Seagulls in the Attic (10 page)

The phone rings one evening when I’m on my own. Ben is at Joe and Daphne’s farm helping Joe unload some sheep he bought in a market several counties away. Will and Amy have gone too, to help, they said, but really to hang out with their friends.

I pick up the phone and hear a familiar voice, ‘Hey, country mouse, at last! We haven’t talked for ages. Have you forgotten the big city and all your debauched city friends?’

‘Annie, hi, city mouse. Great to hear your wicked London voice. What’re you up to?’

Annie is such a Londoner that I’m surprised she didn’t send us care packages when we moved to Cornwall. She thought we were totally mad – until she met Pete, the agricultural merchant who lives not far from Treverny. Since then they’ve had a long-distance romance and Annie has begun to see the positive side of living where we do.

After she’s told me all the latest news about our mutual
friends in London, she says, ‘Oh, and Pete’s coming to London again this weekend.’

‘Hey, that’s twice in a row. How about you coming here? At least your oldest dearest friend could get a look at you now and again.’

She sighs. ‘I’d love to. But I’ve got a wedding to go to on Saturday, someone from work. Pete’s going with me. But I’ll be down soon, I promise. Now tell me what’s new in Cornwall.’

I tell her about my garden and rhapsodise about the new lettuces. When I take a breath she says, ‘What about the old couple who live in the house? They sound so intriguing.’

‘They are, but I’m worried about them. They seem to live so chaotically, which is fine when you’re young but at their age it could be deadly. Those loose rugs on the floor, the uneven steps and garden path – it’s all so deadly, an accident waiting to happen.’

Before we can say any more, I hear the noise again. I hadn’t heard it while we were chatting. ‘Uh oh,’ I say. ‘I was hoping it had gone.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing much. I hope nothing much anyway. There’s this noise, up in the attic.’

‘What kind of noise?’

‘Sort of eerie. Scratching, scrabbling sounds. We’ve been hearing it off and on all day. It sounds worse this evening. Maybe because I’m alone.’ I giggle, trying to make light of it. ‘Actually, I think it’s a ghost. Oh no, you don’t think it’s a snake? Could an adder get into the attic?’

‘How would I know, I’m a city gal, remember? I shouldn’t think so. Don’t they just slither on the ground?’

I make a strangled, gurgling sound. ‘Don’t, Annie. Don’t talk about slithering snakes. Anyway, I’m sure it’s a ghost. What else could it be?’

‘Rats.’

‘What?’ my voice hollers at her down the phone.

‘It’s obvious enough. You’ve got rats up there. You said there was lots of scratching.’

I stare up at the ceiling as if a rat is going to fall through and land on top of me. ‘How would you know, Annie? You’re a city girl, like you just said. What would you know about rats?’

She snorts. ‘That’s one form of animal life everyone who lives in a city knows about, Tessa. You know the statistics, everyone in London is never further than a couple of metres from a rat.’ There’s a pause. ‘Or something like that. Statistics never stay in my head unless I need them for the job.’

‘Omigod, rats! What’ll we do, Annie?’

‘Send for a rat catcher. That’s what I’d do. Exterminator 2 or whatever they call them down your way.’

‘Stop joking.’

‘I’m not. I should do it fast too. They breed like rats.’

‘They are rats.’

‘That’s what I mean, you see?’

‘Annie, we can’t afford a rat catcher. We can’t afford anything. Anyway, I’d better go. I hear Ben and the children coming home.’

I put down the phone and roll my eyes at Ben, surreptitiously trying to indicate the ceiling. I certainly don’t want to frighten the children with stories about rats in the attic.

Amy says, ‘Oh, those noises again. Are they still there?’

Will says eagerly, ‘I bet they’re rats. Great, maybe I can catch some babies for Elvis.’

I sigh. Rats and snakes, and God knows what else. Sending the children up to bed, I turn to Ben. ‘Can you go up and take a look? I think Will is right. There must be rats up there. You’ll have to put some poison down. Or a trap, or something.’

Ben assures me he’ll take care of it tomorrow when he’s
home from work. We go to bed and I lie awake for a long time, first hearing the scratching noises, then not hearing anything. Maybe the rat has died? I’m relieved until I start imagining a dead rat over my head, with only a floorboard and ceiling between it and me. By the time the alarm rings at 4 a.m. I’ve hardly slept a wink.

On my round the next day I find two of my customers, Emma and Martin Rowland, out in the pasture near their farmhouse with their goats. The Rowlands unwillingly had to give up farming a few years ago, as the struggle against new regulations, larger and larger farms swallowing up smaller ones, the shrinking margin between profit and loss, all combined to make it impossible to carry on. They converted Trelak Farm to a B&B but neither of them is suited to the work, especially Martin. They have slowly been working towards becoming a market garden and plan to go organic as soon as possible. They’ve also got a small herd of milking goats which they are hoping will make some much needed money.

Unfortunately they can’t afford to give up the paying customers. I see by the cars parked around the front that the house must be full. ‘Yes, we’ve got a good week, and it’s not even half term,’ Emma says, coming out to meet me in the van. We chat for a bit and then I go with her to look at the goats. A tiny newborn is suckling his mum and I want to whisk it home. I love the little kids and spend more time than I should cooing over this one.

My next call is just down a narrow lane, with hedgerows on either side and beneath them, a mass of yellow primroses, crammed together like rows of luscious yellow sweets. They’re so perfect, and there are so many of them, that I stop the van to just sit and stare. Once again I’m aware of that special rural silence, the kind that is only interrupted by a robin or thrush, the song of a blackbird, or perhaps the high swish of a soft
breeze blowing through trees which are just beginning to come into leaf.

I drive on a short distance and then I spot something else, dandelions in flower in a small clearing. I’ve got my basket in the van, ready for such finds. Last year Daphne gave us some dandelion flower wine and it was so luscious I’m hoping to make some myself. It’ll make great Christmas gifts for next year too. I know it’s only springtime but this year I plan to make as many gifts as I can and dandelion flower wine will be a great one.

I feel a twinge of sadness when I deliver to this next house. One of my favourite customers, an old farm worker called Mr Hawker, used to live here and died during my first year. I was fond of the old man. But as I pull up in front of the stone cottage my heart lifts to see his small place, neglected for decades, looking cared for and loved. The front garden, which was a mass of weeds and brambles, has been cleared and there are pansies and marigolds planted along a narrow border. The windows, some broken and papered over when Mr Hawker became a recluse, are mended, cleaned and freshly painted.

‘Tessa, hi. All right?’ a cheery voice greets me and Dave appears from the back of the house, carrying a ladder.

I’m pleased to see that this is a sensible sturdy one, as safe as ladders can be. The couple moved here from Bristol after a distant relative who inherited Mr Hawker’s house said they could live in it and do it up as part of the rent. Dave is Emma and Martin’s son. He and Marilyn are Cornish but, like so many young people, had to move away to be able to afford a decent place to live. Now they’ve been able to move back, as they’ve been longing to do for ages. They’re helping Dave’s parents build up the goat-and-garden business but it’s an enormous struggle as they are still also working full time as physiotherapists at the hospital in Truro.

Dave asks, ‘Have you seen the new young goat at up at Trelak?’ I nod as he goes on, ‘Marilyn is besotted with it. Besotted with all the goats, actually. Dad and Mum say she can be in charge of the milking later, when she can afford to quit work.’

‘Is that where she is now?’

‘Yeah. She has a long shift today. They’re short staffed as usual. I had a long one yesterday, was called in on my day off, which is why I’m off today.’ His normally upbeat manner turns a bit glum. Fitting in overtime at work with helping at Trelak Farm and doing up the wreck of the house they live in is exhausting even for people as young and fit as they are. The dream is that eventually the new project will support all of them but they know the reality is years, even decades into the future. As if reading my mind Dave says, ‘We’re hoping that at least Marilyn can stop work at the hospital soon, or at least do loads less hours, but we’ll see. At least we’re back home, back in Cornwall. We’re luckier than most and we know it.’

I leave feeling quite cheered. The plight of young people in the county, as in other popular areas of England, is dire. The boom for second homes has put property prices way out of reach for those who were born here or those who live and work here. But Marilyn and Dave have found a way to come back, though it was a rare stroke of good fortune that enabled them to do it.

When I finish my round I go home, have a quick snack, change my clothes and go out to the allotment, but by the time I get there it is beginning to rain so I abandon the garden for today and stop at Poet’s Tenement. I still smile when I hear the name and amuse myself wondering who would be the most likely poet, Edna or Hector? Both would fit the role, if I remember my English Lit lessons correctly. Some of those long-ago poets, both male and female, were quite eccentric,
and some led spectacularly wild lives. I’m sure both the Humphreys had some bizarre experiences in their youth.

I have to knock hard on their old, swollen, wooden door that hasn’t shut properly for years. I’ve seen Hector nearly topple over backward onto the stony cobbled path as he’s pulled on it to get it open. That’s another thing I want to do, ask if I can sand the door so it opens and shuts properly.

Where are they? I’ve been standing out here for nearly five minutes now. It’s so much easier when they are outside in the afternoons on their bench, sunning themselves like skinny little lizards. I don’t like to intrude, especially on days like today when they don’t seem to hear me banging on the front door. There’s no bell and not even a knocker. I have to use my fist to make myself heard through the thick wood. Finally I resort to shouting. ‘Hello, anyone home? It’s Tessa here.’

I know they must be home. They always are. They don’t drive any more, they have their food shopping delivered to them from a supermarket and top up with goods from the village shop.

There is still no sound from inside the house. I shout again. Nothing. I don’t like to pry but what if one of them is ill or injured? I saw Hector’s panic when the cat was in the tree and he wasn’t even in danger. Would he completely lose it if Edna was hurt? I’ve heard of old folk sitting by the bodies of dead husbands and wives, not wanting to let them go and I shudder. I walk around the house trying to peer into the windows but the rain, gathering force, is belting against the panes and there are no lights on inside. Though it’s only about five o’clock and the days are long now, the sky is dark and stormy. I go back to the front door and bang on it one more time. When only silence and an increasing wind answer me, I realise I have to go in. I don’t really want to, especially as the house is starting to look creepy.

I pull myself together, remembering that the house was named after someone called Pote, or Pottes, or whatever, and it won’t be haunted by the ghosts of long-dead demented versifiers. I need to curb my imagination. I also need to get into the house. I know I can’t leave without making sure everything is all right. I’d never forgive myself if I left now and then find out tomorrow that a tragedy had occurred that I might have prevented. So I pull on the door, which is so swollen I have to yank it hard. As I do it suddenly flies open and like Hector, I nearly topple over on my back. I’m soaked by now but relieved to be inside. It’s odd that neither of them has heard me and I’m convinced something is terribly wrong.

I stand in the cavernous hallway with its piles of books and give one last shout, ‘Edna! Hector!’ Still no answer.

With trepidation I move through the house, nearly tripping on a stack of what look like ancient texts of some kind, and find my way through the dim semi-darkness to the kitchen. The door is half open and I call again, more softly this time. ‘Edna? Hector?’ I don’t want to frighten them.

Hector’s voice says, ‘Come in, maid. Since you’re in already.’

Edna says, ‘Is anything wrong, my dear? You look quite agitated.’

The couple are perfectly fine and calm. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, a beautifully carved ivory chess set between them. In front of the Aga sits the Venerable Bede who regards me suspiciously.

I stammer, ‘So sorry to interrupt. I knocked, and called out, and no one answered. I was afraid something was wrong.’

They both look genuinely puzzled. Hector says, ‘Whatever could be wrong?’

‘Are you ill?’ Edna asks, suddenly concerned. ‘Or is it the garden? The rabbits haven’t come back, have they?’

‘The hens? A fox hasn’t got into their pen, has it?’ And now
they are both standing up, offering me tea, a chair, fussing over me, sure that whatever it is, it’s an emergency they are prepared to deal with.

‘I’m fine, my garden is fine. I wouldn’t have barged in but when you didn’t answer my shouts and knocking I, uh, well I thought I’d better check for myself.’

Hector and Edna look at each other. She says, ‘Check what, dear?’ Her voice is not as warm as it was moments ago when they thought I was in some kind of trouble. I try to make my voice light, ‘Oh, just that everything was OK. And I see it is.’ I want desperately to change the subject. ‘I see you play chess. I never learned. Must be fascinating.’

Hector says, ‘It is, maid. Learned it in Peru, actually.’

Peru? That’s a new one. Without thinking I ask, ‘Really? When were you there?’ But of course they’ve clammed up again, acting as if they never heard my question.