Seagulls in the Attic Page 11

  Chapter 6

  Feathered friends

  It’s not till late that afternoon that I get back to my hens. First I take Jake for a walk along Penwarren Beach, near to our home. The tide is in and there’s only a small expanse of sand where I throw a ball to Jake. When we’ve had enough of that game, we explore the bottom of the cliffs, Jake looking for interesting dead sea creatures and me for treasure. Not that I’ve ever found anything of value but the sea does wash up some odd things. I’ve found a tin box, rusted through, which when pried open at home revealed what could have once been a letter. I’ve also found a few lovely green and blue bottles, quite old, which I’ve cleaned and put on the bathroom windowsill.

  As I wander I stare up at the cliffs. Here they are not granite but a kind of chestnut-coloured earth, quite crumbly, as once this was the bed of a great prehistoric river. They collapse frequently, which is a good thing to be aware of. When parts of the cliff fall they change the landscape yet again so that it’s never static but a changing organic entity.

  Walking along I watch tiny crabs make holes in the wet sand as they dive beneath it. The beach is alive with life, not only in the water but on land and in the sky, with small sandpipers running along the water’s edge and the seagulls calling to each other above my head. A half dozen grebes are poking about in the shallows, their plump white breasts dazzling in the sunlight.

  With reluctance I realise it’s time to go back to clean out the hens. I will leave Jake with Will and Amy as I can’t risk him chasing the Venerable Bede. I’m afraid the old cat would have a heart attack if he even saw our bouncy dog. Cleaning is not my favourite chicken job, in fact it’s horrid, but needs to be done. I take the side off their coop and muck out the straw, trying not to gag at the rather nasty, sweetish smell. It’s hard, back-breaking work. When the hen house is finally clean, I lay newspapers on the bottom and then straw. The hens gather around me when I finish as if thanking me, though I know they’re really after another handful of bread crusts. I’m so pleased that the job is done that I throw them an extra scoop of corn.

  Something is missing, though. It’s not the first time I’ve thought of it. It’s a cockerel. Of course the hens don’t need one to lay regularly, but I’m sure they’d enjoy a male companion. I’ve already asked Edna and Hector if they’d mind a cockerel waking them up every morning and they’d replied that they’d love it.

  ‘It will remind us of that time when we stayed with those Buddhist monks,’ Edna had said to Hector, a gleam in her eye. ‘There was a little bantam cockerel outside our tiny wooden hut that crowed every morning at four o’clock. We loved it.’

  ‘But whatever kind you get for your hens, maid, it will be a joy to have at the Tenement.’

  It’s time I got around to finding a cockerel, so next week will start checking the local newspaper as well as putting word out on my post round.

  Dinner at Pete’s house that evening is a celebration, with more champagne, happy tears and wedding plans. To our surprise, Annie not only wants to get married in Cornwall, but intends to live here with Pete.

  I’m flabbergasted. ‘Annie, that’s brilliant! My dearest friend permanently in Cornwall, I can’t believe it. But – what about your job?’

  ‘You know that I’ve not been wildly happy at the BBC for some months. I’ve wanted to move on from researching but nothing has come up. I have felt for a while that it’s time to move on. And what better move than this?’ she beams at Pete, her face luminous with joy.

  ‘But – Annie, you’re allergic to Cornwall.’

  As soon as I realise what I’ve said we both burst out laughing. Annie had made that remark herself, ages ago when she first started visiting us here. She giggles, ‘Antihistamines are much more powerful these days.’ She takes Pete’s hand, ‘Anyway, I seem to be getting immune to things that used to set me off. I’m not nearly as bad as I used to be.’

  We’ve just finished a scrumptious seafood risotto that Pete cooked for us and are lingering around the table in his small kitchen. I try to imagine Annie here, and somehow, seeing her go to his freezer, bring out some Cornish ice creams, get some dishes and spoons, I see how at ease she is with him. Seeing me watching her she says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find something to do down here. Didn’t you say there might be a vacancy for a postwoman?’

  I do a double take until I see her grin and I realise she’s pulling my leg. She says, ‘You know, there are loads of authors living in Cornwall, some quite well known, and I thought I could maybe hire myself out as a researcher for them. Do freelance work, and not just for authors. There’re loads of jobs I can do from home, including the odd contract for freelance work in London. I’ll find something.’

  I know she will. When Annie is determined, she’s formidable.

  Next day, Sunday, we leave our men and take a walk together on the beach, for some proper girlie talk. She tells me she wants to get married in the church at Creek, a beautiful old place at the mouth of the estuary looking out over the sea. Luckily Pete lives in a village nearby so he lives in the parish and it shouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘Just think,’ Annie sighs. ‘I’ll have this every day.’

  We’re walking barefoot, making footprints in the wet sand. The tide is out and the sand stretches for miles. We amble along, picking up shells, examining pebbles and stones of all colours. I find a shiny brown one that looks exactly like one of my hen’s eggs and Annie pockets a delicate flat, pink, pearly stone which she says she’ll take home to remind her of this weekend.

  With May and the Bank Holiday approaching the towns along the coast gear themselves up for the onslaught of the holiday-makers. St Geraint is buzzing as shops and cafés which have been either partly or completely shut suddenly throw open their doors and spruce themselves up. Windows are washed, faded paintwork touched up and the ferry that crosses everyday into Falmouth is clean and sparkling, ready for the crowds. Geoff and Millie buy a couple of new tables and a few chairs to put outside their tea house and bakery and the local Spar starts getting in the more exotic produce they know the second-homers will be wanting: tasty fresh olives from Greece, Spain and Italy, fancy confectionery, loaves made of organic spelt wheat.

  From early May the harbour comes alive as the boats go back into the water. With the sounds of the masts and stays clinking and clattering, the buoyant chattering of the boat owners, the sea birds gathering around with their young for titbits, the place is living and vital after the long dormant winter months.

  Though the Treverny autumn show is still ages away, I find people are already talking about it. On my rounds I find myself telling everyone that I’m entering at least one of my vegetables in the show, after my rash statement to Doug. My reasoning is that if everyone knows, I can’t back out. I didn’t realise, though, just how competitive it is. I hear remarks like, ‘Oh, I heard tell that old Doug sat up all night for forty-eight hours before the last show, keeping an eye on his cabbage,’ and ‘Old Doug, he not be the only one keen to win. Half the village do live the whole year for that blue ribbon and if they don’t be getting it, well Lord help their families the rest of the year.’ Goodness, I hope I don’t get as competitive as some. I had enough of that working in the city.

  Back at work, there’s been a change in our routine at the post office with one of our posties leaving and I’ve temporarily taken over a different round while things are being shifted about. I’ve done the round a few days now and I’ve become increasingly dissatisfied. It’s a long one and ends at a very steep hill which is a killer at the end of a postie’s day. It’s been done this way for years, and no one seems to remember what the reasoning was behind this pattern. I’m going to be doing it for a week and then a new postie will take over, so I figure maybe I should help the poor soul out before he or she gets here. So the next day, I do what should have been done in the first place – start with the hilly bit when I’m feeling fresh and fit and leave the easier stretch of route for last. In other words, I do it the other way
around, beginning at the end and ending at the usual beginning.

  This works fine and not only do I have loads more energy, I’ve also made the round more efficient as it takes far less time. I’m feeling quite pleased with myself and am humming a little tune as I meet Susie going into the St Geraint post office.

  ‘What’s up, bird?’ Susie asks. ‘You look like my cat when she’s caught a mole.’

  I wince at the mention of moles. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been bothered with them since the day Doug caught me talking to them. A coincidence or did they really listen? It’s something I’ll never know, for I’ll never be able to tell anyone, it’s far too embarrassing.

  I say, ‘I’ve just rearranged today’s round. Much easier and much more efficient.’

  Susie rolls her eyes, ‘Steady on, my bird. Folk around here don’t like changes much.’

  I smile, thinking she’s teasing me. I’m feeling the old energy surge through me, my mind thinking up ways to be more organised. It must be spring, the sap rising and all that. I’m used to taking a problem and gnawing at it like a bone until I can find a solution. It’s what I did in London, not only what I got paid to do but what I had to, juggling job and family. I’m good at it I know, you have to be, to survive in the world I used to live in. I’m happier out of that world now, but still it has given me a buzz today, making this postal route much more efficient and energy-saving.

  Margaret at the post office hardly waits until I’m through the door before she’s accosting me, ‘Tessa, thank goodness you’re back. You can sort out this mess.’

  ‘What mess?’

  ‘The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning, complaining about the post. The customers on your round today.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s the matter?’

  Susie is looking sagely at me then exchanges a knowing look with Margaret. ‘Told you,’ Susie says under her breath. ‘Bet I know what the complaints were.’

  Margaret is looking thoroughly fed up. ‘I’ve got no time for this, Tessa. Bad enough running the shop and post office single-handedly with the cutbacks and all, but having to answer the phone every five minutes to an irate or bemused customer is just too much.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Harry come into the shop. He’s listening to this with an amused expression on his face.

  I say, ‘Margaret, please just explain what the problem is. I still don’t know.’

  It takes a while to get the picture of what has happened. All the people whose post usually was delivered early in the morning had called to ask why it wasn’t there. All of a sudden everyone seemed to be waiting in for some important missive or something, and wanted to know why the post hadn’t come yet. ‘Always here by this time,’ was the most common refrain, ‘but not a sign of any postie yet.’

  ‘What about those on the hill that got their post early?’ I finally ask. ‘At least they must have been satisfied.’

  Margaret shakes her head impatiently. ‘You must be joking. I got complaints that the post came before they had time to put their dogs in, or open the latch of the front porch where the post usually goes. Or they had a letter they wanted to give you but you came and went too early.’

  I look over at Harry who winks at me. Deflated, I say to Margaret, ‘Well, they’ll get used to it, won’t they? It’s so much easier not just for me but for any of us, doing the round this way.’

  Susie chimes in before Margaret can answer, ‘No, m’bird, they won’t get used to it. Best carry on the way it’s been done for years. Feels more comfortable that way for everyone.’

  Margaret agrees. I throw my hands up in the air with an exaggerated gesture of defeat. ‘I give up.’

  ‘You’ll learn,’ Susie says as I go out the door, patting me on the shoulder as if I were a child being taught a gentle lesson. ‘Don’t fret about it.’

  Harry whisks me off for a coffee, this time to the Sunflower Café as the sky is threatening rain and we need to be indoors. Ben is in there, serving coffee and food, but he’s too busy to sit with us and say more than hello. We find a small table in the corner by the big picture window, looking out at the sea. It’s a deep navy blue-black today and the surface is pocked with raindrops as the threatened deluge begins, the boats in the harbour securely moored but bobbing about in the swell. The café is soon filled with people sheltering from the storm.

  Over coffee Harry says. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. You know, about changing the postie round.’

  ‘Harry, this is me you’re talking to. Your ears were flapping away, taking in every word. You loved it.’

  He grins, ‘OK, I admit it, I was openly eavesdropping. And yes I love it – I love your naivety sometimes. It’s very endearing.’

  ‘What do you mean, naïve?’

  ‘Oh, about rural life. You’ve done a brilliant job adjusting to it, fitting in, and everyone loves you for it. But now and again you haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Well, what did I do wrong this time? I was only trying to help out.’

  ‘That kind of help is neither wanted nor needed here. People get used to their routines, they live their lives by the simple, ordinary rhythms of life. The time the post is delivered, the hour for walking the dog, those sort of things. It’s the frame around which they live their lives. Changing the framework makes them jumpy, as if the picture inside has turned crooked.’

  I grimace at him, ‘You’re getting poetic all of a sudden. Anyway, how do you know all these things?’

  He laughs. ‘I made the same mistakes you did. Tried to organise the sleepy little firm of accountants I work for, make it more efficient like the one I worked for in London. Did the whole managerial bit. No one wanted to know.’

  ‘Like no one wants an easier, more efficient postal service.’

  ‘Not if it interferes with life as it’s been lived for ages.’

  Before we say anything else, Ben has a chance to come by for a few minutes between customers. He says hi to Harry and then, to me, ‘I think Google Gull has learned to fly. He was gone from the chicken run this morning.’

  Before I can reply, a half dozen wet soggy customers come through the door and he has to leap up and sort out the rush for tables and service.

  Harry looks at me quizzically. I’ve not told him about Google. ‘So what has just learned to fly? You’re not breeding canaries to feed to Elvis, are you?’

  ‘Elvis eats baby mice, not birds. I’m sure I told you that.’ Harry says, ‘C’mon, confess. What or who is Google? And what’s the relationship to the Internet?’

  Honestly, you’re really not allowed to have secrets here. ‘Google Gull is a seagull.’

  ‘A seagull?’

  I tell Harry how we found him, how we’ve managed to keep him alive in spite of all the odds. ‘In fact Google is quite sweet. He’s getting very tame and follows me around the hen compound.’

  Harry doesn’t say anything but rolls his eyes and shakes his head. I can read body language all right and what he’s saying is, oh no, here she goes again, the whacky postie. I’m starting to feel quite defensive.

  ‘Google is a very sweet seagull and it’s a miracle he didn’t die. Most baby birds do when they fall out of their nests. He’s very affectionate and we’re all very fond of him. Besides, Ben has just said he’s learned to fly. So no doubt he’ll be off soon and we’ll never see him again.’

  I lapse into a brooding silence, thinking that I’m going to miss our little bird when he flies away. Not that he’s particularly little anymore. He’s grown enormously, with glossy grey feathers, a long yellowish beak and pink legs.

  Harry says, ‘Well, good luck to you. Just don’t tell any of the shopkeepers around St Geraint and the other seaside villages that you’re rearing another seagull to join the others driving them berserk in the summer months.’

  ‘Don’t you tell them,’ I say as we get up. ‘Anyway, Google’s not like that. He’s a very civilised seagull.’

  Before I go I try to catch a few w
ords with Ben but he’s too busy to talk so I only whisper, ‘See you at home.’

  I’m eager to get back now, to see for myself if Google is flying. But when I get there, the old chicken pen is still empty. Has he flown away already? I thought he’d at least have had the decency to hang around and say goodbye. I walk dejectedly to the back door of the house. I’m about to go inside the kitchen door when a loud cawing makes me jump a mile. I whirl around and find myself eyeball to eyeball with Google. He’s perched on the old picnic table in the lean-to outside the kitchen, looking perky and pleased with himself. ‘Google,’ I shout. I go inside to find a bit of food for him and when I turn around, there he is right at my feet. Jake sees him and hares over, barking wildly, and I pull him away, shutting him in the living room for a minute while I sort out the bird.

  ‘Hey Google, you can’t come in. You know that.’ He flaps his wings and makes argumentative seagull noises. It’s like having a teenager in the house. ‘C’mon, I’ve got some leftover tuna fish for you but you have to have it outside.’

  I put the food on the outdoor table and he flies onto it then devours the tuna ravenously. I’m so impressed by his newly acquired flying skills that I watch him rapturously.

  When the others come home, we all go outside to watch him fly, but our seagull has a stubborn streak and won’t perform on demand. Instead, he stands on one leg, tucks his head under his wing and stands there immobile on the outdoor table, waiting for us all to go away so that he can have a little snooze in peace. Despite this stubbornness we’re immensely proud of him. Our baby has grown out of the nest, but he’s still happy to come back to us. How satisfying life is.

  Well, perhaps not all the time. A few days later when it’s time to muck out the hen house again, I start to feel itchy and when I lift the roof off their perches I see a rash of bright red everywhere. There seem to be some horrid tiny insect lurking in the hen house, thousands of them. They’re on my chickens too, which I notice are also scratching themselves and acting restless and unhappy.