Up With the Larks by Tessa Hainsworth

though
once I got the job he encouraged me in every way, never letting
on his doubts.
     
    Now it is Christmas Eve and I have made it up to the cut-off
point that was predicted for me. It has not been a great fortnight
and there is a part of me that wants to go with the flow
of predictions and simply quit the job. If we weren't so strapped
for cash I probably would.
    I have my own round now. Ten days ago Reg had to leave
suddenly because of back trouble and I was given his round.
He's not coming back, so a new relief post person will have
to be found. Luckily I know his route quite well, already having
done it when he was off for nearly a month.
    Today I am in the van. It is sleeting, though it shouldn't
last long, it never usually does in these parts. I have several
rural deliveries to make, at farmhouses or isolated homes
which were once thriving farms or workmen's cottages. I'm
tired today. Too many late nights with some London friends
who have been visiting for a few days. Hard as it is to combine
this job with any kind of social life, I've enjoyed their company.
    These dark cold wet mornings are beginning to get to me
even when I go to bed early, which I do most nights. In fact
the children and I go to bed at the same time. I wake at
4.30 a.m., sneaking quietly out of the bedroom so as not to
wake Ben who is now busy every night with the pantomime.
    My clothes are all the Royal Mail uniform so I don't have
any problem deciding what to wear. Everything is ready and
waiting for me in the kitchen where I wash and dress as silently
as I can. I can't even use the bathroom as it is too close to my
sleeping family in the bedrooms. There's no mirror here so I
tidy my unruly hair using my reflection on the back of a soup
spoon. Even Jake, from his basket bed in the corner, ignores
me now, looking at me with one eye then going back to sleep.
He knows he doesn't get his run outside until Ben is up with
the children. All I have to remember is clean underwear which
I slip on in the bedroom before rushing out to jump into my
uniform. Will and Amy have made up a song which they sing
when I'm getting my clothes ready for the morning:
    Postman Tess, postman Tess,
Wears her own pants, socks and vest . . .
    It's sung to the tune of Postman Pat, of course, and it sticks
in my mind going round and round in my head as I dress.
    I drive my car to the post office car park in St Geraint and
pick up my van, glad I'm not driving to Truro. I only have to
go there when I'm on the driving round, and today I'll be doing
the walking one in Morranport. The van is behind the old boat
yard, not a very salubrious place at 5.30 in the morning when
it is dark and creepy, the old boat house creaking in the wind.
It's a good thing I don't scare easily. These midwinter mornings
there is a howling in the air that blows rain in from the
sea and a kind of throbbing, pulsing rhythm to both land and
sea which is eerie and almost primeval. I look across the estuary
towards the river and the sea beyond, and can almost see those
Celtic tribes arriving in their boats to conquer the Bronze
Age settlements on the peninsula. I feel as if I'm losing myself
in time, slipping back a few thousand years and I lean against
the van for a moment to steady myself. My cheeks are burning
and feverish from the wretched cold I've had for days.
    I force my tired, aching body into the van and begin the
day. After collecting the post at St Geraint I drive to
Morranport. The tiny square wooden post office stands on its
own at the sea's edge. When the tide is in, it looks as though
it too is bobbing in the sea, just like the boats moored in the
small harbour. Right now the tide is out and the assorted
rowboats, small yachts and dinghies are dotted along the wet
sand, nestled into the seaweed like exotic sea creatures. Once
these were sturdy fishing boats but now there are no fishermen
in Morranport, their cottages transformed into B&Bs and
holiday homes. Small seabirds are hopping their way