Seagulls in the Attic Page 25

  By coincidence some of our rounds have been slightly altered and for the last few weeks I’ve been delivering to Pete’s parents who live in a bungalow in one of my new villages. I’ve got to know them quite well as either Bernie or Miranda, and often both, are outside in their garden when I arrive. They are a good solid Cornish couple who like Annie but can’t help viewing her with a hint of suspicion, as I’ve come to realise. Today, as we chew the fat and watch their tabby cat stalking what looks like a beetle in the front lawn, we are, as usual, talking about the wedding, about Annie and Pete.

  Suddenly, as if making up his mind at last to speak, Bernie says, ‘I tell’ee, maid, I’m fond of that girl of his. I truly am.’ There’s a but in that sentence, you can tell. I wait for him to go on. ‘But she do be sneezing all the time. ’Tis a worry, that is. ’Tis not normal.’ He shakes his head which is square, stocky and bald, sitting on his short squat body. The only resemblance to Pete is the warm twinkle in his clear blue eyes.

  ‘It’s only an allergy, Bernie,’ I tell him. ‘She can’t help it, she has lots of them. They’re starting to ease, though, now that she’s coming here more often, getting acclimatised to the different types of plants and things that can cause her allergies.’

  He doesn’t look convinced but shakes his head worriedly. A chilly wind is whipping around the garden though the rain has stopped at last. Pete’s mum, Miranda, who has been listening to us, now shakes her head as well. It too is square, full jawed. Her hair is grey and permed tightly and does nothing for her, but her face is open and kind. They are good people and I know they’ve tried to welcome Annie into their family. I’ve grown fond of them both, and more importantly, so has Annie.

  Miranda says, ‘’Tisn’t good for childbearing. All them sneezes.’

  Ah, so that’s what this is all about, I think. I assure her that Annie’s health is spot on, that truly her allergies are only allergies and won’t affect any pregnancy she might have.

  Miranda looks doubtful. ‘She’s a good maid, I be fond of her too, like Bernie is. But a city maid like she be won’t want to be bothered by infants now will she?’ Her face is so woeful my heart goes out to her. Pete is their only child. Have this kind couple been worried all these months that they are to be for ever deprived of grandchildren?

  I reassure them with words I know to be true. ‘Annie loves babies and would love children.’

  The look of relief doesn’t come as I expected. ‘But, maid,’ Miranda begins then hesitates.

  ‘What is it?’

  Bernie takes up the challenge as his wife falters, lowering her eyes in embarrassment. ‘The thing is, she ain’t a young’un, is she? Now don’t get me wrong, we like her well enough, but she be not a young maid for sure.’

  I’m flabbergasted. Annie’s not even forty yet, not for another year or so. Plenty of women these days get pregnant in their late thirties or early forties for the first time; I could name a few I know straight off. I’m starting to feel indignant for Annie’s sake when I realise how they must be feeling. Pete’s first childless marriage and divorce, long before he met Annie. All their hopes dashed. Then Pete finding another woman at last but one who perhaps doesn’t want, or is too old to have, a child. I look at their kind, concerned faces and my heart goes out to them.

  Miranda is saying, ‘The thing is, Pete do be wanting kiddies; he’d hope for one with his first wife but they broke up before any little’uns came along. All for the best in hindsight, but . . .’ her voice trails off.

  I do my best to let them know that there is a good chance that one day they’ll have the grandchild they so long for.

  Reassured on that front, Bernie now says, ‘But ’twill be hard on the maid, adjusting to our ways.’

  Miranda nods sagely, ‘’Twill be terrible hard.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I mumble the words but I know what they are saying.

  They look at each other. Miranda says, ‘Pete be a country lad. Annie be city.’

  I open my mind to say something glib and meaningless, like I’m sure they’ll work it out, they’ll be fine. Looking at their serious, concerned faces I realise I owe them more than shallow words meant to reassure. They are too intelligent for that, and too caring.

  So I say, ‘You’re right. It will be hard, very hard, for them both. Pete will find Annie difficult and strange at times I’m sure.’

  They look relieved to hear me say this. Annie has told me this herself, has admitted some things will be tough for both of them.

  I go on, ‘It’s going to be hard on Annie too, leaving the only environment she’s ever known, and she’ll find some things extremely difficult.’ I think back to my first year in Cornwall, the times I felt I was living in an alien place whose customs I’d never understand, let alone master. I remember the times I missed all the things London has to offer: the theatre, music, variety of shops and restaurants, the vibrancy of a huge cosmopolitan city. I go on, ‘But she’ll be compensated by all the other things, like I was. The gentler, easier way of life for a start. The friendliness of the people. She’s finding out these things already, you know.’

  We’re silent for a few moments. Then Miranda says, ‘So long as they’re happy, the both of them.’

  Bernie agrees. ‘There’s not a thing else we want for either of them.’

  ‘They will be,’ I promise, for I’m as sure of that as one can be sure of anything. Annie and Pete love each other and if anyone can make a go of it, they can.

  A couple of days before the wedding I take my checklist to make sure everything is as we’ve planned. The weather looks promising for a golden Indian Summer has arrived and is predicted to last through the weekend.

  First I go to the hotel overlooking the sea to check with the manager that all is ready for the big day. Standing in the room where the reception will be held, I look out through the massive picture windows to the sea beyond. A perfect view, and it should still be light enough for everyone to admire for some time after the guests arrive. The wedding is midday and the reception straight afterwards.

  The manager, who has followed me into the room, says, ‘All seems to be in order. In fact, the woman who is doing the flowers was here not long ago, to check the table arrangements again and so on.’

  ‘Ah, Ms Fluffy Slippers,’ I say without thinking.

  He looks relieved. ‘Oh, so you’ve noticed too? It is most peculiar. This sophisticated and, if I may say so, very attractive woman, wearing what look like an extremely old pair of slippers.’

  I nod. ‘I’ve never seen her without them. She must have terribly bad feet, poor thing.’

  ‘It was raining cats and dogs the day she came, and I saw her get out of the car. She was wearing boots but took them off as soon as she got to the door. She was so well dressed that I was sure she’d be putting on some elegant footwear and then she came in with those slippers.’ He shakes his head in wonder. ‘Amazing, isn’t it? People, I mean. The types I’ve met in this business . . .’ He trails off and looks at me. ‘And that reminds me, Mrs Hainsworth, about the dancing at the reception.’ He has a faint smile on his face and I know, I just know, he’s remembering Annie and me lunging around the room in a parody of a dance and ending up in a heap on the floor.

  We adjust some details about the music and dancing, parting in a jovial mood. He says as I leave, ‘I do hope the groom is as energetic a dancer as his bride.’ His voice is solemn but his eyes are twinkling.

  After this I take a quick drive around to the half dozen hotels and B&Bs where the guests will be staying, the ones Annie and I found ages ago. I want to reassure myself that all is fine and there are no unforeseen problems.

  I don’t really need to visit Trelak Farm because I know Emma and Martin do a great B&B, but as I’m passing by I call in. Emma is outside feeding the goats but stops to talk about the weekend.

  ‘We’re booked solidly,’ she tells me. ‘All folk from London; Annie’s friends I suppose.’

  She doesn’t look too ha
ppy about it so I ask her if something is wrong.

  ‘Oh no, not at all, and we’re thrilled, financially it’s a great boost this time of year.’

  ‘So what it is? C’mon, Emma, you’re worried about something, I can tell.’

  After a slight hesitation she says, ‘Well, a couple of the bookings are in names I recognise. Like, on the telly. I know they’re only staying with us because the posher places were booked up early.’

  Martin has joined us, coming along with a bale of hay to put in the goat feeder. He’s heard Emma’s comment and adds, ‘To be honest, Tessa, we are both worried that Trelak won’t be good enough for them. That they’ll find fault.’

  I assure them that if they’re Annie’s friends, they’ll be decent people who will find nothing to fault at Trelak Farm. I leave them with their goats, thinking how lucky these minor celebrities are, to see something of the real honest rural Cornwall in the shape of Trelak Farm, its owners and animals.

  Chapter 17

  Wedding bells

  The day is as beautiful as promised. I wake up on the morning of the wedding looking out over a golden landscape. The sun is shining on the yellow beech leaves making them glow like jewels, turning the other leaves coppery, red and a deep bronze colour. Slanting sun beams dice through the few fluffy clouds and everything is as near perfect as can be.

  Annie is staying with me and wakes early as I do. ‘Shall we sneak out and walk on the beach?’ she says as we meet in the kitchen over coffee.

  No one else is up so we quietly dress and head for the cove. The tide is far out and the sand smooth. Jake runs in circles chasing seabirds who hover, tantalising him, then fly off exuberantly, crying their triumphant caws. Barefoot, Annie and I make footprints in the pristine sand.

  ‘The first footprints in the whole world,’ I say.

  ‘The first day of my new life,’ she smiles. We hug, there’s no need for any more words.

  Before we make for home I take her to my special rock pool where I most often find the cowrie shells, hoping there is one for Annie today. There is and she holds it in the palm of her hand. ‘I’ll tuck it into my bra, under my wedding dress, for luck.’

  The cars arrive on time to pick up the bridal party. Ben is going to give Annie away, standing in for her father in New Zealand. I’m her maid of honour, and Will and Amy will be her page and flower girl. They look wonderful, Will grown up in his new suit and Amy beautiful in a new dress.

  After I’ve admired them I turn to Annie. She looks stunning. A designer friend who is a stylist for the BBC made the dress which is an elegant creation of natural silk and lace. I smile when I see her veil perfectly framing her lovely face, her dark hair, longer now, is worn up for this special day. The veil is an antique silk one that I wore for my own wedding to Ben. In a mad, impulsive moment, justifying the expense by telling myself I’ll only be married once, I bought it in Harrods after falling in love with it at first sight. Now Annie is wearing it, thrilled that I’d offered it to her for her ‘something borrowed’. The cornflowers in her hair are blue and, she whispers to me as we get ready to go, the cowrie shell is her ‘old’ item, for who knows how long it was there waiting for her to pick up on her wedding day.

  As we leave the house, there’s a crowd outside, waiting to see Annie, waving and wishing her luck. Word gets around quickly in a village like ours so there are not only the people Annie has actually met on her visits here, but others who are happy to come out on such a fine day to contribute to a joyous event. There are dozens of children who cheer when Annie appears plus a few dogs, including Old Yeller, who has ambled up to see what all the fuss is about. Annie’s smile when she waves back at them is radiant.

  It’s a short drive to Creek and when we turn off the main road down the narrow lane that leads to the church, I check my watch and see that the timing is exactly right. I feel a glow of satisfaction that we remembered to check the tides before deciding on the time of the wedding. When the tide is in, the view from the church is spectacular, but when it’s out, it’s mud flats. Today, when we arrive it will be high tide, the sea placid and awesomely beautiful on this windless October day.

  Suddenly our car stops and I realise that never, in rural Cornwall, can you be precise about some things, like time, for instance. For in front of us, ambling down the hilly road, is a huge herd of dairy cows. They’re being moved from one field to another by a farmer and his son, and we’ve arrived at the very start, just as the cows are leaving their first field.

  It takes ages. The sweet scent of wedding bouquets is replaced by the warm rich smell of earth and animal. One independent cow decides to go her own way and darts past the car, mooing in the window as she does so.

  ‘Ah, Annie,’ I smile to myself, ‘Welcome to country living.’

  And so the wedding is held up for what feels like a long ten minutes or so thanks to the cows and Annie nearly trips on her gown as she steps perhaps a little too fast into the stone porch of the old church.

  ‘Steady on,’ I say. ‘He’s still waiting for you. Take a couple of deep breaths first.’

  She does, holding up her bouquet of lavender, mingled with fine greenery and small white daisies, to inhale its scent. Within seconds she starts sneezing.

  ‘Oh God, why did I do that?’ she whispers, while Ben gropes for the antihistamines he’s in charge of and hands her a handkerchief. She swallows a pill without water while I’m murmuring warnings about overdosing.

  ‘I took one first thing this the morning, ages ago,’ she mutters back.

  It takes another few minutes for Annie to get over her attack which is only a blip. She still looks gorgeous and, despite everything, serene.

  ‘Keep those flowers at waist level,’ I hiss as the familiar strains of Handel’s ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ signals the beginning of this wedding we’ve all been waiting for.

  It’s a beautiful wedding. Ms Fluffy Slippers has done a sterling job; the lavender at the heart of each arrangement at the pew ends sends wafts of delicate scent which mixes with the ancient aroma of old stone and candle. I wonder what the vicar thought, seeing Chloe adjusting the elegant flowers in her worn slippers.

  All goes smoothly and I shed happy tears when Ben reads Annie’s favourite Shakespeare sonnet. We catch each other’s eye as he says the words ‘Love alters not when it alteration finds’, remembering our own wedding vows all those years ago.

  And then it’s over. Annie and Pete leave the church to the wedding march and the pealing bells to be congratulated, photographed and showered with organic confetti of rice and dried lavender.

  There is a moving moment as, in the midst of this happy commotion, a man dressed in a tartan kilt stands solemnly on a mound of grass between church and estuary to play the bagpipes. Everyone falls silent, listening to the haunting sound of the pipes rising and falling, drifting across the still deep waters of the bay.

  It’s such an enchanted, magical late autumn afternoon that everyone lingers at the church for quite some time. Annie and Pete are cocooned in a constant group of friends and family, the photographer mingling takes photos of everyone and everything. Amy and Will are running about with other children, their happy shouts adding to the joyful atmosphere. Pete’s best man, an old school friend, is talking to the bagpiper, who is a mate of his just moved here from Inverness. Ben is over there too, talking to some of the ushers. It’s like a lovely dance, with groups forming, dissolving then re-forming into other patterns.

  For a few moments I’m alone. I gaze at the medieval church and think about a funeral I attended here, in October also. It was the funeral of one of my customers, an old Cornishman named Mr Hawker who lived and died alone but whose basic goodness filled the church with those who mourned him.

  And now that memory is superimposed by this day, this glorious wedding. As the afternoon changes slowly into evening and people start to leave for the reception, I watch the sea darken from pale turquoise to a royal blue, and the sky grow amber as the su
n begins its downward journey.

  ‘Come on, everyone,’ I finally call to my family. ‘Time to go on. There’s still loads more to come, you know.’

  And there is. With a full heart, I’m thankful that there is always more to come.

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Tessa Hainsworth

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17