job.'

  Ben, who has been staring at the moon while I say all this, turns to me with a slight smile. 'So where are you going to find this kind of job? Do you plan on delivering post in London?'

  I smile back, 'If necessary. If that's what it takes to get you back on track again.'

  He sighs. 'It's a crazy idea. To go back now . . .' He trails off, lost in thought. Then adds, 'How can we even think of moving Will and Amy again?'

  I shrug. 'I don't like that part of it, but they're young, resilient. And it's not as if they'll be going to a strange school – we'll make sure they go back to the same one, with all their old friends.'

  He doesn't say anything for a long time. Finally he shakes his head, says, 'I don't know, Tessa. Are you really serious about this?'

  'I've been thinking about it for days. Yes, I'm quite serious.'

  His face changes. The tired look is gone and he looks animated again, for the first time since all this began. He goes to me, takes my face in his hands, 'You'll do this for me? Give all this up?' His hand swings around to indicate the moon, the willow, our house, the village. The sea barely a mile away, our favourite beach. Everything.

  'Yes,' I answer without hesitation. 'For you, for all of us.'

  I can hardly bear to look at the eagerness in his face, the resurgence of hope. It is truly what he wants, I think.

  I take another sip of wine to hide my own face, to mask the sadness bubbling up from deep inside me. I don't want him knowing how much this move will grieve me.

  Once again, our work and the children prevent us from discussing this further for a few days. Ben seems jauntier though, and happier, so I know he is thinking about it, about
having another chance to pick up his career.

  I'm just numb. I've deliberately frozen my mind and heart so that I don't have to think. I know that soon we'll have to start making plans but I know we both need these few days to adjust.

  Then at the weekend, we take Will and Amy to an annual fête at a nearby village. It's wonderful, traditional stuff: tug-of -war competitions and wellie-throwing contests; brass bands and sing-a-longs; prizes for the biggest vegetables, the tastiest scones. The village green where the fête is held is packed out with families, both locals and visitors.

  Daphne and Joe are there, and invite Will and Amy to go home with them to spend the night as their two children are more or less the same age and have become fairly good friends. When the fête ends, they all go off together and Ben and I are left on our own.

  It's another fine night and the moon is nearly full. Ben says, 'Let's go to the beach, have a walk. Jake could do with some exercise.'

  We go to Penwarren Beach, empty now despite the still warm evening. The moonlight casts a path of light across the dark sea and adds a translucent glow to the stretch of sand on the shore. Jake leaps into the shallows, his splashing the only noise in this still night.

  We walk for a bit then sit on the sand, warm from the heat of the day despite the midnight hour. We think about going in for a swim but by now a cool breeze has sprung up and we decide it would be cold when we came out.

  'Imagine,' Ben says, his voice soft. 'Not a care in the world at this moment in time except trying to decide whether to have a swim or not. How many people have that good fortune?'

  I can't answer him. I'm too choked up.

  After a while Ben goes on, 'I've been thinking day and night about what you said, about going back to London. Can you really give up all this?'

  I take his hand. 'For you, yes. I can't bear for you to be unhappy. How can I enjoy anything when you're missing out on so much?'

  Jake, who has been dashing in and out of the water, bounds up to us and drenches us with a great shake of his wet body. We wave him away, laughing, wiping saltwater from our faces, our clothes.