Seagulls in the Attic (31 page)

I say to Pete, ‘You’re not a secret postman, are you? Delivering mail on the sly?’

‘Not likely. One postie in the family is enough.’ I’m so overcome by this remark, including me in the extended family, that I give him an impulsive hug. He gives me a big bear hug back and as we break apart, I see the farmer and his wife staring open mouthed at us from the front door.

I wave merrily at them, rush over with the post and say, ‘Isn’t it lovely? Pete is marrying my very best friend.’

I tootle off with another jolly wave to find Pete waiting for me at our vans, shaking his head, but with a grin on his face. ‘Well that was great, Tessa. I’ll now be put down as a bounder who snogs the postie while engaged to her best friend.’ The geese begin raucously honking again, as if confirming this.

‘Oh dear. Ah well, I’ll put it right next time.’

He rolls his eyes in mock despair. ‘No, don’t, just leave everything be.’

‘You haven’t told me what you’re doing here. I thought you were working.’ I’m tickling the dog’s tummy as we speak, give him one of the biscuits I keep in my van.

‘This
is
working. Part of my job is to visit farmers to see if they need anything for their animals or land. I just tested the soil on one of the farms here for a lime deficiency.’ He too makes a fuss of the black and white dog which is nuzzling me for more treats.

We talk a few more minutes and I mention some more wedding plans Annie told me about on the phone last night. ‘And when she’s here this weekend, she wants to go over the menu again for the reception, the drinks and food, plus some other stuff you’ve got to decide.’

Pete, who has been looking quite boyish and jovial, suddenly changes demeanour. His body language is now tense and
strained. When he doesn’t speak I say, ‘What is it? Annie
is
coming this weekend, isn’t she?’

He nods, ‘Look, Tessa, I’d better get on.’

I’ve known Pete now for some time. Since Annie met him, well over a year ago, I’ve seen him not only with her, but on our own, stopping for a quick coffee when we’ve met in St Geraint, inviting him over for meals now and again with Ben and the children. I like him more and more each time we meet; he’s open, honest and there’s certainly something bothering him today.

So I stop him before he gets into his van. ‘Pete, it’s none of my business, but as soon as I mentioned Annie and the wedding, you froze. Is something wrong, and if there is, do you want to talk about it? Tell me to buzz off if you don’t, I won’t be offended.’

He turns back to me and I drop my hand from his shoulder. I’m aware, and no doubt he is too, of the farmer now ambling out towards his milking parlour but practically walking backwards to gape at us and his wife throwing some corn to the geese but also staring surreptitiously.

Pete says, ‘We’re not far from Creek and I’ve got to see a farmer near there now but if you’ve got time we could talk after that?’

I agree to meet him at the estuary in about half an hour. I often stop at Creek anyway, sitting on the sea wall to eat my lunch, so it’s perfect timing for me.

He’s there when I arrive, watching an oyster catcher walking along the edge of the water, making little claw marks on the shiny, wet sand. The tide is at the halfway mark and a few old boats bob about in the tiny harbour. A cormorant perches on a rock, still as a statue, looking out to sea. Pete comes over to the sea wall where I’ve perched and sits down as well. He doesn’t speak for a few moments.

Finally, I break the silence. ‘Pete, you’re not having second thoughts, are you? About this wedding? About Annie?’ I hate saying the words but I can tell he needs to talk. My heart sinks as I think how heartbroken Annie will be if this falls through. I know how much she loves him.

All my worse fears are confirmed when he says, ‘I guess I am.’ Then he looks at my stricken face and says quickly, ‘Oh not about Annie, never. God, she’s the best thing that’s every happened to me. No, it’s this damn wedding. I’m growing to hate the thing before we’ve even had it.’

‘Have you talked to Annie about it?’

‘How can I? All these plans . . .’

He begins to talk then, haltingly at first then faster as his thoughts formulate. ‘You know this isn’t my first marriage. Maybe if it were I wouldn’t mind so much, but a second time around . . .’ He breaks off then goes on, ‘It seems wrong somehow. And all this fancy stuff, the London make-up artist, the posh invitations, the fancy reception at that fancy hotel. It’s not
me
, it’s not my family, not the way I live.’ He looks at me, his face pained. ‘I wish we could have a simple exchange of vows, with a few close friends and family, then a drink and maybe a bite to eat at a pub afterwards. Not all this fuss.’

The cormorant suddenly dives into the water after a fish and the splash it makes silences us for a few moments. Then I say, ‘Pete, you’ve got to tell Annie. You can’t keep this in, you’ll resent it more every day. Talk to her tomorrow when she comes down.’

For the next twenty-four hours I brood on what Pete said. As I deliver my morning rounds my mind races, wishing Annie had been more receptive to Pete’s feelings, then wishing Pete had been honest with Annie instead of letting his resentment build, and finally berating myself for not seeing the signs earlier.

My worst fears are confirmed when I get home. Annie is
sitting in the kitchen with Ben, crying her eyes out. Ben looks so relieved to see me, scuttling away quickly to leave us alone, that I know it’s not good.

I ply her with tissues, hug her and try to comfort her until the sobbing stops and she can talk coherently. ‘It’s over, it’s finished. The wedding is off.’

I murmur some banal words to the effect that it can’t be, I’m sure they’ll sort it out. Annie goes on, ‘Pete said he’d talked to you. I’m glad he did, he might never have told me otherwise.’

There is a commotion at the door and Ben says, ‘Pete’s here,’ at the same time as the two men walk in.

Pete rushes to Annie, ‘Why did you drive off like that? I didn’t know where the hell you’d gone.’

Annie sobs, ‘Go away. Just leave. It’s best we don’t see each other.’

‘What’re you talking about? Annie, be sensible. It’s just a bloody wedding; we’ve got the rest of our lives.’

‘Go away!’ she’s starting to sound hysterical so Ben says, ‘Look, Pete, leave her to Tessa until she calms down, then you can talk.’ He steers a bewildered Pete into the living room.

Annie, still in tears, tells me that she’s driving back to London as soon as she stops crying. Luckily she drove down this time, she gulps, but could I do her a favour next week and gather all her stuff still at Pete’s and send it up to her?

I say, ‘Annie, this is crazy. Just because he doesn’t want a great big fancy wedding is no reason to break everything off. Can’t you compromise somehow?’

She looks up at me with swollen eyes. ‘You don’t understand. Pete’s agreed to the wedding. He told me how he felt, and I understood, I really did.’

‘I hope you told him that.’

‘Of course I did. I was so sorry for not realising before.
Then I told him I’d always wanted a big proper wedding, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me. And he understood. Said he was being selfish and of course we’ll have the wedding and he won’t mind at all now we’ve talked about it.’

I stare at her as she begins to cry again. Ben creeps into the kitchen trying not to be seen, grabs the coffee pot from the counter and two cups, then dashes out again. Before he disappears we look at each other and roll our eyes.

‘Annie,’ I say, ‘What’s the problem? You’ve talked, you both understand each other now, and Pete is happy for the wedding to go ahead as planned. What are you talking about going back to London for?’

It all comes rushing out in a gush of sporadic words, tears and a fair amount of tissues. Annie has realised, by this conflict over the wedding, that she and Pete are worlds apart, that their lives and backgrounds are too different to be compatible, that she’ll always be a Londoner and Pete an agriculturalist and never the twain shall meet. She goes on in this vein for nearly an hour, going over the same things again and again while I ply her with coffee and more tissues, trying to make her see sense. In the meantime Ben whisks Pete away, ‘for a walk’, he says, but no doubt he’ll take Pete to the local pub and give him a stiff drink or two. Annie still won’t let Pete near her.

‘Annie,’ I say finally. ‘Does Pete agree with this? That you’re incompatible?’

It appears he doesn’t, as I knew, of course. As is obvious, the way Pete has followed her here and is trying to talk to her.

Annie says, ‘That’s why it’s up to me, you see? One of us has got to see clearly.’

I try to tell her that she’s the one not being lucid. Long before she and Pete got engaged, they talked about her leaving London, about the life they both wanted to live in Cornwall. Despite their superficial differences, Annie and Pete share a
similar core of values and that’s the important thing, as I remind her now.

She won’t hear it. I’m about to despair when Pete and Ben come back. Annie tries to retreat to the bathroom but Pete firmly takes her arm, tells her she owes it to him to talk to him before flying back to London, and settles down with her at the kitchen table as she refuses to go back to his house.

Now it’s Ben and my turn to leave. ‘Thank goodness Will and Amy aren’t home,’ I mutter as we call Jake and take off towards the nearby beech woodland for a walk. Ben and I take off our sandals, paddling in the creek with Jake who chases sticks and races madly about, delighted to be here even though he’s already had a long walk with Ben while I was working.

When we get back, Annie’s car is gone, as is Pete’s. ‘Oh hell,’ I mutter, ‘She’s gone back to London.’

But there’s a note on the table. It’s from Annie, saying that she and Pete have thrashed it out, that all is fine, the marriage is on, the wedding’s on, that God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world. Well, she didn’t write that last bit but that’s what the note implied. Pete had added a postscript, apologising for descending on us so dramatically and adding they hoped it was OK if they came to us for dinner that night as planned.

Which they do. Both looking gloriously, madly in love. Pete is fine about the wedding now that he knows how much it means to Annie, and Annie is overwhelmed with love and gratitude for his understanding. We end up having a hilarious night, all of us flicking through hymn books and searching the Internet trying to decide what songs to have at the wedding, falling about laughing as we belt out ‘Jerusalem’ at the top of our lungs.

Now that that traumatic weekend is over, my thoughts turn to the autumn show again, as everyone in the village is talking
about it. The locals have been checking up on other people’s gardens for days trying to see how they are faring. I must say it’s catching, for I find myself peering into the odd vegetable patch alongside the lanes to see if I can spot a weird-looking cucumber.

I start fantasising about entering a proper vegetable next year. Maybe potatoes? There are four categories: Four Round Potatoes (White); Four Kidney Potatoes (White); Four Coloured Potatoes (Round); and Four Coloured Potatoes (Kidney). There are no categories for Potatoes With Slug Holes. Perhaps I should suggest it to the committee for next year’s show.

The event takes place in the village hall where long trestle tables are set up, covered with pristine white cloths. The produce and other items have to be delivered in the morning, and I’m amused to note a kind of military air about the place, a buzz and alertness as if waiting for the moment of victory. All morning long there are people, mostly men I’ve noticed, marching up to the village hall carrying huge parsnips, turnips, onions and other produce. They carry them as if they were a cross between a precious infant and an explosive, holding their prizes slightly away from their bodies as if not wanting to tarnish the cleaned and polished vegetables by contact with a pullover or jacket. As they march through the village they glance furtively at their rivals, checking out whether some other man’s turnip might be bigger than theirs. You can feel the testosterone driving them on. I can’t help smiling, feeling like I’m in an Agatha Christie thriller, and I invent titles as I watch like, ‘Murder on the Allotment Express’ or ‘The Case of the Missing Cabbages’. I can see Hercule Poirot finding clues amongst the courgettes, or better still Miss Marple. In fact I can see someone just like her, carrying a basket with fresh eggs into the village hall. Miss Marple, ordinary villager, will be the one to solve ‘The Mystery of the Poisoned Parsnip’.

I try out my little joke about Miss Marple to Doug who is on his way back from delivering his entries and I’m severely reprimanded. ‘’Tis no laughing matter, my lover. Growing stuff is a serious business, not for the likes of folk who laugh.’

Oh dear. Suitably chastised, I bring my ugliest, funniest cucumber and hand it in to the organisers who will arrange the produce for display after everything has been given in.

When it’s all set up I and the children, alongside just about everyone else in the village, go in to look. The first thing I’m struck by is the weird symmetry of the displays. The vegetables and fruit look unreal; they’ve been cleaned, washed and polished so that they look nothing like my produce ever looked. Most are in groups of threes and I see that they are all not only large but uniform in size. There’s not a nobbly parsnip in sight, nor a smallish beetroot or a lettuce with even the slightest hole or blemish. There’s no room here for wonky organic carrots or uneven sets of onions or crooked runner beans. Doug wasn’t kidding when he said folk took their vegetables seriously.

We move over to the parsnips, which are long, straight and perfect. ‘The winners will have grown them in lengths of drainpipes, to get them like that,’ Daphne says.

‘You’re joking.’

‘Not at all. I’ve seen Doug do it and he’s not the only one. He also sieves the soil very finely for them.’

I’m learning about a type of garden totally alien to the way I work. This seems to me more like controlling nature rather than just letting it all grow as it comes. It’s only when we get to the ‘Oddest Vegetable’ category that I see produce which has a similarity to my own. Here there are carrots shaped like half moons, parsnips with legs and arms sticking out and all sorts of weird shapes and sizes of every kind of vegetable. I’m proud of my cucumber; it looks at home here.