Up With the Larks by Tessa Hainsworth Page B

the vicious dog with the daft name,
Batman.' Much to my discomfort, the little hamlet with all the
dogs and the feral cat is now on my regular beat, not Susie's,
after some minor route changes have been made by the post
office.
    'Aye? Daft name, you say? I think it be a good name meself.
And I never had no problem with Batman.' She plants her feet
firmly apart and looks ready to debate the issue all day. Solidarity
amongst the Cornish is a frightening thing to be up against.
    'Never mind the dog's name, Nell. Why is her son sending
her a frozen fish?'
    'Not frozen, fresh. Wouldn't of put it in fridge if it was
frozen but in freezer. Had it come the weekend mebbe I'd of
put it in freezer instead of fridge. Keep 'im fresher in freezer
than fridge, if you know what I mean.'
    'Yes, well, sort of. So why does he send a fresh fish by post
when she lives so near the sea?'
    She looked at me as if I were the dotty one. Maybe I was.
Maybe I was missing something here. Finally she said, slowly
as if explaining to a dunce, 'He be a fisherman.'
    'Well, couldn't he just give it to her?'
    Now Nell sighed, a great sigh that shook her bosom and
made the waves behind the post office quiver. 'He be living at
other side of county. 'Tis easier and cheaper to post than to
drive it clear across Cornwall.'
    The fish, wrapped in slimy plastic and soggy brown paper,
was oozing seawater and fishy secretions down my arms and
onto my uniform. It was also smelling a bit, well, fishy. Nell,
noticing, said, 'Better get on then, afore he goes off.'
    I went out of my way to deliver the fish first, which meant
picking up the van again. Batman luckily was locked inside
the house, his owner out, so I left the fish in the garden shed,
as Nell had told me. 'She'll find it, don't fret; she knows it's
coming and twill be looking every day for it.'
    The roads are slippery now, wet rather than icy, thank goodness.
I drive out to my first drop, a tiny village with a stunning
view overlooking the sea. It has a pub that doesn't seem very
welcoming but then again I only see it in the morning.
    I slow down near the 13th century church which, unlike the
other churches in the area, looks unkempt and almost derelict.
The churchyard is neglected and overgrown with weeds. Ivy
scrambles over everything, climbing the scrub oaks, the crumbling
tombstones and old broken mausoleums. I've never seen
the church open, even later in the day, though I've peeked
inside the windows. It looks plain but still in use, despite a
cracked window or two.
    The church which, unusually, stands outside the village on
its own, is a stark contrast to most of the old stone Cornish
houses which I drive to now. They're all smartly painted and
recently renovated. A few still look a little careworn but no
doubt when, or if, the owners sell they will be tarted up and
modernized just like the others and probably bought by second homers.
A week ago most of the houses in this village were
empty but now, on Christmas Eve, some are lit with fairy lights
and candles as the residents leave their primary homes Up
Country to holiday in their second homes.
    Those who are up and about greet me civilly, wishing me a
Happy Christmas. No tip though but then why should they?
They're not here most of the time. One young couple come
to their door flushed and excited. 'Just tried to light a fire but
the chimney keeps smoking,' the man says, laughing. He's handsome
in a prosperous, polished way in his casual cashmere
pullover.
    'We just got here,' the woman tells me, laughing too. I feel
like a grump but I can't help wondering what's so funny about
a smoking chimney. Maybe because to them it's not real, they're
just playing house. Their real life is somewhere else.
    The woman goes on, 'Drove all night. God, it's good to be
out of the City.'
    I make a sympathetic face but secretly I'm envying her
clothes: trendy, stylish, 'Toast' country clothes. She has swinging
hair so well cut I instinctively put my hand up to my straggling