Seagulls in the Attic Page 10

  ‘For the Yellands,’ he says with a huge smile that shows numerous gaps in his teeth. ‘He do love farming magazines, since he left Falmouth and moved to the country to grow his roses.’

  I put the magazines in the van with all the other stuff I’ve collected during the day. It’s full of a huge variety of vegetables, newspapers and magazines, jars of homemade jam, rabbit food and an assortment of other items. The barter system is still going strong. In exchange for a plastic bag of chicken scraps from one of my customers which I take to another, I get half a dozen eggs to take back. Another buys dog food in huge fifty-pound sacks and every week gives me a small bag to take to a pensioner for her tiny terrier. In return, I take homemade scones to the dog food buyer.

  I’ve somehow joined the bartering myself, exchanging eggs from my hens, which are laying prolifically, for purple sprouting broccoli, elderflower wine, and, last autumn, box loads of eating apples. I’ve even exchanged Ben’s special vegetarian lasagne, which everyone loves, with Harry and Charlie for fresh fish from Charlie’s father’s boat. I still fantasise about getting rid of money altogether and living purely on the barter system.

  Meanwhile, as the produce in my garden grows, so does Elvis. The snake has grown several inches in the short time he’s been with us. Every month his shiny skin grows dull, opaque, and within a couple of days he sheds his old one and has a spurt of growth. With great delight Will shows us his first discarded skin, not long after we first have him, to compare his size. He grows that much in a month? This is not good, I think to myself as I smile and try to show Will some motherly enthusiasm.

  Google Gull is also growing. He’s now got feathers so he must be at least four weeks old. I’ve been frantically Googling baby seagulls and have found that by four weeks, they have their flight feathers. We’ve moved his box outside, something that had to be done when he started hopping out of his box and around the kitchen. Unfortunately Google is not house-trained, so out he had to go. He’s not flying yet, though he flaps as if he’d like to. I’m worried about what will happen when he does. I’ve been told he won’t survive in the wild, after he’s been handreared. But does Google Gull know this? Will he go off and be pecked to death by other birds, or starve because he didn’t have parents to teach him how to forage for himself ?

  In the meantime, he seems happy enough outside. We’ve put him in the old chicken run, which is perfect for a nonflying bird. He seems contented enough there, though if I forget to shut the little gate he follows me right back into the house where he and Jake usually confront each other with yelps, barks, squawks and caws loud enough for the whole village to hear. I have to intervene, admonish them both, and gently carry Google back into the fenced run where Jake, frustrated, can’t get at him.

  On Saturday I have a rare rota’s day off. Ben is working at the café, Will and Amy are playing with friends in the village, and I’m off to work on the allotment. As I pass Poet’s Tenement, I see Edna and Hector walking up and down taking their ‘constitutional’ as I’ve heard Hector call it.

  ‘Beautiful day,’ I comment as they stop to say hello.

  The Venerable Bede looks at me disdainfully. The more I make a fuss of him, the more he looks at me as if I were a ragamuffin of a mouse that he can’t be bothered to acknowledge, let alone chase. You’d think he’d be a little more affectionate after I rescued him and I tell him so as I tickle the top of his head. I know he loves this, but won’t admit it, rewarding me with another condescending glance.

  I go see my hens and decide it’s time to clean them out which I try to do once a week, though I think it’s been ten days this time as so much has been happening. The lamb has arrived, the one we are going to raise for food. Joe found him at a neighbouring farm where it was one of a pair of twins being bottle-fed. The mother died and the farmer is rearing one of the lambs for his own freezer but was selling the other. Luckily it’s a couple of weeks old so doesn’t have to be bottle-fed more than three times a day, but it’s enough. All four of us take turns going out to the farm, Ben in the morning, me usually right after work, and Amy and Will in the evenings. That’s the general idea anyway. In another couple of weeks he can be down to just a couple of bottles, Joe tells us.

  It’s a cute thing, mostly white but with a black circle of wool around one eye. Already it follows us around whenever we go to feed it. The children have decided to name the lamb Patch, though I told them that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to name something we’re going to eat one day.

  ‘Remember, this creature is not our pet. It’s an animal we are raising for meat. That was the deal, remember. We want to feed you children wholesome food on prices we can afford and this is part of that scheme.’

  ‘We know all that,’ Amy said after this little speech. ‘But everything has to have a name.’

  Right now I’m not thinking about meat production but focusing on my egg producers. I find the hens enormously comforting, there’s something about their clucking and scratching in the earth that I could watch for hours. Today I’ve brought a flask of tea from home and I pull out an ancient lawn chair I salvaged from one of the Humphreys’ sheds which I sit on in the overgrown orchard. As the hens peck around my feet I feel perfectly content, perfectly at peace.

  I’m nearly asleep in the sun when I hear a familiar voice calling my name. I look up to see Annie of all people running towards me, Pete following closely behind. She grabs me in a huge bear hug and in between laughs and embraces, she gasps, ‘I knew we’d find you here. Goodness look how things are growing!’ She’s looking over at the allotment. ‘When you showed it to me last, it was just a mound of dirt.’

  As Pete hugs me, Annie starts to sneeze. The hens are flapping about with the intrusion and making indignant noises, so the three of us go out of the tiny gate in the enclosure to stand at the edge of the allotment. ‘Oh wow, those rhododendrons, how fabulous,’ Annie cries. ‘I’ve never seen so many in one place.’

  We’re all talking at once. Annie admires the view – you can see the sea from the allotment – and Pete commiserates over the mounds of dirt the moles have made under some of my vegetables.

  ‘They’ve made quite a mess,’ he says.

  ‘Maybe I should talk to them like you said,’ I joke.

  ‘Just the sort of thing you’d do,’ Annie grins.

  Finally there’s a pause in all our gabbling. I look at Annie and as usual she looks fabulous. Her dark hair is a bit longer than usual, just below her ears, and it’s a stunning cut, suits her tall frame, her luscious figure. She’s wearing a deep seacolour summer skirt with funky wellie boots, ice blue with little cows all over them, and a long silky cardigan over a closefitting tee shirt. She looks London through and through. Annie’s sophisticated elegance used to make me feel dowdy every time she visited, but now that I’ve got used to living in my rural skin, and learned how to buy great clothes in charity shops and at discount stores, it doesn’t bother me.

  I say, ‘Well, it’s terrific to see you both, but what a surprise. I knew you were arriving last night, Annie, but I didn’t think we’d see you till dinner at your place tonight. Or isn’t it on now?’

  Pete says, ‘Of course it’s still on. But Annie couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘For tonight,’ Annie cries, her face radiant. ‘I couldn’t wait for tonight to tell you.’ She looks at Pete who puts his arm around her tenderly then she turns back to me. ‘We’re getting married.’

  ‘Omigod. Oh. My. God,’ I’m so dumbfounded I’m virtually speechless.

  For the next few minutes the air is filled with shrieks of joy and amazement and the three of us are once again hugging each other, breaking apart, and hugging again. When we calm down a bit I say, ‘Let’s go back to the house. I’ll make coffee and we can celebrate.’

  ‘We’ll do that tonight, when Ben’s there,’ Annie says. ‘Pete and I have loads to do before then. We’re on our way to see Pete’s parents to tell them the news.’


  ‘We’ve been invited to lunch there anyway,’ Pete adds.

  ‘We’re on our way now, but I had to tell you before we told anyone else.’

  ‘When did you decide?’

  Annie smiles. ‘Last night, not long after I arrived. It’s been so awful, these snatched weekends. Neither of us could bear it any longer.’

  We indulge in another round of gabble and excitement. Then Pete picks up a carrier bag he’d put on the ground and pulls out a bottle of champagne, cold and just right to drink. Annie says, ‘We have to have a mini celebration together, Tessa, before we tell Pete’s parents.’

  Pete opens the champagne and Annie gets out a packet of plastic flute glasses which she rips open. This is crazy, it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning and we’re sitting on stones and fallen logs in a ramshackle old garden drinking a toast to my sophisticated London friend who is marrying a Cornish agriculturalist.

  To add to the bizarre atmosphere, Edna and Hector have come to the gate and are watching us with open curiosity. I wave to them, and Edna calls, ‘Sorry to intrude, dear, but we thought something was the matter. We’ll leave now.’

  Annie whispers, ‘Oh, do call them over. You’ve told me so much about them, I’m dying to meet them.’

  ‘We need someone to help us finish the champagne,’ Pete adds. ‘I’m driving so I can’t have any more.’

  Annie giggles, ‘And I’ve got to be a bit sensible when we tell your parents.’

  I manage not only to persuade Edna and Hector to join us, but to have a glass of the superb champagne. Annie can’t help staring surreptitiously at the old couple, dressed today in something a bit frayed and vaguely Chairman Mao-looking. They are wearing identical straw hats which seem to shed a bit of straw every time they shake their heads. I can see Annie’s mind clicking, thinking what a wonderful BBC documentary could be made about them if only they could be made to talk about their lives.

  We drink another toast to the engaged couple then they say they must leave, they’ll be late if they don’t. I hug Annie again and off they go in a flurry of waves.

  Hector says, taking another sip of his champagne, ‘Very enjoyable. Reminds me of that wedding we went to in St Petersburg.’

  Edna nods but says, ‘I think that was vodka we were drinking.’

  ‘No, the vodka came later. After the Soviet soldier made such a peculiar speech.’

  I open my mouth for the inevitable questions but before a word has time to exit my lips, Hector says, ‘We must be off. Goodbye, dear maid, and many thanks for letting us join in your celebration.’

  Edna thanks me too, adding, ‘I’m sure your friends will be as happily married as we have been.’ She smiles at Hector. ‘There’s nothing like a good Cornishman to see you right.’

  As they walk off he takes her hand and keeps holding it until he has to drop it to open the gate.

  There’s no time now to clean the hen house, I’ll do it later. I’m zizzing with crazy joy for Annie and Pete and also from the glass of fizz. But I really must calm down and do some work, so I turn to the allotment. The earth around the plants is no longer smooth but is in rough mounds, all ploughed up in places. The moles must have brought all their aunts, uncles and cousins into my patch.

  ‘Tis moles, my lover,’ the voice comes from the gate to the road and sure enough, leaning over it and shaking his head mournfully is Doug. ‘Bad year for them. Moles done dug tunnels all under Joe’s best fields, this year.’

  I sigh. ‘I know. So what can I do about it?’

  He purses his lips, makes that whistling noise again as if he’s sucking in air. I wait for the usual head shake that accompanies it, and yes, here it comes. I stifle a giggle. It’s a noise, a gesture that says so many things: how hopeless it all is, and how I could have told you so anyway. When he speaks at last he says, ‘Not much can be done for doing in moles, me handsome.’

  I look at him and shrug. ‘That’s what I thought. Oh well, I’ll just have to learn to live with them.’

  ‘They’ll be ruining your garden. They got to go. Shame you can’t do nothing about them.’ A cunning look comes into his eyes. ‘Unless . . .’ His voice trails off.

  ‘Unless what, Doug?’

  ‘Unless you be willing to go out to the crossroads at midnight, under a full moon, and do the mole curse.’

  I narrow my eyes at him. ‘What’s the mole curse?’

  ‘Why you say whatever words you like, as long as you be cursing them moles.’

  I stare at him. He’s trying hard to look sombre but he’s got a sly grin just itching to start on his face. He really does want me to believe him, so he can tell all his mates at the pub another tale about the daft Londoners who have moved into Treverny.

  ‘Is that so, Doug?’

  ‘Tis true, my lover. Folk been cursing moles at the crossroads at midnight during the nights of full moon, for as long as my granddaddy can remember. And y’know, there be a full moon tonight. How about trying it?’

  He leans over to me, deepens his voice as if he’s telling me some ancient secret. ‘It do work,’ he coaxes. ‘I done seen it meself. Just one night, one curse, and you be rid of moles for ever. Them buggers won’t go near your garden.’

  He’s so convincing that I’m beginning to wonder if he’s serious or just pulling my leg again. It wouldn’t be the daftest thing I’ve heard since I moved here. There are folk around who are said to be wart charmers, making the pesky things disappear with a magic word or two. Still, I’ll never know, as Doug would never admit anything. So I just smile, tell him I’ll think about it. He seems satisfied with this and we part on good terms, though I’m hiding a smile as I wonder if he’ll come out tonight under that full moon and hide behind the beech tree at the crossroads, to see if that gullible postie shows up. I almost feel like doing it, to give him something more to talk about but I need my sleep and anyway, we have our celebration dinner with Annie and Pete tonight.

  Back I go to my garden, painstakingly trying to repair the extensive damage the moles have done. When I finish, I plonk myself on the flat rock at the edge of the garden and think about moles. Actually, I like them. They have this beautiful rich brown fur, almost no eyes but adorable little pink paws. I want them to live and thrive, just not under my garden.

  I realise that I’ve said the last sentence out loud. Probably it was the champagne talking: Although I only had one glass, it went straight to my head at this hour of the day. I crouch down and whisper again. ‘Not in my garden. Please, moles. I do recognise that you need to make your little tunnel homes, but please can you do it somewhere else, in some big field somewhere? I’d appreciate it.’

  I should be feeling like a complete fool but in fact I’m getting into my stride. Pete might have been joking, but he’s right about people talking to bees and to horses. And to plants too. Why can’t there be some kind of communication between other living things and ourselves? Here in the country, the connection is especially strong. I bend my head lower so that I’m actually talking into the new molehill. I croon in what I hope is a mole-friendly voice, saying the same thing over and over, asking them nicely to leave. I try to be as polite as possible. I want to show them I respect their right to live. But not under my garden.

  Finally I lean back, feeling that I’m about to get a crick in my spine. This gardening lark is not good for backs and knees, I’ve discovered. I stretch up and find myself looking straight at Doug who for some reason has come back and is standing yet again at the garden gate. Cursing silently to myself, I try a bright cheery wave of my hand at him in greeting.

  ‘Back again, Doug? Are you working at the Humphreys’ today or over at the farm?’ I smile, a mad smile no doubt.

  ‘Loads of work to do here.’ I indicate with a sweep of my hand the whole expanse of my allotment. I am not going over there to the gate; I am not getting involved in another conversation with that man.

  I turn back to my plot but Doug’s voice carries across it loud and clear. ‘Well, my lov
er, so you be talking to your plants now, are ye?’ He roars with laughter then goes on, ‘So, you city lot think talking to plants can make ’em grow?’

  ‘Uh, yes. Yes, why not?’ I straighten up and look at him. I’ve made a rapid damage-control assessment in my head and have decided that being known as a weirdo who talks to her plants is a whole lot better than a complete nutter who talks to moles. ‘In fact,’ I go on. ‘My vegetables are going to be so big that I’m entering something in the Treverny autumn show this year.’

  Now he really starts falling about with more wild guffaws. Honestly, that man laughs with his whole body: his legs tremble, his shoulders shake, his belly quivers and his jowls are rock ’n’ rollin’ with a life of their own. ‘Oh, my lover, you won’t stand a chance. ’Tis my very own parsnips that won the first prize for the biggest last year. As for my cabbages, this last three years in a row they took first prize as well. Try and beat that, my handsome.’

  I know from Joe and Daphne that Doug has had a small allotment on their farm for years. He’s a bachelor, and at fifty-odd years, still lives with his mother in a tiny cottage at the edge of the village. He’s passionate about his garden, as are so many folk in our village. The annual harvest show is the big event of the year. The competition is fierce. There are prizes for every kind of vegetable, for various flowers and plants, and nearly everyone in the village strives all year for one of those awards. It never would have occurred to me to enter the fray if Doug hadn’t goaded me. Now, faced with his laughter, I’ve committed myself to something I’m not ready for.

  But it’s too late now. I say merrily, ‘Well then, perhaps it’s time someone else won for a change. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’ And turn to my garden, first giving him a jolly wave as he leans on the gate, chuckling to himself before he finally goes off, calling a huge ‘Cheerio then, my lover’, as if we were the best friends in Cornwall.