Seagulls in the Attic (22 page)

Before I go Mr Yelland asks me how his friend Mr Perkins is. ‘I heard he was poorly, Mrs Hainsworth,’ he tells me.

I saw Perkins yesterday so I was able to tell them that he’d quite recovered from the influenza he’d caught by spending the day in the garden without his hat on that morning when the weather turned into a chilly drizzle.

‘Oh, good,’ Mrs Yelland cries. ‘We were so worried about poor Mr Perkins. Do tell him we’re happy he’s fit again.’

I promise to pass on the message. It’s not the only one I had today. Several folk in Morranport asked me about Perkins as he used to live there before moving out into his rural cottage. Though Perkins has a phone, he’s too stubborn to use it, according to those who know him, so I’ve been relaying messages from a score of his old friends. Not only do I take the local newspaper to the Yellands but now also to a few others, mainly pensioners who are stranded in rural areas where there are no deliveries or any local transport. Many coped quite happily when there was a village shop or two nearby, but now so many shops have closed along with the post offices. We’re in constant fear that ours will too and Nell, predictably, is always warning me that dire changes are on the way. So far though, the St Geraint and Morranport post offices are safe.

And so I find myself delivering milk, fresh vegetables, bread and other items as I go about my rounds. I’m somewhat of a local oracle as well, I often feel, as I’m forever being asked about the weather, houses for sale in other villages, about incomers moving into the area and, of course, about people’s health. I like this aspect of my job enormously, it means it’s
never dull, and it gives me intimate contact with a whole range of people I’d never have met if I wasn’t a postie.

At Poldowe I’m hoping that Ginger will be in, as I’ve got a lettuce for her from my garden. I’ve not forgotten her kindness in giving me that packet of lettuce seeds when she heard my initial crop had been eaten. She’s in most of the time these days, unfortunately, as she’s been made redundant after the private dentist she worked for moved away. She had no luck finding another job either. She’s in her early fifties, with little education and no particular skills though I’ve heard from others that she’s a hard worker, honest and reliable.

I find her sitting on her front doorstep, smoking a roll-up and staring out into space. She looks dejected, not the usual feisty Ginger I’ve got to know lately. I’m sorry to interrupt her reverie but I’ve got post for her as well as the lettuce which she accepts with a quick nod of the head and a mumbled thanks, obviously touched by the gift and that I remembered the lettuce seeds.

‘Have a seat,’ she says, indicating the stone step. ‘Want a rolly?’

I decline the cigarette but can’t resist the little suntrap that is her front doorstep. Even the stones are warm and I feel the heat through my shorts as I sit down. ‘Any luck with a job?’ I ask.

‘Nah, not a thing. Every one I’ve tried, you can tell they’re looking for someone younger, or someone with more experience than I have. Seems even receptionists need a degree these days. Don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

I commiserate. Before I got my job with the Royal Mail, Ben and I were in the same position, applying for all sorts of jobs and never getting a look-in. For many we were considered over-rather than under-qualified, which was just as frustrating. I can only wish Ginger good luck as I start to get up.

Unusually for her she’s in a talking mood. Ginger usually keeps herself to herself not just with me but with the locals
that she’s known all her life. She’s well liked though. The villagers know she’s been flat out raising the three boys on her own and having to earn a living besides, and she’s never complained.

Now she says, ‘I suppose there’s nothing for it except to sell up.’

‘You mean your house? This house?’

‘Yep. Don’t like to, mind, but what’s the choice? It’s worth a pretty packet, y’know. I was gobsmacked when I heard what the house just down the road went for, and it weren’t half as big as mine.’ The thought doesn’t make her happy and she sighs, puts the end of the roll-up in the lid of a clean mayonnaise jar she digs out of her pocket.

She’s right about the house here in Poldowe, a short walk down the side of the cliff to the sea, close to Morranport and only a few short miles from St Geraint. She could get a fortune for it from either an incomer desperate to move down here or, more likely a second-homer.

‘What would you do?’ I ask.

She doesn’t answer for a moment as a young mother is walking past, her newborn in a pram. She stops, obviously wanting her baby to be admired, which we take time out to do. The mother seems to know Ginger quite well and they exchange a few pleasantries.

When she’s gone Ginger says, ‘She lives with her mum, just up the road, and the babe’s dad, a nice enough guy. Known them all my life, good people. House a bit crowded though these days. It’s telling on them.’

For a moment I think how, if Ginger sells up, the young couple can buy her house and everyone will live happily ever after. Until I remember they’d never in a million years be able to afford it. Bringing myself back to earth I say to Ginger, ‘Where will you go, if you sell this place?’

She waves to an elderly man and woman walking by, the man with a severe limp. I wave too. They’re both customers and ones I take a bagful of fresh-baked saffron cakes once a week from Baxter’s shop as they can’t get in there themselves.

Ginger shrugs. ‘I’ll probably have to move to Truro, get a flat there, something small. Put the rest of the money in the post office and make sure it sees me out.’

‘Do you really want to live in a flat? And in town?’

She’s been looking out over the village and towards the sea in the distance, but now she turns to face me, ‘Course not. I’ve lived in Poldowe all me life, came here when we were married. Buried my husband here down there in the churchyard.’ We both look over to the old church that stands sentinel in the middle of the village. She goes on, ‘I know all the folk around here, the locals that is, though there not be many of us around these days. But the ones that are, well, they’re family, y’know? I might not see them loads but I know they’re there. Just like they know I’m here. That’s enough.’

I tell her that I hope it doesn’t come to that, but she’s resigned. She’s thinking of going to the estate agent in the next week or so to get things rolling.

As I leave she says, ‘Look, you couldn’t do me a favour, could you? Sort of keep a lookout for one-bedroom flats, either in Truro or anywhere for that matter. You might hear of someone wanting to sell.’

I assure her I’ll keep my ears open and let her know. I go, looking back once to wave and seeing her still sitting on the front step, arms wrapped around her knees, face pensive, looking out over the village that she’ll soon have to leave.

One of my last deliveries is to the village of Creek and after I’ve finished my round there I wander around the gardens of
the thirteenth-century church, thinking about Annie and Pete getting married here in just a few months. The church is built on a tidal creek and when the tide is in, the church perches practically right on the edge of the water. When it’s out, though, there’s just a vast expanse of estuary mud. I make a mental note to make sure the tide is full before they decide the time of the wedding.

It’s such a perfect day that I decide to wander around the church gardens. There are wonderful little paths meandering around small streams and tiny ponds and through the most magnificent display of plants and flowers. The vegetation is quite tropical, with exotic shrubs as well as more familiar ones. Over the past few months the gardens have been bursting with camellias, azaleas, wild garlic and bluebells, lilies, fuchsias and hydrangeas. There are also clusters of bamboo and giant gunnera plants dotted about. It must be one of the most enchanting gardens in Cornwall.

Sitting on one of the wooden benches, I think about the coming wedding. Annie has made another flying visit and we had a hilarious time checking out all the guest houses, B&Bs and hotels within a reasonable radius of both church and reception. I knew of some good ones through my customers, but because my round didn’t extend as far as the hotel, I had the addresses of some unknown places. Some were brilliant, as well run as Trelak Farm which is on the list, but others were definitely not on. There was the elderly couple from Up Country who had run a guest house in Brighton before moving to Cornwall some years ago.

‘We had to leave,’ the woman confided to us in a whispery hiss as she showed us the bedrooms. ‘You wouldn’t believe the unnatural sort that Brighton attracts these days. The people we had to turn away.’

Her husband, joining us, added, ‘In our day, only decent
married folk stayed at our guest house. Now it’s hard to tell who’s who sometimes.’

The wife nodded her head at Annie, ‘But you look the respectable sort. I’m sure the friends who come to your wedding will be too.’

Annie and I tried to keep straight faces as we looked at the rooms which though clean and decently furnished, were definitely
not
going on the list to be sent with the wedding invitations.

We finally compiled a list of decent places, their various prices, email addresses and phone numbers. There were a couple of other definite nos though and I’m glad we checked them out before recommending them. One was straight out of a much earlier generation of B&Bs, with nylon sheets and scratchy-looking blankets; the other had a couple of vicious-looking mongrel dogs fenced in that didn’t stop barking the entire time we were looking around.

On the way home from Creek I drive through Poldowe and my thoughts turn from wedding plans to my customers, especially Ginger. She seemed so defeated; I’ve never seen her like that before. I’ll ask all my customers if they know of anyone with a small property to sell; perhaps with the money she gets for her well-situated house, she could find not just a flat but a tiny house in a less sought after area. But then she needs a job, so maybe Truro would be best and there’s no way she’d be able to afford a house there.

At home a raucous noise pulls me from my reverie. Google is crying for attention outside the kitchen door. I go outside with some bread crusts which he grabs from my fingers.

‘Steady on, you, watch that beak,’ I say warningly. ‘Learn some manners, you daft seagull.’ He looks me straight in the eye, screeches loudly then flies off, no doubt to annoy the neighbours.

Someone mentioned the other day that having a seagull hanging around frightened away all the thrushes, ‘Which is most unfortunate, don’t you agree?’

Of course I did agree that it was unfortunate. Owning a pet seagull is not conducive to fitting in with community life here in Cornwall. The good relations I’ve had with the locals is being threatened. Google also has been stealing the cat food that a neighbour puts outside for his three cats. Another neighbour had her black rubbish bag torn open.

It’s a worry, but what can I do? I’m very fond of our seagull, we all are, and I can’t just turf him out. Knowing there’s absolutely nothing I can do about the problem, I decide to let it go. Google has come to live with us, shows no sign of moving on, so somehow the village will adapt to having a seagull resident here. I’m sure it’ll all work out. Things have a habit of doing so, if we’re patient and wait long enough.

Perkins is laid up again. Having got over his influenza, he’s now suffering badly with arthritis and when I deliver to him I have loads of messages as well as baked goods, homemade bread and a tureen of soup from my other customers. Though he’s not as old as many on my round who live alone (his wife died years ago), Perkins has always been in poor health, enduring a bad hip which he refuses to have replaced, a shoulder frozen with arthritis and various pains in his knees and other joints. He’s always seemed happy and active enough despite this, pottering in his garden, occasionally being visited by the Yellands on their once-a-week jaunt in their immaculate, ancient car. Not a driver, Perkins gets lifts with neighbours to do his weekly shop. The retired headmistress who lives in the cottage next to Perkins drove him about, but a long-standing feud over a beech tree on the boundary of their two properties finally escalated into total warfare and they no longer speak to each
other. I’d love to encourage them to make amends but I learned long ago that getting involved in any rural feud is a huge nogo area. It’s a shame, as the two cottages are on their own and the next neighbour is quite some distance away.

Perkins has been confined to an armchair in his large kitchen, beside what must be one of the very first creamy Aga cookers, which is pumping out heat despite the warm weather. He can hobble about but you can tell he’s in agony. Before I go down his short drive, I put the post in Eleanor Gibland’s plastic container at the head of her property. She’s the neighbouring headmistress, now retired, the same one who fell out with Susie. Susie was quite rightly trying to stop Eleanor from destroying the beech tree on Perkins’ property, which she was determined to do because the branches overhung her green-house and kept away the sun.

Fortunately the beech tree is still standing. I admire it for a few moments, those pale coppery new leaves shimmering in the sunlight and I’m bowled over by the beautiful blue agapanthus flowers that grow wild around here. I have to tear myself away from standing there doing nothing but stare and make my way to the kitchen door where, as arranged, I let myself in. Since Perkins has been poorly I usually leave all the offerings of food on the table, give him the verbal messages for a speedy recovery, and take time for a little chat before I go.

This time there’s no answer as I call out from the door, something I always do to warn him I’m coming in. At first I’m heartened by this, thinking it means he’s better, up and about somewhere, and doesn’t hear me, but then I get a shock. Perkins is slumped on the floor not far from his chair, not moving, not talking.

Terrified, I rush to him, and thank God he’s alive, but barely conscious. He tries to speak but the effort is too much and he
closes his eyes again. Cursing that I have no mobile signal in this area, I grab Perkins’ phone from the kitchen dresser but that seems to be totally useless and I can’t even get a dialling tone. Rushing out of the house I jump over the low fence that separates Perkins’ house from Eleanor Gibland’s, finding her in her garden.