Seagulls in the Attic (14 page)

Finally I lean back, feeling that I’m about to get a crick in my spine. This gardening lark is not good for backs and knees, I’ve discovered. I stretch up and find myself looking straight at Doug who for some reason has come back and is standing yet again at the garden gate. Cursing silently to myself, I try a bright cheery wave of my hand at him in greeting.

‘Back again, Doug? Are you working at the Humphreys’ today or over at the farm?’ I smile, a mad smile no doubt.

‘Loads of work to do here.’ I indicate with a sweep of my hand the whole expanse of my allotment. I am not going over
there to the gate; I am not getting involved in another conversation with that man.

I turn back to my plot but Doug’s voice carries across it loud and clear. ‘Well, my lover, so you be talking to your plants now, are ye?’ He roars with laughter then goes on, ‘So, you city lot think talking to plants can make ’em grow?’

‘Uh, yes. Yes, why not?’ I straighten up and look at him. I’ve made a rapid damage-control assessment in my head and have decided that being known as a weirdo who talks to her plants is a whole lot better than a complete nutter who talks to moles. ‘In fact,’ I go on. ‘My vegetables are going to be so big that I’m entering something in the Treverny autumn show this year.’

Now he really starts falling about with more wild guffaws. Honestly, that man laughs with his whole body: his legs tremble, his shoulders shake, his belly quivers and his jowls are rock ’n’ rollin’ with a life of their own. ‘Oh, my lover, you won’t stand a chance. ’Tis my very own parsnips that won the first prize for the biggest last year. As for my cabbages, this last three years in a row they took first prize as well. Try and beat that, my handsome.’

I know from Joe and Daphne that Doug has had a small allotment on their farm for years. He’s a bachelor, and at fifty-odd years, still lives with his mother in a tiny cottage at the edge of the village. He’s passionate about his garden, as are so many folk in our village. The annual harvest show is the big event of the year. The competition is fierce. There are prizes for every kind of vegetable, for various flowers and plants, and nearly everyone in the village strives all year for one of those awards. It never would have occurred to me to enter the fray if Doug hadn’t goaded me. Now, faced with his laughter, I’ve committed myself to something I’m not ready for.

But it’s too late now. I say merrily, ‘Well then, perhaps it’s
time someone else won for a change. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’ And turn to my garden, first giving him a jolly wave as he leans on the gate, chuckling to himself before he finally goes off, calling a huge ‘Cheerio then, my lover’, as if we were the best friends in Cornwall.

It’s not till late that afternoon that I get back to my hens. First I take Jake for a walk along Penwarren Beach, near to our home. The tide is in and there’s only a small expanse of sand where I throw a ball to Jake. When we’ve had enough of that game, we explore the bottom of the cliffs, Jake looking for interesting dead sea creatures and me for treasure. Not that I’ve ever found anything of value but the sea does wash up some odd things. I’ve found a tin box, rusted through, which when pried open at home revealed what could have once been a letter. I’ve also found a few lovely green and blue bottles, quite old, which I’ve cleaned and put on the bathroom windowsill.

As I wander I stare up at the cliffs. Here they are not granite but a kind of chestnut-coloured earth, quite crumbly, as once this was the bed of a great prehistoric river. They collapse frequently, which is a good thing to be aware of. When parts of the cliff fall they change the landscape yet again so that it’s never static but a changing organic entity.

Walking along I watch tiny crabs make holes in the wet sand as they dive beneath it. The beach is alive with life, not only in the water but on land and in the sky, with small sandpipers running along the water’s edge and the seagulls calling to each other above my head. A half dozen grebes are poking about in the shallows, their plump white breasts dazzling in the sunlight.

With reluctance I realise it’s time to go back to clean out the hens. I will leave Jake with Will and Amy as I can’t risk him chasing the Venerable Bede. I’m afraid the old cat would have a heart attack if he even saw our bouncy dog. Cleaning is not my favourite chicken job, in fact it’s horrid, but needs to be done. I take the side off their coop and muck out the straw, trying not to gag at the rather nasty, sweetish smell. It’s hard, back-breaking work. When the hen house is finally clean, I lay newspapers on the bottom and then straw. The hens gather around me when I finish as if thanking me, though I know they’re really after another handful of bread crusts. I’m so pleased that the job is done that I throw them an extra scoop of corn.

Something is missing, though. It’s not the first time I’ve thought of it. It’s a cockerel. Of course the hens don’t need one to lay regularly, but I’m sure they’d enjoy a male companion. I’ve already asked Edna and Hector if they’d mind a cockerel waking them up every morning and they’d replied that they’d love it.

‘It will remind us of that time when we stayed with those Buddhist monks,’ Edna had said to Hector, a gleam in her eye. ‘There was a little bantam cockerel outside our tiny wooden hut that crowed every morning at four o’clock. We loved it.’

‘But whatever kind you get for your hens, maid, it will be a joy to have at the Tenement.’

It’s time I got around to finding a cockerel, so next week will start checking the local newspaper as well as putting word out on my post round.

Dinner at Pete’s house that evening is a celebration, with more champagne, happy tears and wedding plans. To our surprise, Annie not only wants to get married in Cornwall, but intends to live here with Pete.

I’m flabbergasted. ‘Annie, that’s brilliant! My dearest friend permanently in Cornwall, I can’t believe it. But – what about your job?’

‘You know that I’ve not been wildly happy at the BBC for some months. I’ve wanted to move on from researching but nothing has come up. I have felt for a while that it’s time to move on. And what better move than this?’ she beams at Pete, her face luminous with joy.

‘But – Annie, you’re allergic to Cornwall.’

As soon as I realise what I’ve said we both burst out laughing. Annie had made that remark herself, ages ago when she first started visiting us here. She giggles, ‘Antihistamines are much more powerful these days.’ She takes Pete’s hand, ‘Anyway, I seem to be getting immune to things that used to set me off. I’m not nearly as bad as I used to be.’

We’ve just finished a scrumptious seafood risotto that Pete cooked for us and are lingering around the table in his small kitchen. I try to imagine Annie here, and somehow, seeing her go to his freezer, bring out some Cornish ice creams, get some dishes and spoons, I see how at ease she is with him. Seeing me watching her she says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find something to do down here. Didn’t you say there might be a vacancy for a postwoman?’

I do a double take until I see her grin and I realise she’s pulling my leg. She says, ‘You know, there are loads of authors
living in Cornwall, some quite well known, and I thought I could maybe hire myself out as a researcher for them. Do freelance work, and not just for authors. There’re loads of jobs I can do from home, including the odd contract for freelance work in London. I’ll find something.’

I know she will. When Annie is determined, she’s formidable.

Next day, Sunday, we leave our men and take a walk together on the beach, for some proper girlie talk. She tells me she wants to get married in the church at Creek, a beautiful old place at the mouth of the estuary looking out over the sea. Luckily Pete lives in a village nearby so he lives in the parish and it shouldn’t be a problem.

‘Just think,’ Annie sighs. ‘I’ll have this every day.’

We’re walking barefoot, making footprints in the wet sand. The tide is out and the sand stretches for miles. We amble along, picking up shells, examining pebbles and stones of all colours. I find a shiny brown one that looks exactly like one of my hen’s eggs and Annie pockets a delicate flat, pink, pearly stone which she says she’ll take home to remind her of this weekend.

With May and the Bank Holiday approaching the towns along the coast gear themselves up for the onslaught of the holiday-makers. St Geraint is buzzing as shops and cafés which have been either partly or completely shut suddenly throw open their doors and spruce themselves up. Windows are washed, faded paintwork touched up and the ferry that crosses everyday into Falmouth is clean and sparkling, ready for the crowds. Geoff and Millie buy a couple of new tables and a few chairs to put outside their tea house and bakery and the local Spar starts getting in the more exotic produce they know the second-homers will be wanting: tasty fresh olives from Greece, Spain
and Italy, fancy confectionery, loaves made of organic spelt wheat.

From early May the harbour comes alive as the boats go back into the water. With the sounds of the masts and stays clinking and clattering, the buoyant chattering of the boat owners, the sea birds gathering around with their young for titbits, the place is living and vital after the long dormant winter months.

Though the Treverny autumn show is still ages away, I find people are already talking about it. On my rounds I find myself telling everyone that I’m entering at least one of my vegetables in the show, after my rash statement to Doug. My reasoning is that if everyone knows, I can’t back out. I didn’t realise, though, just how competitive it is. I hear remarks like, ‘Oh, I heard tell that old Doug sat up all night for forty-eight hours before the last show, keeping an eye on his cabbage,’ and ‘Old Doug, he not be the only one keen to win. Half the village do live the whole year for that blue ribbon and if they don’t be getting it, well Lord help their families the rest of the year.’ Goodness, I hope I don’t get as competitive as some. I had enough of that working in the city.

Back at work, there’s been a change in our routine at the post office with one of our posties leaving and I’ve temporarily taken over a different round while things are being shifted about. I’ve done the round a few days now and I’ve become increasingly dissatisfied. It’s a long one and ends at a very steep hill which is a killer at the end of a postie’s day. It’s been done this way for years, and no one seems to remember what the reasoning was behind this pattern. I’m going to be doing it for a week and then a new postie will take over, so I figure maybe I should help the poor soul out before he or she gets here. So the next day, I do what should have been done in the first place – start with the hilly bit when I’m feeling fresh and fit
and leave the easier stretch of route for last. In other words, I do it the other way around, beginning at the end and ending at the usual beginning.

This works fine and not only do I have loads more energy, I’ve also made the round more efficient as it takes far less time. I’m feeling quite pleased with myself and am humming a little tune as I meet Susie going into the St Geraint post office.

‘What’s up, bird?’ Susie asks. ‘You look like my cat when she’s caught a mole.’

I wince at the mention of moles. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been bothered with them since the day Doug caught me talking to them. A coincidence or did they really listen? It’s something I’ll never know, for I’ll never be able to tell anyone, it’s far too embarrassing.

I say, ‘I’ve just rearranged today’s round. Much easier and much more efficient.’

Susie rolls her eyes, ‘Steady on, my bird. Folk around here don’t like changes much.’

I smile, thinking she’s teasing me. I’m feeling the old energy surge through me, my mind thinking up ways to be more organised. It must be spring, the sap rising and all that. I’m used to taking a problem and gnawing at it like a bone until I can find a solution. It’s what I did in London, not only what I got paid to do but what I had to, juggling job and family. I’m good at it I know, you have to be, to survive in the world I used to live in. I’m happier out of that world now, but still it has given me a buzz today, making this postal route much more efficient and energy-saving.

Margaret at the post office hardly waits until I’m through the door before she’s accosting me, ‘Tessa, thank goodness you’re back. You can sort out this mess.’

‘What mess?’

‘The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning, complaining about the post. The customers on your round today.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s the matter?’

Susie is looking sagely at me then exchanges a knowing look with Margaret. ‘Told you,’ Susie says under her breath. ‘Bet I know what the complaints were.’

Margaret is looking thoroughly fed up. ‘I’ve got no time for this, Tessa. Bad enough running the shop and post office single-handedly with the cutbacks and all, but having to answer the phone every five minutes to an irate or bemused customer is just too much.’

Out of the corner of my eye I see Harry come into the shop. He’s listening to this with an amused expression on his face.

I say, ‘Margaret, please just explain what the problem is. I still don’t know.’