Seagulls in the Attic (5 page)

I stand up straight, trying to get back at least some shred of dignity. ‘The kind of fleece you’re talking about costs money, Doug, and mine was free. It might not be the right kind but it’s wool and it’s warm, and hopefully it’ll do at least some good in protecting my peas.’

He looks at me and shakes his head, rolls his eyes. ‘Right you are, my lover, whatever you say. And good luck to you.’

He ambles off down the lane while I turn back to the allotment. Whatever Doug or Susie say, the cobwebs of swirling virgin wool does look lovely draped over the deep, rich, glorious Cornish soil.

It’s hard to tear myself away from my new project to go to work, but of course I must. Eddie has recovered from his bout of flu and we’re all more or less back to normal. With the clocks going forward the day seems even longer, though the mornings are slower to lighten. I’m still overwhelmed by the amount of light in Cornwall. In London, it seemed that the buildings, the crowded streets, the crammed nature of the city, made it hard for light to penetrate. And when it did, I was often unaware of it. Living inside, in offices and the underground, coming home when dark or nearly dark, I was completely out of touch with light and air and sky.

Here, though, it’s totally the opposite. Even on grey overcast days there is a sheen of light I never noticed before. It changes every hour, too. Sometimes it’s silvery grey and silky, like the sky just before a misty dawn, or a deep velvety grey like the sea before a squall. Often when there’s a storm brewing, there’s an eerie yellow tinge everywhere, highlighting the trees
and countryside in a sulphurous light before the storm actually descends and the light turns a rich plum purple.

This morning, though, there are few clouds, no mist, and an amazing sunrise. The colours of the sky seem to be competing with the colours of the flowering trees and bushes, and I find myself singing out loud with the sheer beauty of it all. There’s not another car on the road as I drive along the main road out of Morranport, and certainly nothing on the narrow lane going up to a tiny cottage belonging to the Yellands, a Cornish couple who used to live in Falmouth. Mr Yelland worked as manager in a shop in Falmouth, as he told me once, but when they realised how much they could get for their house in town, which they’d lived in for forty years, they sold up and Mr Yelland took early retirement. ‘The wife can support me now,’ he said as he told me this but when I asked what she did, they both roared with laughter as if I’d said the funniest thing in the world. Mr Yelland, it transpired, doesn’t believe in a wife of his going out to work; it would be ‘demeaning’ he told me once. Mrs Yelland, neat permed grey hair, a tidy face and body, wearing a clean apron over her flowery house dress, obviously agreed, as she beamed at her husband. As far as I can see, she cooks, cleans, waits on Mr Yelland hand and foot while he enjoys his retirement, with the local paper and an old pipe that I rarely see alight but that is always wobbling in the side of his mouth.

As I jump out of my van, parked by a tiny creek on the Yellands’ property, I see a mass of hawthorn shoots growing near the gate to their garden. On the other side, there are dandelions. I can’t resist; I begin to pick. For some reason I leaped out of the van with my empty postie bag still on my shoulder, though I’m carrying the single letter for the Yellands in my hand. Putting the letter on the stone gatepost, I thrust the shoots and young dandelion leaves into my postbag.

Luckily I remember to grab the letter as I go through the little gate leading into the garden. And there, growing wild in front of the Yellands’ flower borders, is what I’m sure is garlic mustard. But is it? My book says it comes out in April, but then it’s nearly April now, and anyway everything comes early in south Cornwall.

I’ve been dying to find this plant, which is supposed to grow profusely all over the English countryside. It’s called garlic mustard because the leaves, when crushed, give off a garlicky smell and taste. Could this be it? I’m so thrilled that I kneel down on the grass, still damp with dew, to take a closer look. Plucking a few of the pale green leaves, I crush one, smell, taste – yes, it definitely is mustard garlic! I grab a handful, stuff it in my bag, and shuffle over, still on my hands and knees, to another patch further down.

‘Mrs Hainsworth, are you all right? Have you fallen?’ I look up to see Mr Yelland staring down at me. From this angle his face, pale and completely round, looks like the moon. His silver hair, smooth and flattened to the side with a nifty part, gleams like moonbeams.

I scramble up quickly. ‘Uh, no, I’m fine. I was just, uh, admiring your roses.’

For the life of me I don’t know why I said that. True, there is a rose bush by the gate, and true I have noticed it in the past, particularly last summer when the Yellands first moved in and it was in bloom. But it’s not in bloom now and in fact looks rather stark at this moment in time.

Mr Yelland looks at me, his bland moon face expressionless. I look back at him, for once at a complete loss for words. Then he looks down. So do I. Because of the mild weather I’ve worn my baggie, official Royal Mail shorts. Is this what he’s staring at? Or is it my knees, black and filthy with mud from his garden?

‘Ha ha,’ I trill, finding my voice at last. ‘Didn’t realise the ground was still so wet.’

We both turn our gazes to the ground, shaking our heads. I suddenly remember his letter, thrust in the pocket of my shorts, and hand it to him. He doesn’t even look at it. ‘Mrs Hainsworth,’ he says politely. ‘There are no roses.’

Now we both look at the rather naked-looking rose bush. I say, ‘I realise that, but there will be soon. Look at all the buds.’

By then Mrs Yelland has joined us. ‘Is she all right, dear?’ she says to her husband. ‘Oh Mrs Hainsworth, look at your knees! Did you fall?’

‘No, no. I’m fine. Just a bit dirty.’ I give a another little trill of laughter as I brush my knees nonchalantly, as if it’s no big deal for a postie to be scrabbling on hands and knees in a customer’s garden.

Mr Yelland says, ‘Mrs Hainsworth was admiring our rose bush.’

‘Oh, are you interested in roses? Mr Yelland is, always has been. Oh, how happy he’ll be that he has another rose lover to talk to.’

I can’t get over how Mrs Yelland always calls her husband Mr Yelland. I stifle a giggle, wondering how Ben would react if I began calling him Mr Hainsworth. He’d probably love it. Maybe he’ll start asking the children to address him as Sir.

My knowledge of roses is zilch so I try to come clean. ‘Uh, actually, I was also looking at those leaves on the other side of the rose bush. They look like garlic mustard. Supposed to be great for cooking.’ I want to confess that I’ve picked a bunch of them and they’re now in my post bag but I’m too embarrassed. I can’t believe I forgot I was on someone’s private property when I started foraging. I do manage to mutter, ‘I’m afraid I picked a few leaves. Sorry, I should have asked.’

Mr Yelland smiles expansively which makes his face rounder than ever. It looks odd somehow, naked. I realise his pipe isn’t in his mouth. Seeing me kneeling by his rose bush must have sent him rushing outside without it. Perhaps he thought I was worshipping it.

‘Now, is that so, my maid? Well, we can’t begrudge our postie a leaf or two now can we, Mrs Yelland.’ He stoops down and in a larger-than-life gesture, plucks a couple of leaves of the mustard green and hands it to me with a flourish.

I thank him profusely while his wife beams at this gallantry. He goes on, ‘Mrs Hainsworth, I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I am that you share my interest in roses. Only an aficionado like myself would have known, without a bloom to identify it, that the rose bush you were admiring is an Old Garden Rose.’

He’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Ah, yes. Yes, of course.’

‘And you know without my saying, that the Old Garden Roses are the predecessors of all the roses we have today. Some even date back to the Roman Empire, where they were revered for their beauty and fragrance.’ He takes a deep breath. Mrs Yelland does the same and I feel as if I must follow suit. The Yellands have a rapturous look on their faces as if they can smell the non-existent rose blooms but all I get is a far-off scent of manure from a dung-spreading farmer.

After we’ve all sniffed the air like a pack of inquisitive terriers I say, ‘Lovely talking to you both, but I must get on delivering the post.’

I start to go but before I get away, Mr Yelland says, ‘I’m so looking forward to your next delivery. Mrs Yelland enjoys looking at the roses, and inhaling their scent, but she’s not a connoisseur like you and I.’

I’m still trying to explain that I’m not really as they follow
me to my van, waving aside my objections. As we all wave an enthusiastic farewell, Mr Yelland calls out, ‘I’ll be waiting for you on your next delivery!’

I groan silently, thinking I’d better read up on roses before I see them again.

March turns to April and I’m in love with the magic of spring in this part of the world. Cherry blossoms are rampant, turning the village into a fairy tale of scented pink. All over the churchyard and in the beech wood alongside the village the wild garlic is out and the earthy scent of it mingles with bloom and blossom. The ground is carpeted with the white garlic flowers which then mingle with the stunning blue of early bluebells. I pick the first showing of the wild garlic and make a favourite soup with garlic and nettles, frying a clove of garlic with a chopped onion and a couple of potatoes, adding the trimmed nettles and garlic leaves to the pan, then some chicken stock. It only needs about fifteen minutes of rapid boiling, then I liquidise it, add salt and pepper, a touch of nutmeg, some single cream and I’ve got a soup that’s both scrumptious and economical. The bliss of it is, both the garlic and nettles are at their best all through April and May so there are dozens of wonderful soup meals ahead.

In my hens’ orchard the old scabby apple and few pear trees amaze me by making a huge effort putting out blossom which dots the branches like little wisps of cloud, transforming the hens’ area. The hens seem to take it all for granted, but I spend ages sitting with them and imbibing the magic of the land stirring, growing, surprising me with something new every day.

From the hens I check out the allotment. The lettuces I planted in my cold frame are growing beautifully. I can’t wait to transplant them into the garden but we’ve had some chilly nights and days, too. But for the last few days the sun has been quite hot and I’ve had to take the glass top off the frame so
that the delicate plants don’t roast. Every evening before twilight I come down and replace it. Sometimes Will or Amy come with me, or Ben. Or we all go together, and if it’s decent weather we finish off at the beach nearby to give Jake a run. I love these spring evenings, balmy with the promise of summer. The sea air smells rich in ozone and ocean scents just as the earth smells warm and full of healthy growing things. There’s one beach we go to where the scent of the wild garlic mingles with the smell of sea and ozone and we inhale it like a drug, it’s so potent, so special.

Tonight the cove is exceptionally beautiful. You can see the stars, galaxies of them, over the sea and sand, and there’s a full moon which strikes a reflection like a golden path straight down the water. We linger until dark, throwing sticks for Jake, taking off our shoes and paddling even though the water is icy.

It isn’t until late that night when we’re getting ready for bed that I remember we have not put the glass back on the cold frame this evening.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Ben says. ‘It’s a warm night.’

He’s right. Our bedroom window is open and the chilliness of the past few nights is gone. I fall asleep happily, secure in the knowledge that not only are my lettuces safe, but also that I have a day off tomorrow.

It’s nearly noon by the time I get to the garden. After dropping the children at school, I have shopping and other chores, but now I have time to plant out my lettuces. Having consulted Daphne, Susie and other knowledgeable gardeners, I know what to do next. The plants in the cold frame have grown and the timing is right. The weather forecast is for blissful days at least till the end of April, not far away now.

It’s so warm I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt. It really feels like summer, though I know by now that the weather can, and
will, change again many times before summer really comes. But what a day to be in the garden! I’ve bought some runner bean seeds, and Martin and Emma Rowland, two of my customers who have now become friends, gave me some courgette plants. Then there is spinach, more leeks, and parsnips – so many things to plant. What a lark this gardening is.

I wave to the Humphreys, sitting on their bench in the sun. They look odd, somehow bleached, but it’s only because they’re wearing identical white tunics or some kind of robe, sort of Gandi-ish. Lord knows what trunk they came out of, or what country they were bought in, but they do look cool and comfortable.

They wave back so that I know they’re alive – they sit so motionless sometimes that I’m not quite sure – then I rush up to my cold frame. To my horror, the lettuce plants are gone. I stand staring, frozen to the spot. Has someone vandalised them in the night? I look closer. They’ve not been pulled out by the roots, it’s just the tops that are missing. The leaves, the whole plant, gone.