Seagulls in the Attic Read online

  I talk to Ben that night on the phone, missing him even more than usual. I know he misses us too, like mad, yet he feels good acting again which is as it should be. They’re doing three plays in repertoire and The Taming of the Shrew is one of them. He’s revelling in it, playing Petruchio at last. I’m glad he’s doing it but it’ll be terrific to have him home again.

  ‘So still no sign of Elvis?’

  ‘Not a sighting. Will leaves food out for him at night, in the vivarium, hoping to entice him back, but it’s untouched.’

  ‘He’s probably nibbling elsewhere, at night. In the breadbin maybe.’

  ‘Oh God. Don’t.’

  Before I go to bed I do my usual shaking out of the duvet and checking under the pillows before settling in for the night. The woman at the Reptile Centre said it could be months before we found Elvis, so I’ve got to get used to it, though sharing a house with a snake is not my idea of an idyllic Cornish paradise.

  A few days later Al, the friendly repair man from a local electrical shop, comes out to look at our washing machine. We brought it with us from London and it’s been playing up again, as has our television and our freezer. All of our appliances are old now and we can’t afford new ones so we keep calling Al out. His dad owns the shop and his prices are reasonable.

  Al sits at the kitchen table and has a cuppa before he gets going. He’s a good-looking, spiky-haired young man in his early twenties with a cheeky grin and a wide assortment of jeans fashionably torn at the knees and other places. At first I thought they were the same pair every time I saw him but I’ve realised that some are torn at both knees, some only at one, and some have a rip or two at the thigh as well. I do hope he made the tears himself and didn’t buy them that way, as I’ve seen for sale in some of the more fashionable shops in Truro.

  ‘So what’s up with the washing machine then?’ he asks after he’s consumed two cups of tea and half a carrot cake one of my customers gave me. He’s skinny as a rake and eats like a horse. Last time he came out he polished off the rest of a lasagne Ben had cooked the night before. I’d made the mistake of asking him if he was hungry, as it was an early call out and he said he hadn’t had breakfast; before I knew it my dinner of leftovers for that evening had gone.

  I tell him the problem and Al goes to his scruffy van, brings in his tools and begins to undo the back of the washing machine to check the electrics. As he starts to take it off and expose the insides I say, ‘Uh, Al, be careful of the snake.’

  He jumps back with a yell and the back of the machine drops with a great clatter. ‘What? Where? Shit, man, what snake?’

  ‘No, no, no, I mean it’s probably not there, but it could be. The woman at the reptile centre said a snake could get coiled up inside a electrical appliance. We’ve lost a snake in the house, you see. So be careful.’

  ‘Shit. Hell.’ Poor lad, he looks white as a sheet. ‘I hate snakes.’

  ‘Oh it’s only a pet corn snake and harmless,’ I can’t believe I’m giving the same reassurances to Al that everyone has been giving me for weeks. I’m saying the words but I know how useless they are for people who are truly frightened of snakes. Rationally we know they cannot hurt us but reason does not come in to it. I know from the look on Al’s face that he feels the same as I do.

  Now he says, ‘Sorry but I’m not touching that machine.’

  ‘Al, you’ve got to, I’ve got a pile of clothes that need washing, I need it fixed. C’mon, look, Elvis isn’t in there.’ I’m peering carefully into the coils and pipes of the machine, terrified but even more terrified of having to wash all those clothes by hand.

  ‘Elvis? You got a snake called Elvis? Bloody hell.’

  ‘He’s my son’s. He’s quite sweet really,’ I lie.

  I persuade Al to take a step or two nearer. We both look; there’s no sign of Elvis.

  ‘Please, Al?’ I whine. ‘Hey, remember how much you liked my lasagne? Said your mum never cooked like that? Well, I’ll make you a huge one, last you for days if you please, please, please fix my washing machine.’

  He looks at me with suspicion. ‘You said it was your husband’s lasagne. He’s away, you said.’

  ‘I make it exactly the way he does. Honest. Cross my heart.’

  He’s tempted and after another close look, reaches out to touch something on one of the coils. ‘Yikes!’ Another shout and he pulls back his hand as if it’s been burned.

  ‘There’s nothing there, Al.’

  ‘I thought I saw something move.’

  ‘You’re imagining it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I persuade him to try again. There’s no sign of Elvis but at every shadow, every murky wire, Al jumps again and has to be cajoled into going back to his task.

  It takes ages to replace one faulty wire. When he finally finishes I’m so relieved I offer him more tea and the rest of my precious carrot cake. It’s a particularly delicious one, from a customer who is an excellent cook, but Al refuses, too nervous to sit in my kitchen with a snake on the loose. He remembers the lasagne though and I promise to drop it off at his home in the next village in the next few days.

  Al still lives with his parents and they’re on my round, so a couple of days later I deliver the lasagne as promised. His mum, Anthea, shouts at me to come in when I knock on her door rather than putting the post through the letterbox. The bungalow is in a cluster of half a dozen fairly new houses built on the edge of one of the tiny inland villages.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t come to the door,’ Anthea says as I go in and find her in the kitchen. ‘I’ve been looking for my mobile phone. I’m needed at the shop, just on my way now.’

  She seems in a bit of a flap so I put down the lasagne on the kitchen table and help her look, finally finding it on the floor in the corner.

  ‘Must have been the cat knocked it down,’ Anthea says, relieved. ‘Thanks, Tessa.’ She finally sees the lasagne. ‘Goodness, that looks yummy, but you shouldn’t have. Al told me how he conned you into cooking for him. It was blackmail pure and simple,’ she shakes her head at her son’s latest misdemeanour.

  ‘Oh no, I was happy to do it,’ I say. ‘He was quite brave about it. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to investigate a machine knowing it was entirely possible a snake could be living there.’

  ‘Well, thanks anyway. So you’ve not found it yet?’

  I tell her quickly that we haven’t then start to go, as I know she’s in a hurry. As we walk out together she says, ‘It’s such a nuisance, the woman who works in our shop suddenly quit and gave no notice. Not that it’s a surprise. She met a new man a while back from Up Country and has been hankering to go off with him. I wish she’d given us more than a few days’ notice, though. It sure as hell has put us in a fine spot. I can’t work every day, I got my own part-time job.’

  I commiserate, ‘But surely it won’t be a problem finding someone else?’

  ‘Oh, no problem, just time consuming. Advertising in the local paper, interviewing people. And in the meantime the shop has to be shut all hours when Al and his dad are out on a job and I can’t help. We need someone full-time.’

  As she’s saying this wheels are turning in my head and I say, ‘Look, Anthea, hang on a minute. I think I know of someone.’ I tell her about Ginger, who lives no more than five miles from the small town where the electrical shop is situated.

  Anthea stops to listen, then says, ‘Y’know, I remember her. The name especially. We were all at school together, her and her husband, that fisherman who drowned, poor lad. I’ve bumped into her now and again in Truro and other places over the years. Nice woman. D’you really think she’d want the job?’

  I promise to find out. When I finish my round I zoom back to Poldowe, crossing my fingers that Ginger is home. She is, and I tell her about the possible job. Her drawn face is transformed and she looks ten years younger. She remembers Anthea too. I give Ginger her mobile number and even as I walk away she’s making the phone call. The job satisfaction in
delivering the post is sky high these days.

  Chapter 12

  Are you going to Penrundell Fair . . .

  The exhilarating holiday atmosphere is in the air now with schools starting their summer break. Most of the second homes in all the villages are fully occupied, the shops and cafés in the seaside towns are buzzing and the harbours are filled with boats going in and out. The seabirds are in full flight and it’s hard not to believe they’re on holiday too, with their soaring, swooping and wild cries. It’s a great time for many of the local youngsters as they can get seasonal jobs waiting on tables, helping out in restaurant kitchens and generally ministering to the wants and needs of the holidaymakers.

  It takes even longer to do my rounds these days but the weather is so glorious, and the atmosphere so festive, that it usually doesn’t bother me when I get held up by visitors as they crawl down narrow lanes and are too terrified of scratching their smart cars to reverse, or when they fill up the car parks in St Geraint and Morranport. I’ve loads more post too now that some families have moved in for a good part of the summer. This is the second busiest time of the year, after the pre-Christmas rush.

  Annie comes down often and we have a great deal of fun visiting the hotel again, talking to the manager about food, seating arrangements and so on. I’ve found a local florist who has a reputation amongst not only the locals but with those from Up Country for her stylish, original and utterly amazing flower arrangements, so I’ve arranged to go see her with Annie one weekend.

  Annie’s less than impressed when we arrive at the woman’s premises in Truro. It looks like a rather down-at-heel florist shop, with only a few wooden shelves that have been cobbled together in great haste and not a vast selection of flowers on them either. She’s even less impressed when Chloe, the owner, appears in a pair of fluffy pink bedroom slippers. It looks especially odd as the woman herself is dressed elegantly in well-cut trousers and a very smart black tunic. She also can’t be older than early forties.

  ‘Maybe she has bad corns,’ I whisper to Annie as Chloe leaves the room for a moment. Annie still looks dubious until Chloe shows us photos of some of the weddings she’s done. The arrangements look both exquisite and original. They are stunning, and Annie is hooked. After much discussion with Chloe, and more photos, she finally decides on a ‘country style’ theme for the church and reception which will be all lavender and corn, greens and whites.

  When we leave Annie says, ‘The flowers are going to be gorgeous, I’m thrilled. And did you see those photos at the end of the book she showed us of weddings she’s done the flowers for? Chloe didn’t say, and I didn’t want to act dumb by asking, but it was the wedding of that telly presenter, you know the one I mean.’

  ‘I thought I recognised the bride, she’s a model, isn’t she? See, Annie, I told you she had a great reputation. Anyway it’s about time you learned that not everything in Cornwall is fifty years behind the times.’

  Her face takes on that dreamy look it gets when she’s thinking of Pete. ‘I found that out a year ago, don’t worry.’

  We’ve arranged to meet Chloe at the church in Creek after a quick pub lunch of luscious, fresh crab sandwiches in St Geraint. Even though she knows the church and has done weddings there before, she’d still like to discuss with Annie how and where she’d like the flower arrangements. When we arrive, Chloe is inside the ancient stone porch, examining the arched wooden beams and the old oak door with appreciation. She’s obviously been to the hairdresser while we were at lunch, for though her streaky blond hair was perfectly presentable before, she’s now had a very stylish and sophisticated cut. A crimson scarf is draped casually over the black tunic and the overall effect is one of simple elegance. Except for the fluffy slippers which she’s still wearing. I’m dying to ask, and I’m sure Annie is too, but though the florist is friendly enough, she maintains a professional distance which prohibits personal questions. Especially about slippers.

  When we’re finally on our own, Annie and I begin to giggle. ‘It’s so weird that she doesn’t mention them. Like saying, I’ve got a bad foot or something.’

  ‘And she’s so elegant but her slippers are so old-fashioned and awful, the kind you’d kick under the sofa before you let anyone other than your nearest and dearest see them.’

  We decide that Chloe must have her reasons, or else she’s just an endearing oddball like so many we know.

  That evening, Annie and Pete go with me to the opening of the new art gallery in Poldowe, the one Harry’s partner, Charlie, has set up. I was hoping Ben would be able to be here but the company has several performances this weekend. Harry and Charlie both greet us as we go into the gallery. The old shop has been transformed with clever lighting and design, and it looks terrific. Charlie is buzzing with excitement. I’m particularly pleased to see his parents there, as Charlie’s dad, a fisherman, was resentful for a long time that Charlie didn’t want to follow in his profession but was determined to fulfil his dream to work as an artist. They’ve since been reconciled, and it’s great to see Charlie’s dad standing next to his son, his face beaming with pride. It’s wonderful, too, how Charlie’s family have accepted Harry, who is talking now to Charlie’s mum. I look at the two men, so different in appearance with Harry tall, urban, stunningly handsome, and Charlie shorter, stockier, looking like the fisherman he might have been; yet their relationship is as solid as granite.

  Annie and Pete are going about the room, Pete greeting the locals he’s known for years and Annie squealing with delight as she spots London mates. Harry has asked all his old city friends and as he and Annie discovered before, they have a number of acquaintances in common. I smile to myself, watching as Annie introduces Pete to people she knows, while Pete in turn takes her to meet his Cornish friends. Visitors mingle with locals, incomers with people whose parents and grandparents were born in Cornwall, and for this one night at least, there’s none of the prickly resentment that each camp sometimes feels about the other.

  As I’m sipping champagne and looking at some of Charlie’s latest artwork, intricate, beautiful pieces made from driftwood, Annie rushes up to me. ‘Have you noticed the flowers? So discreet yet so stunning, those hydrangeas so tastefully worked in with the sea theme, those delicate shells, pebbles and seaweed. Ms Fluffy Slippers did them. Aren’t they wonderful?’

  *

  Life is full on now, with the longer round, loads of work in the garden, feeding Google who still makes a tremendous cacophony of bird noises and protests if I don’t feed him regularly and, of course, looking after the hens and taking Jake for walks. Though dogs can’t go on the public beaches now that summer is here, we do know some secret coves where he can run about, and there are fantastic walks along the cliffs where I’m also looking for plants to bring home and eat, and beautiful walks through some of the most enchanting woodlands imaginable. On one of these walks I find cob nuts and later make savoury cakes for dinner, mixing the chopped nuts with leftover mashed potatoes and a couple of my hens’ eggs. They are absolutely delicious so I experiment with the basic recipe. If I don’t have cob nuts, I use any kind of edible plant, chickweed, sorrel or even nettles, cooking it first with lots of garlic and chopping it up when done, mixing it with the potato and egg and frying the cakes in butter or olive oil. You have a complete meal there, I tell the children: your greens, carbohydrate and protein from the eggs.

  These days I also make sure that at least one of us has a look at Patch every day. His care is easy thanks to Joe but he’s still our responsibility, I feel. We’ve all learned how to look out for the dreaded fly, the maggots that get into the back passage of a sheep and can eat the flesh out if you don’t catch it in time, and for any signs of illness or weakening. Joe’s a good farmer and I know he checks all the sheep but I feel it’s our lamb and we need to do our bit. Besides, the three of us enjoy our visits with Patch. He’s so playful, especially with Will and Amy. I’m sure he thinks they are lambs too, the way he loves to follow and run with them. He
’s plump and woolly, that black patch making him stand out from the other sheep in the field. I don’t let myself think about the fact that we are raising him for meat but try to enjoy him each day as it comes.

  I’m also getting fonder and fonder of Gruff, the billy goat that Marilyn and Dave adopted. He too has got quite playful, though unlike Patch, this billy goat is quite a rascal.

  ‘He got out again,’ Marilyn tells me next time I deliver to her. ‘Went up the lane to Trelak Farm and ate all Emma’s pansies by the time I got him back.’ We both gaze at Gruff as he jumps up in the air and twirls around before landing in front of us then leaping up again. We can’t help laughing at his antics.

  I say, ‘I thought Dave made that fence?’

  ‘He did, but it was pretty makeshift. Fencing equipment is expensive so we had to make do with some spare wire and posts from up at Trelak.’ She sighs. ‘I could tether him up again but he hates it. Gets bored, you know? I take him for a walk when I’ve got time, he likes that.’

  When I drive away I’m musing on yet another wonder of the countryside. Walking a pet goat, eh? Wait until I tell Annie. Maybe I’ll get her a billy goat for a wedding present.

  I’m harvesting loads of vegetables now but it leaves the problem of what to do with it, especially spinach as I have masses of it. I’ve used loads, frozen loads, and there’s still more. I try giving it away to my customers but no one wants it as nearly all the locals are growing their own. In fact, giving away surplus produce becomes quite an art, I’ve noticed. Now that I’ve upset my customers by declining the extra vegetables I was avidly grateful for last year, they’ve become cunning. Often I get back to the post office to find my van full of vegetables that have been put there behind my back. No one likes to waste, yet with all this good growing earth and weather in Cornwall, there seems a surfeit. So people are becoming devious, trying to pass on either the guilt of wasting all these wonderful fresh vegetables, or else the effort of spending hours trying to fill an overstuffed freezer with them. Not only do I have to guard my van when I’m delivering to an avid gardener, I also have to be careful what I say. One woman enthusiastically raved about some new type of salad leaf she’d grown, saying how unusual and delicious it was. I murmured something along the lines of ‘Hm, I must try it sometime,’ and before I knew it she’d thrust a boxful of greenery into my arms and scuppered back into the house, shutting the door firmly behind her. I couldn’t just leave it there, it would be too rude, so I had to take it home. I wouldn’t have minded so much except that this rare leaf turned out to be rocket, which I have by the bucketful in my own garden.