Seagulls in the Attic (30 page)

His jowly face has turned bright red and I see he’s writhing with embarrassment. He’s a bachelor, I remember, still living with his mum though middle-aged, and I realise that other than her and Daphne, he probably doesn’t have much contact with women.

He’s mumbling on, ‘I mean, course you be a woman, but I wasn’t looking at you like that. I be staring at you because you’ve gone all green and twiggy.’

‘
What?
’ Now I’m disconcerted and it shifts the balance.

He’s no longer embarrassed but has regained his smug composure. I look down and see that I’m covered with grass stains, bits of foliage and quite a lot of moss stuck to my trousers and T-shirt. While Doug shakes his head and tuts as if I were some recalcitrant child, I put my hand to my hair and pull away bits of twigs and blades of grass.

Doug guffaws. ‘What you been up to, anyway? Even your face got a greenish tinge.’ He stares at me almost with admiration then repeats beguilingly, ‘C’mon, me lover, tell ole Dougie what you’ve been up to.’

I smile at him serenely, making no attempt to brush away the grass and debris. ‘I’m getting in practice, Doug, for Halloween. I’m dressing up as the Jolly Green Giant to go trick or treating with the children. D’you think I’ve got enough greenery on me or do I need more?’

He peers at me with a nod and a sombre look, and in that moment I know he believes me. I said it without thinking, as a joke, but he’s taken me seriously. ‘You need to wear something green too, y’know. To be authentic, like.’

Now I too solemnly nod, ‘Good point, Doug.’ As I say goodbye and skip off I’m thinking what a barmy thing to say. Now not only will Doug be telling everyone in the pub that the adult incomer is prancing about in a Halloween get-up two months early, but worse, come the time, it will be hard getting out of dressing up with Will and Amy if Doug has anything to do with it.

With all the summer activities, harvesting the vegetables and work, enjoying the beach with the family, snorkelling, crabbing and evening picnics on the shore, I don’t notice at first that Google Gull has disappeared. During the summer months with the long light evenings, often I’ve been in bed ages before darkness, even before twilight. When you get up at four, you need early nights, so I’ve been used to not seeing him before locking up for the night although he’s nearly always there in the morning. Suddenly I realise I’ve not seen him for over twenty-four hours, the longest he’s been away. It’s the lack of noise that alerts me. In the wee hours of the morning the dawn chorus contains no harsh seagull shrieks. He’s not back that day when I return from work. A consultation with Ben and the children reveals that no one has seen him in the last twenty-four hours.

Ben says, ‘Perhaps he’s found a mate and gone off with her.’

‘It’s the end of summer. Wouldn’t he have done that in spring?’

We don’t know. That day I start asking around. First I ask folk in the village if they’ve come across a sick or wounded gull anywhere. Somehow I can’t believe he’s just flown off without warning.

I end up at Joe and Daphne’s farm, standing by the field where the sheep are grazing. Patch comes bounding up for his usual nuzzle as I say, ‘I don’t mind if Google has flown off to live on the cliffs or with the other gulls, but I’d hate to think of him injured or ill. He could have got hit by a car; he’s fearless around vehicles. I’ve nearly run him over myself.’

Daphne says she’ll keep an eye out for Google, but Joe has gone quiet. His face is troubled, concerned. Daphne is about to say something more but he looks at her, shakes his head, an almost imperceptible gesture meant for her alone that I pick up.

‘What do you know, Joe? What is it you don’t want to tell me?’

He hesitates but I push him.

‘I don’t know if it was your seagull. It was a young one, still with its grey feathers, but huge as they are. This one was even bigger than usual.’

‘That’s him. He’s grown enormous. Where was he?’

‘You can’t be sure it was yours.’

‘Google has a red band around one of his claws.’

Joe looks away from me, not speaking.

I say, ‘You’ve seen him. Do you know where he is now?’

He hesitates so long I think he’s not going to answer, but finally he says, ‘He’s dead, Tessa. I’m sorry.’ He blurts the rest out quickly. ‘I shot him. I didn’t mean to, but I did.’

I’m so shocked I can’t speak. Daphne says, ‘Oh no. Was that the gull you told me about last night? The one attacking the ewe?’

‘I didn’t know it was Tessa’s gull. Not that it would have made any difference.’

I find my voice. ‘Not made a difference? I can’t believe you’re saying that.’ I’m struggling with tears. ‘What are you doing shooting a seagull anyway? Aren’t they a protected species?’

Joe shakes his head. I go on, the words tumbling out incoherently. ‘You shot him just because you think gulls are a bit of a nuisance, a bit troublesome, is that what happened? How can you? You farmers . . . ’ I can’t speak any more as the tears win, half grief, half fury.

Joe’s face has turned from concern to anger. ‘You’re talking just like some of the incomers from Up Country, the ones who move down here knowing bloody sod all about country life, the ones who think all farmers are alike, shooting everything that moves if we don’t like the look of it.’ He breaks off, puts his hand to his head in a gesture of both anger and helplessness. ‘D’you think I or any of the farmers around here would deliberately kill a seagull? God knows they’re a pest but I don’t go around killing things, Tessa, whatever you think. I got my shotgun out because I looked out over that field there and saw one of my ewes, a weak sick one lying on her side, being attacked by some gulls. Yes, and your bloody gull amongst them, though I didn’t know it then.’

He pauses, too upset to go on for a moment. I’m still too stunned to say another word. Joe goes on, more quietly now, ‘It happens, y’know. You haven’t a clue how vicious gulls can be sometimes; I’ve seen them peck the eyes out of a lamb when it wasn’t even dead yet.’ He presses his fingers to his eyes in a gesture of helplessness. ‘That’s why I ran for the gun. I wasn’t about to let them kill or maim my ewe.’

I stammer, ‘It couldn’t have been Google. He wouldn’t.’

Daphne intervenes, gently, ‘It’s a wild creature, Tessa. They always stay wild no matter how you try to tame them.’

‘But . . .’ I start crying again. ‘You didn’t have to kill it.’

Joe lets out an exasperated, frustrated sigh and says, ‘I wasn’t trying to bloody kill it. I hate killing things. God, Tessa, don’t you know me by now? I shot up in the air to scare them away and it was one of those one in a million fluke accidents that the shot hit your bird.’

Daphne confirms this. ‘Joe was ever so upset when he told me. And that was before we knew it was your gull.’

I’m struggling to take all this in, but finally I pull myself together and apologise to Joe for the things I said. I know he is not only a good farmer but a good man. When I try to tell him this he says brusquely, ‘Don’t go the opposite way and romanticise us farmers, Tessa. Much as I hate killing, I’d shoot at anything that was savaging my sheep, even a dog. I had a dog once, one I thought was a soppy Golden Retriever, but one night he got out with another dog and killed and savaged a ewe in lamb. Viciously, horribly. The farmer shot and killed my dog. I was heartbroken but I understood why he did it. I’d have done the same.’

I nod, not knowing what to say. The longer I live here, the more I’m learning about rural living, about the cruelty, too, of the nature I love. And I know I have to accept the harshness and pain of it as well as the idyllic bliss. Finally I say, ‘Where is he? My seagull?’

Joe looks miserable now and I finally realise how hard this is for him and how courageous of him to tell me. I’d never have known what had happened to our seagull otherwise. For a moment though I wish he hadn’t. I could have imagined Google Gull soaring the skies over the cliff tops and over the sea, free and light as the wind with the other gulls, but I know in my heart it wouldn’t have been that way. Instead I’d have fretted over the other scenario, Google run over, injured, dying slowly and painfully in a ditch somewhere. After all, he’d never
flown off for good before. Knowing was, after all, better than not knowing. Joe was right to tell me.

He says, ‘The gull is in the woods at the edge of the field where the sheep are. I saw it fall, saw it was dead, but had to leave it there as I needed to see to the ewe. I was going back there just as you came.’

‘Can I have him? I’d like to bury him in the garden.’

Which is what we do. We put Google in a cardboard box, have a small family ceremony, just me, Ben and the children. Joe dug the hole in the back garden; he said he wanted to, to make amends. I took Will and Amy down to the beach beforehand and they picked the best seashells they could find to adorn the grave, and some silvery luminous strands of seaweed to drape around the body. Laid to rest, Google looks every bit the splendid bird he was as he lies covered with all the treasures of the sea.

As each of us solemnly shovels dirt over his coffin, a tear or two falling, we hear a familiar raucous cry from the rooftop of our house. Three seagulls are perched there, two adult gulls and one young one the same size as the parents but with those unmistakeable grey feathers. They are watching us intently, making their haunting cries as we complete the burial.

Later, Will asks if I think they were Google’s friends. Amy says, ‘I think they were his mother, father and sister. Or maybe brother. We never did find out where Google came from.’

For days afterward, I can’t hear a seagull’s cry without feeling my eyes prick with tears. And then one day I make my way groggily down to the kitchen just as the dawn light is filtering through the darkness and as I look out the window I’m sure I see a seagull sitting on the old outdoor table. I blink, look again, and seem to see it soar away over the trees, towards the sea. It was probably a shadow, I say to myself. A trick of that iridescent morning light. But why should it be? Why not believe
in a little magic on this ancient stretch of ground renowned for its Celtic myths, its tales of enchantment and mystery. As I make my way to work, driving through silent roads, seeing the sea change colour as the sun works its way up the horizon, I decide to believe I saw the ghost of my beloved seagull, making one last visit to the home he was brought up in before finally flying away for ever over the sea.

It’s the day of the Treverny autumn show and the village is in a fever of excitement bordering on hysteria. This normally placid, easy-going village is seething with competitive spirit. It’s all in good fun, though, or rather I hope it is. It’s surprising how serious folk can get over a carrot.

The list of categories for the different produce are listed and studied by all. There are nearly two hundred of them along with numerous classes – vegetable, fruit, dairy, flowers and children’s among others. There are photography, art and floral arrangement competitions as well as cookery categories. I consider entering my damson jam into No. 76, the Jar of Jam (Any Kind) competition; I have had many compliments on it and it’s absolutely delicious, if I do say so myself. Then I remember all the stones in it, the ones I couldn’t get out, so I quickly discard that idea. Amy is going to enter her sunflower in the children’s flower competition, the Tallest Sunflower in the Show. She got some seeds out of a Beano comic of all
things and her sunflowers, growing proudly in the front garden, appear to be amongst the tallest in the village.

I have been pondering my leeks for some time, toying with the idea of entering them as to me they look absolutely perfect. I could enter the No. 9 category, Three Leeks (Trimmed). I look at the other vegetable categories to see if there’s anything else I can enter. I could do Three Round Beet (With Tops) or Two Garden Cabbage. Or Four Courgette. As my beets, though perfectly round, are small, I forget that idea and my cabbages are full of slug holes. My courgettes, though tasty and plentiful, are not the prettiest I have to admit.

I put down the catalogue, laughing at myself because my veg are for eating not for competing, except that I made that silly promise to Doug that I’d enter something. I’d hate not to keep it.

I’ve been preparing dinner while pondering the harvest fair and reading the brochure, and there staring me in the face is the answer to my dilemma.
A cucumber.
It is not any cucumber, it’s the strangest, most peculiar-looking cucumber I’ve ever seen, all twisty, lumpy and odd. Actually, thinking about it, nearly all my cucumbers are a bit peculiar.

Odd.
There’s a category for the Oddest Vegetable, probably invented for the likes of me who can’t grow perfectly shaped produce. I’ll enter one of my cucumbers. Honour will be satisfied.

I forget all about the Treverny show the next day when I’m delivering to one of the farms on my route and run into Pete, on his way out. We leave our respective vans to greet each other while the farm sheep dog barks frantically in tail-wagging welcome and the two white geese run about the place honking. We fuss over the dog and ignore the geese, which though loud are not aggressive, unlike some other geese on my rounds.