all odds. I
slow down to watch them and as I pass that ancient dereliction
of a church, a trick of the lights in the windows and shining
through the cracks in the battered door, makes it seem like the
old church is smiling, grinning like the carved face of a jack-o-lantern. I smile back and make my way home.
January
There are primroses out in the lane behind our house. It's a
sun trap there. On the coast and hills the weather is still Arctic
with freezing winds, but along our lane, and in little pockets
all over Cornwall, it's summer.
The daffodils have been out for ages, appearing not long
after the New Year and of course there are snowdrops everywhere.
The rain of November and December has stopped, at
least for now, and we've had days of blue sky interspersed with
gentle, floating clouds.
The older farmers on my round, when I comment on the
rare fine weather, suck in their cheeks, purse their lips and take
a sharp intake of breath. 'We be paying for it later, me handsome,'
they say ominously.
At the post office in St Geraint, Margaret has more time to
be chatty, as we all do. I haven't had a chance to talk properly
to Margaret since the Christmas rush began. Now, there's a
lovely, relaxed feeling amongst all of us, with our busiest season
over. We're taking more time to gossip and dawdle. The great
weather makes it easier too.
I'm glad I haven't quit the job – well, today I'm glad. I'm
not naïve enough to believe either the good weather or these
gentle post-Christmas weeks won't end, but I've stuck through
those awful early weeks and I'm starting to feel at ease with
my colleagues and with the job. Not entirely, after all I've not
been at it long, but I'm getting there.
I'm collecting my post as Margaret and I talk, about nothing
in particular. I have to leave our conversation for a minute as
another customer comes in to buy stamps. I carry a load of
parcels and letters to my van parked outside and go back into
the shop as the customer leaves. 'Such a relief, Christmas being
over,' I say idly.
She looks up at me. 'Must be for you especially. Tough time
to start this job. You done well enough, though.'
This compliment sets me up brilliantly. I smile radiantly at
her but she's already dealing with another customer.
Later I'm in the post office at Morranport, talking to Nell.
'It's going to be odd, you not here,' I say to her.
'Me? Not here?' Nell stands up straight, her bosom facing
me with indignation.
'Yes, well, you leaving and all.'
'Who's saying I'm leaving here?'
I'm confused. 'Actually, Nell, it was you who said it. Before
Christmas. You said you're retiring.'
'Oh that,' she waves her wrinkled hand at me, brushing off
such a ludicrous suggestion. 'Changed me mind, I did. Now
why would I do that, you be saying to yourself. Well, a woman's
got a right, true? And I be thinking, now what in the good
Lord's name would I be doing, at home?'
Standing there with her formidable eighty-odd year-old
bosom, clad in a scarlet pullover today, with her short
scruffy white hair all over the place, Nell looks indomitable.
'You're right, Nell. What indeed would you be doing at home?
I'm delighted you're not retiring. Royal Mail needs you, that's
for sure.'
She looks keenly at me to make sure I'm not mocking
her. She's no one's fool. Finally, satisfied that I meant what
I said, her look softens. 'Well, maid, I could of said they be
needin' you too. You done well in the mad rush up to
Christmas.'
Two compliments about my work in one day: I'm overjoyed.
I've passed the test, I've arrived, my colleagues are happy with
me. I'm a true proper efficient postwoman at last. It's
ridiculous how much satisfaction this gives me.
It's not just the rare January sun and the compliments that
cheer me this month but the fact that all our London visitors
are gone. Since we've moved to Cornwall, we've had a rash of
guests. It is a well-known fact of life that whenever one moves
to an idyllic place, both friends and acquaintances
slow down to watch them and as I pass that ancient dereliction
of a church, a trick of the lights in the windows and shining
through the cracks in the battered door, makes it seem like the
old church is smiling, grinning like the carved face of a jack-o-lantern. I smile back and make my way home.
January
There are primroses out in the lane behind our house. It's a
sun trap there. On the coast and hills the weather is still Arctic
with freezing winds, but along our lane, and in little pockets
all over Cornwall, it's summer.
The daffodils have been out for ages, appearing not long
after the New Year and of course there are snowdrops everywhere.
The rain of November and December has stopped, at
least for now, and we've had days of blue sky interspersed with
gentle, floating clouds.
The older farmers on my round, when I comment on the
rare fine weather, suck in their cheeks, purse their lips and take
a sharp intake of breath. 'We be paying for it later, me handsome,'
they say ominously.
At the post office in St Geraint, Margaret has more time to
be chatty, as we all do. I haven't had a chance to talk properly
to Margaret since the Christmas rush began. Now, there's a
lovely, relaxed feeling amongst all of us, with our busiest season
over. We're taking more time to gossip and dawdle. The great
weather makes it easier too.
I'm glad I haven't quit the job – well, today I'm glad. I'm
not naïve enough to believe either the good weather or these
gentle post-Christmas weeks won't end, but I've stuck through
those awful early weeks and I'm starting to feel at ease with
my colleagues and with the job. Not entirely, after all I've not
been at it long, but I'm getting there.
I'm collecting my post as Margaret and I talk, about nothing
in particular. I have to leave our conversation for a minute as
another customer comes in to buy stamps. I carry a load of
parcels and letters to my van parked outside and go back into
the shop as the customer leaves. 'Such a relief, Christmas being
over,' I say idly.
She looks up at me. 'Must be for you especially. Tough time
to start this job. You done well enough, though.'
This compliment sets me up brilliantly. I smile radiantly at
her but she's already dealing with another customer.
Later I'm in the post office at Morranport, talking to Nell.
'It's going to be odd, you not here,' I say to her.
'Me? Not here?' Nell stands up straight, her bosom facing
me with indignation.
'Yes, well, you leaving and all.'
'Who's saying I'm leaving here?'
I'm confused. 'Actually, Nell, it was you who said it. Before
Christmas. You said you're retiring.'
'Oh that,' she waves her wrinkled hand at me, brushing off
such a ludicrous suggestion. 'Changed me mind, I did. Now
why would I do that, you be saying to yourself. Well, a woman's
got a right, true? And I be thinking, now what in the good
Lord's name would I be doing, at home?'
Standing there with her formidable eighty-odd year-old
bosom, clad in a scarlet pullover today, with her short
scruffy white hair all over the place, Nell looks indomitable.
'You're right, Nell. What indeed would you be doing at home?
I'm delighted you're not retiring. Royal Mail needs you, that's
for sure.'
She looks keenly at me to make sure I'm not mocking
her. She's no one's fool. Finally, satisfied that I meant what
I said, her look softens. 'Well, maid, I could of said they be
needin' you too. You done well in the mad rush up to
Christmas.'
Two compliments about my work in one day: I'm overjoyed.
I've passed the test, I've arrived, my colleagues are happy with
me. I'm a true proper efficient postwoman at last. It's
ridiculous how much satisfaction this gives me.
It's not just the rare January sun and the compliments that
cheer me this month but the fact that all our London visitors
are gone. Since we've moved to Cornwall, we've had a rash of
guests. It is a well-known fact of life that whenever one moves
to an idyllic place, both friends and acquaintances
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