Read Online Up With the Larks by Tessa Hainsworth - Free Book Online
Authors: Tessa Hainsworth
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not
pretending to be part of this community – we really are, really
want to be.
As I trudge up the steep steps of the houses on Millionaire's
Row lugging my heavy bag, I think, I'm too unfit for this . At the
farthest house on top of a particularly high slope, I'm exhausted
by the time I climb to the top of the elegant, stone steps. It's
a magnificent house on the hill with a stunning view, but the
steps go on and on; they're a killer and too awkward to attempt
with a trolley. The house has a letterbox on the road, a very
large, smart one, and my first few days on this round were
made so much easier by that postbox. But yesterday Margaret
got a phone call from the owner, who is in Cornwall till after
Christmas this year, saying that while she is in residence she
wants her post delivered to the house.
So here I am at the top of the steps, panting and red faced
after the exertion of the uphill slog carrying a heavy bag.
The house looks unlived in and there is no letter slot in the
door, nowhere to put the post. Though it is a dry day, there
is a strong breeze and the weather changes from minute to
minute around here. I can't risk leaving it somewhere to get
wet or blown away. There is nothing for it but to ring the
bell.
It's a good five minutes before someone comes to the door.
I have rung a second time and am now about to leave the post
under a terracotta pot with a miniature palm tree in it. If it
rains, it can't be helped. There is a perfectly good letterbox at
the bottom of all those steps.
The door swings open. A woman who can't be more than
forty, dressed in designer clothes most of us can only dream
about, is standing there looking irritated. 'Yes?'
I am a little taken aback. I'd expected someone elderly or
infirm, someone unable to go down and up those endless steps
for their mail every day, but this woman looks fitter than I do.
'Your post,' I say in my friendliest voice. After all, it's nearly
Christmas and this is Millionaire's Row.
She takes it from me, gives it a cursory glance and says,
'Not worth the paper it's written on.'
Then she shuts the door in my face and that's that. At least she didn't slam it , I think as I practically fly down those hellish
steps in a fury. What's wrong with a quick thank you? I'm shouting
in my head And what's wrong with your letterbox? Do you think that we posties are your servants? And shame on you if that's how you treat your servants anyway.
At the bottom of the steps, reunited with my trolley, I take
deep breaths and pause, standing in front of the low, wooden
fence that separates the road from the beach. The water is
striped with bands of indigo blue, turquoise, grey and black.
The sun is dancing in and out of the clouds, creating a rainbow
of colour on the water. Jutting out around the estuary on the
left is woodland and I notice the trees, stripped of their leaves,
are a rich, silvery brown. I can see fields too, rolling ones, still
green and lush. There's a cove in front of the woodland with
small boats moored and further out I can see the shapes of
tankers, cruise ships and the ferry that crosses the river several
times a day, taking passengers to other towns. On my right is
the harbour, small, nestling and peaceful and in front, the sandy
beach. A heron is standing at the water's edge between shore
and woodland. As I watch, a cormorant skims over the sea.
I lean against my trolley and my mind calms. I have this
every day of the year, I think, and that other woman for only
two or three weeks. No one else sees her house for the other
eleven months except the cleaner and gardener who come once
a week. But me – I live here. I work here, as Susie has reassured
me. My load suddenly feels lighter, the job easier.
I work here. How positive that sounds, and how Ben and I
despaired of ever hearing ourselves say that.
Thank goodness it was different for the children. Will and
Amy have made the transition from urban kids to rural ones
with the ease and resilience of
pretending to be part of this community – we really are, really
want to be.
As I trudge up the steep steps of the houses on Millionaire's
Row lugging my heavy bag, I think, I'm too unfit for this . At the
farthest house on top of a particularly high slope, I'm exhausted
by the time I climb to the top of the elegant, stone steps. It's
a magnificent house on the hill with a stunning view, but the
steps go on and on; they're a killer and too awkward to attempt
with a trolley. The house has a letterbox on the road, a very
large, smart one, and my first few days on this round were
made so much easier by that postbox. But yesterday Margaret
got a phone call from the owner, who is in Cornwall till after
Christmas this year, saying that while she is in residence she
wants her post delivered to the house.
So here I am at the top of the steps, panting and red faced
after the exertion of the uphill slog carrying a heavy bag.
The house looks unlived in and there is no letter slot in the
door, nowhere to put the post. Though it is a dry day, there
is a strong breeze and the weather changes from minute to
minute around here. I can't risk leaving it somewhere to get
wet or blown away. There is nothing for it but to ring the
bell.
It's a good five minutes before someone comes to the door.
I have rung a second time and am now about to leave the post
under a terracotta pot with a miniature palm tree in it. If it
rains, it can't be helped. There is a perfectly good letterbox at
the bottom of all those steps.
The door swings open. A woman who can't be more than
forty, dressed in designer clothes most of us can only dream
about, is standing there looking irritated. 'Yes?'
I am a little taken aback. I'd expected someone elderly or
infirm, someone unable to go down and up those endless steps
for their mail every day, but this woman looks fitter than I do.
'Your post,' I say in my friendliest voice. After all, it's nearly
Christmas and this is Millionaire's Row.
She takes it from me, gives it a cursory glance and says,
'Not worth the paper it's written on.'
Then she shuts the door in my face and that's that. At least she didn't slam it , I think as I practically fly down those hellish
steps in a fury. What's wrong with a quick thank you? I'm shouting
in my head And what's wrong with your letterbox? Do you think that we posties are your servants? And shame on you if that's how you treat your servants anyway.
At the bottom of the steps, reunited with my trolley, I take
deep breaths and pause, standing in front of the low, wooden
fence that separates the road from the beach. The water is
striped with bands of indigo blue, turquoise, grey and black.
The sun is dancing in and out of the clouds, creating a rainbow
of colour on the water. Jutting out around the estuary on the
left is woodland and I notice the trees, stripped of their leaves,
are a rich, silvery brown. I can see fields too, rolling ones, still
green and lush. There's a cove in front of the woodland with
small boats moored and further out I can see the shapes of
tankers, cruise ships and the ferry that crosses the river several
times a day, taking passengers to other towns. On my right is
the harbour, small, nestling and peaceful and in front, the sandy
beach. A heron is standing at the water's edge between shore
and woodland. As I watch, a cormorant skims over the sea.
I lean against my trolley and my mind calms. I have this
every day of the year, I think, and that other woman for only
two or three weeks. No one else sees her house for the other
eleven months except the cleaner and gardener who come once
a week. But me – I live here. I work here, as Susie has reassured
me. My load suddenly feels lighter, the job easier.
I work here. How positive that sounds, and how Ben and I
despaired of ever hearing ourselves say that.
Thank goodness it was different for the children. Will and
Amy have made the transition from urban kids to rural ones
with the ease and resilience of
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