Seagulls in the Attic (19 page)

He’s in a rush so I hardly have time to thank him properly as he waves goodbye and jumps into his car, overalls and all. The goat bleats all the way back and I wonder if it’s homesick, or hungry. Dave threw some kind of feed in the van so at least it’ll be OK for tonight.

By the time I get home, Will and Amy are there to help me unload the goat and move it to the fenced-in patch of our back garden, transferring the straw from the van into the old chicken house. It’s clean and dry and should be fine for now.
The children are hopping with excitement, asking if we can keep it, and I must say I’m tempted, thinking of fresh milk, creamy goat cheese, rich goat yogurt.
Why not?
So what if I don’t know how to milk a nanny goat; I can learn, can’t I? I go up to the darling little thing, stroke its head as it lies quietly, resting after its harrowing day. It really is adorable. If the Rowlands can’t sell it because of the bad leg, why don’t we keep it? The old chicken house could be a perfect home for it. I’m getting more excited by the minute.

I’ve just about decided that a goat of my own to milk is an absolute necessity for this self-sufficient life when Daphne comes over with a batch of scones she’s made. I love her scones; they’re the lightest, fluffiest and tastiest I’ve ever eaten. Every week she bakes a batch for her family and an extra dozen for me, and in exchange I supply her with eggs as they no longer keep hens themselves. Often she throws in a pot of the rich thick clotted cream she actually makes herself, from their own milk. Daphne comes from a long line of Cornish farmers and has maintained a number of the old ways of doing things.

The goat is putting weight on her back leg now, though it still has a bad limp. It bleats at us both and wobbles over to investigate. I tell Daphne about my plans to keep it. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ I say. ‘Look at that tuft of fluff on top of its head. Oh, I’m in love with this creature already.’

Daphne doesn’t answer. She’s gone into the enclosure with the goat. I say anxiously, ‘Do you think the pen is all right? Plenty of room? It’s quite a good grassy area; the hens were happy here.’

‘It’s fine,’ Daphne bends down to examine the animal. ‘And the goat looks fine too; it’s obviously got over its shock. What I don’t quite understand is what you want with a goat. Don’t you have enough on your plate, with Ben away, your job, the
allotment? Not to mention this fellow here.’ We both look at Google who is perched on top of the hen house, or rather the goat house now, squawking for food. I have to give him a titbit to get him to pipe down.

‘I’ve always wanted a goat, Daphne, ever since last year when Emma and Martin Rowland started to get some in. This one is obviously meant for me, the way it happened, it getting out and me accidentally bumping it with the van. Besides, I was there when it was born, so I felt a connection with it from the start.’

Daphne doesn’t say that this is the dumbest thing she’s heard but her face betrays her. I try to explain further, ‘It’s not only that, it’s the practical side of it. I’m sure I can learn to milk a goat and Will and Amy should be able to as well. Think what a saving, never to have to buy dairy produce.’

She’s looking at me with a very odd look. I suppose it’s a bit ambitious, all my plans, so I say, ‘Oh I know it’ll take time, learning to make cheese and butter. I’m not silly enough to think it’ll be easy. But there’s plenty of time to learn.’

Now Daphne is shaking her head, ‘Tessa, hold on. Didn’t Martin tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘This kid isn’t a female, it’s a male.’

I stare at her in shock, ‘But – it can’t be.’

‘Didn’t you look?’

‘No, I didn’t think to look. I’ve hardly had time. I, oh dear, I guess I just assumed it was female.’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’

I think back over the day. I didn’t give anyone a chance to tell me anything; I was so upset about accidentally hitting it. I shake my head. ‘Whoops, goofed again. It just never once occurred to me that it wasn’t a female, I suppose because all the goats at Trelak are milkers.’ I ponder my mistake for a
moment. ‘Hm, so that’s why they were selling it, huh?’

Daphne nods. I go on, feeling dafter by the minute. ‘Well, I guess I won’t be making goat’s cheese and yogurt in the near future.’ Daphne is grinning like mad. ‘No, I suppose you won’t.’ She starts to laugh. So do I. ‘Anyway, Tessa, it was a crazy idea, believe me. I’ve kept goats before and they can be a right pain. It’s not that easy to learn to milk them either; it takes ages to learn to do it quickly and efficiently.’

I sigh. ‘You’re right. I’ll take it back tomorrow morning as planned.’

We go inside to have a scone and a cup of tea. Google wants to come in and we have to scuttle past him. After we’ve settled at the kitchen table I say, ‘It’s all for the best, anyway. I don’t have time right now to learn how to milk a goat, let alone make anything from the milk. I got carried away.’ I shake my head ruefully. ‘As I always do.’

She grins, ‘Don’t stop, getting carried away. We all think it’s delightful.’

I roll my eyes. ‘You mean the whole village likes a good laugh at my expense.’

‘Of course I don’t mean that,’ she laughs but I’m not so sure. Ah well, I think, it’s better to make the neighbours laugh than offend them.

When I take the goat back next morning, Marilyn and Dave are working, cutting back masses of overrun brambles at the side of their house. ‘What’s going to happen to the poor little thing then?’ I ask as Dave carries him into their front garden. ‘Is he still going to be sold?’

‘No, not now. Because he’s injured, the buyer doesn’t want him.’

‘But the vet says he’ll be fine in a day or two.’

Marilyn, who has been making a huge fuss over the kid, looks up. ‘I’m having him. We talked it over last night and
decided. We’ve got all sorts of overgrown places he can graze in, and a shed out back that will make a great house. I love goats, and have always wanted one, but we just don’t have time to start milking and all that.’ The goat bleats, demanding Marilyn’s attention again and she goes back to stroking him.

Dave says, ‘We never had a pet in Bristol and we can’t have a dog here yet, our working hours are too erratic, so this little billy goat will be perfect. Marilyn’s wanted some kind of a pet since we moved back to Cornwall, so she’s over the moon.’

I can see that. Marilyn finally gets up and comes over to thank me for taking the kid to the vet and adds, ‘That was the best thing you did, Tessa, knocking down that little billy goat. Do come visit him often, okay?’

I promise I will, and go over and scratch his head before I leave. He rubs his face against my hand endearingly. I can see why Marilyn was so keen to keep him.

That evening Annie says on the phone, ‘I can’t believe that you couldn’t tell the difference between a male and female goat.’

‘Could you?’

‘Probably not but then I don’t need to. Besides, I’d never be able to get near enough, I’d be sneezing, itching and swelling up like a balloon.’

‘Anyway of course I can tell the difference. As soon as Daphne mentioned it I could tell. I know it sounds bizarre but I just didn’t look. It all happened so quickly. I would have noticed once things calmed down. But that’s enough of goats, I’ve given up the idea of having one here. When are you coming down to Cornwall again? We’ve got loads of wedding plans to discuss.’

‘As if we’ve not been talking about it every minute we’re on the phone or together! Pete’s coming to London this weekend but I’ll be down the next. Oh I can’t wait until I’m there for
good. I still have to pinch myself to believe it’s all happening. Who’d have thought it?’

‘Listen, I think I’ve got a place for the reception, next time you’re down here we’ll have a look. It’s a small, elegant boutique hotel but with quite a large room. I know they sometimes rent it out for weddings and other big events. It’s central to the church and everything, and it’s not in a village or town but on a cliff top overlooking the sea. Spectacular.’

‘Sounds bliss. How did you find it?’

‘How else?’

‘One of your customers.’

‘Right. Someone who works there put me on to it.’

I give her the details so she can look it up online but I know she’ll love it; and I look forward to taking her to the charming hotel restaurant for lunch when she comes down so we can both have a nose around. But apparently that’s going to be sooner than I thought as she says, ‘Fantastic. Can we go Friday?’

‘But you’re working Friday. And Pete’s up in London this weekend, isn’t he? Aren’t you seeing some old friend who’s in town?’

‘That’s Saturday. I’ll come down on the train Friday morning and Pete and I will drive back the next day. And the hell with work – I’ve got loads of holiday due me and what better reason to take one than to see this hotel of yours?’

And so after delivering my round on Friday morning I rush home, change clothes, grab Jake, pick up Annie at the Truro train station, and we jump into Minger and head for the hotel. The weather is still overcast but it’s breaking up as we park in the gardens which are well maintained but not overly formal. The grass is sweet smelling after the rain and I wonder if it’s a camomile lawn. There’s a beech hedge edging the garden which will look lovely in October, the leaves beginning to turn yellow and gold. There are wrought-iron benches discreetly
placed near mature shrubbery and everywhere you walk, there is that stunning view of the sea. Today it’s churning but in a benign manner, as if tired of all its frantic stormy activity and is settling down for a time. There’s quite a breeze, and grey and white clouds scurry across the sky but the patches of blue in between are intense. ‘Like it so far?’ I ask Annie.

‘Fantastic. If the inside is as stunning as this, let’s book it here and now.’

It is. Exquisite Italian tiles on the corridor as you come in with a couple of elegant pots on the floor which each contain a young, healthy lemon tree. The furniture in the reception area is a mixture of comfortable antique and stylish contemporary. The manager who shows us around is charming without being smarmy, he’s obviously handled many weddings and understands exactly what we want. After showing us into the room where the reception will be held he tactfully leaves us alone to discuss it.

Annie is dancing around with excitement. ‘It’s perfect. Great size, and look at the view, that whole wall of windows facing the sea. Oh I can see us all here, all my friends, everyone, dancing and celebrating,’ in her enthusiasm she grabs me around the waist, begins to sing loudly, ‘Oh, how we danced, on the night we were wed . . .’ She draws out the ‘wed’ on a long melodic note as again we dance around the room. ‘Remember that song?’ she says as she sings it again. ‘My grandmother used to sing it to me when I was tiny, God knows why. I haven’t thought of it since then.’

We whirl and twirl around the room, bumping into tables and chairs, me joining in the song, humming and making up words. On one of the twirls I see the sophisticated manager peering through the door at us and I give him a little wave as Annie tries to end the dance with an intricate flourish and we both tumble onto the floor. The manager rushes over, tries to
help extract us from the heap of arms and legs while we’re breathless with the exertion and laughter.

Still on the floor Annie beams up at the manager, ‘I love this place. We’ll have it.’

Still suave, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, he smiles and invites us to his office. No doubt he’s seen it all before.

Later, I ask Annie what Pete thinks of it. I know he had a look yesterday as he was doing a soil test for a farmer nearby and was able to pop into the hotel. ‘Surely you’ve talked to Pete before booking it?’

She nods, ‘Last night, on the phone. He said it was fine, if that’s what I wanted.’

‘But what does he want?’

‘He opted for a good old-fashioned pub at first but he knows how much this means to me. And he agreed the location is fantastic. We’re coming to have a look together when he finishes work.’

I leave Annie at Pete’s house after a quick walk along the cliff path with Jake, who waited patiently in the car while we explored the hotel. She can’t wait for Pete to get home, shortly, to take him back to the hotel.

‘Tessa, thanks so much for finding this,’ she enthuses. ‘You’re a star.’ We kiss goodbye and plan a longer time together when she is next in Cornwall.

That evening I take Jake into the front garden for his last outing before bed. It’s a working day tomorrow and I need an early night as usual. It’s still quite light, and Google hasn’t bedded down yet. He hears Jake and me and flies out to join us, perching on top of the open door frame. Jake leaps up and tries to catch him but the seagull flaps his wing and makes excruciating noises at him. Google knows full well he’s a match for Jake any day. I’m sure the gull teases the dog deliberately.

As Google grows, I’m becoming more and more aware of our neighbours. We’re only a mile from the sea here and gulls have been a plague on this village for years. Though the problem is not as bad as it is for the seaside towns, the villagers here have had trouble with seagulls nesting in their roofs, tearing rubbish bins and even trying to get into compost bins. It wouldn’t be so bad if Google wasn’t so incredibly noisy. All seagulls are, but he seems to be more vocal than most, attracting attention to himself. The children think it’s because he wants to talk to us and is trying hard to make us understand what he’s saying.

I’m still surprised that he hasn’t flown away for good. He goes off for a few hours every day but then returns and seems content to hang around the house. Lately he’s taken to following me around the village, flying ahead of me and then hopping down in front, causing the rooks in the trees above to kick up a noisy fuss. They do this every time they see Google almost as if they’re wondering what this strange bird is doing in their village.

The other day when he was following me, Old Yeller, the ancient Labrador who walks himself around the village, tried in his lumbering way to take a look and sniff at Google but the gull squawked so loudly at the poor dog that Old Yeller went yelping away. I had to admonish my bird, tell him not be so bossy.