Seagulls in the Attic Read online

  Edna and Hector are both outside ‘Poet’s Tenement’ looking like meditating monks as they walk up and down on the uneven stone path through their front garden. I can never get over how that wild and unkempt garden always manages to look charming, rather like the couple themselves. Edna has on her royal blue velvet cape and Hector wears something that looks like a cardinal’s cloak – it’s deep red, hooded, long and flowing. Perhaps one of his ancestors was the Pope’s right-hand man; with those two you never know. I find it interesting how, despite their oddity, their eccentricities and their reticence, they are still embraced by the local community. I think they’ve already become legends in their own lifetimes, the villagers being proud of having something to add to the mystery, myth and folklore which is rampant in this county.

  I stand for a moment and watch them walking back and forth on the rough path then around and around the inside path along the stone wall. They walk slowly, contemplatively. I’ve seen them do this before; it’s their form of exercise. Apparently they’ve done it for years, ever since they got too old to ramble over seaside cliffs.

  The first thing I see when I get to my garden are my onion sets, which instead of being planted firmly under the earth as I left them, are scattered randomly on top of the ground. I’m both bewildered and indignant. Who did this? Who dared vandalise my garden? All I can do is stand there and gape. What happened? Why?

  As if I’ve spoken aloud, a voice answers my silent question. ‘It’s those blackbirds, maid. They think there’s something tasty under there and peck the onions out. Too bad. You’ll have to sow them all over again.’

  I turn and see Hector nodding at me. He’s barely taller than his wife and just as bird-like only instead of a tiny beak for a nose, his is long and bony, more like a hawk’s. Covering his bald head today in a straw hat which appears to have been run over a few times by a horse and cart. He looks distinguished, though goodness knows how he manages it with that ruby red drapery and an old straw hat; perhaps it is his manner. Both he and Edna never seem flustered or fazed by anything. Though old and fragile-looking, they both stand ramrod straight, which gives them the appearance of always being in control despite their whacky clothes and advanced age.

  I look at him quizzically. ‘Blackbirds? But I like blackbirds. They have such a lovely song.’

  A glimmer of amusement passes over Hector’s face. ‘So do we all, maid, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be pesky at times. Best make the most of it and get on with replanting. Shall I give you a hand?’

  ‘No, thanks, Hector. I’ll be fine.’

  I’ve just replanted the onions and am investigating my leek plants which look a bit beaten down after all the rain. At least the peas seem fine. Carefully I plant out the cauliflowers that were given to me, with a cursory nod at the blackbird watching me in the tree.

  ‘Leave my patch alone,’ I mutter. As if in answer the blackbird bursts into song. I listen for a minute then grin. ‘OK, I forgive you. Just don’t do it again.’

  I’m about to go when someone calls to me from the other gate, the one leading onto the road. It’s one of the farm workers from Daphne and Joe’s farm, a middle-aged man called Doug, who also works a morning a week strimming the Humphreys’ front path. ‘Great day for gardening, ain’t it? Great day all around, if you ask me.’ He leans over the gate, surveying my allotment.

  ‘Oh hi, Doug. Yes, it’s gorgeous isn’t it. I thought I might have planted too early but it looks like spring is here to stay.’

  ‘Hmm, mebbe, mebbe not. Them leeks don’t look too good. A bit early I’d have said for leeks. And you’ve put the cauli in. Hmm.’

  ‘Oh? Oh dear. But it’s so warm and sheltered, I thought they’d be fine.’

  Doug purses his lips and sucks air through them, making a whistling sound. I’ve seen Cornish farmers do this many a time, especially when they’re about to pronounce something horrific, like the price of feed rising exorbitantly or the impossibility of selling an animal for the price the buyer is asking. ‘Don’t know who told you that, my lover. If you ask me, peas are the only crop hardy enough to sow now.’ He makes that air-sucking noise again and shakes his head.

  ‘What’s the matter? What is it?’ I ask. He’s not saying anything and I’m beginning to get a bit nervous. After all, Doug’s been working on the land since he was a boy and he should know what he’s talking about.

  Finally he speaks, ‘Peas is all very well, my handsome, but even then, you got to be careful, if you ask me. You see, I hear tell that there’s gonna be a frost tonight.’

  ‘What?’ I nearly shriek the word. ‘This is south Cornwall, look at the sun. There can’t be a frost.’

  ‘I feel it in my bones. If you ask me,’ he folds his arms stubbornly across his chest. He’s a burly man, rugged and jowly.

  I stare at him. ‘OK, Doug, so what do I do? Everything’s already in the ground. I’m not about to dig it up because you think there might be a frost.’

  He looks chuffed at being asked. He makes that whistling sound again as if the answer is going to be tough and then says one word, ‘Fleece.’

  ‘Fleece?’

  ‘Yep, that’ll do it. Get a bit of fleece and put it over the peas, that’ll give ’em some protection. Yes, that’ll do just fine. Best get on now, see you again.’ He walks away, no doubt quite pleased with himself, telling the city gal a few facts about the land.

  Fleece, eh? Well, that’s no problem. I know where to get some fleece, with all the sheep around here. Doug said just a bit would do. I have plenty of time to get some as Ben is picking up the children from school today.

  So instead of going straight home, I wander down the lane leading out of the village and down to some local farms. It’s such a golden day that I’m delighted to have an excuse not to go straight home. The narrow road is lined with hedgerows beginning to green up with the coming of spring. Pink, blue and yellow wild flowers peep between twigs and a robin is watching me from a beech tree. The warmth is soporific, I can feel it filling my body, warming my bones as it’s warming the earth. Spring in Cornwall has got to be one of most entrancing seasons of the year.

  After ten minutes of walking I come to a field of sheep. I’ve passed by here lots of times and noticed how, towards the end of winter and spring, before the sheep are shorn, their wool sometimes gets a bit straggly, catching on bits of fencing, brambles and low tree branches. A public footpath runs along the sides of this field which is ideal. I walk all around it, gathering bits of wool here and there, dropping it into my basket. There are more pickings in the field opposite. The sheep gaze at me from a distance, placid and undisturbed.

  By the time I finish collecting, I have a basketful of wool. Put together it must be almost as much as a whole sheep’s fleece. This is what Doug meant, I assure myself, for even I, townie that I am, know not even Cornish farmers shear in March, so finding an entire sheep’s fleece would be impossible. In fact, with my basketful of wool straight off the sheep’s back, I’m feeling quite on top of this gardening lark. Doug cannot resist poking fun at us city folk at times when we struggle to make sense of country ways so I wish he’d pass by now to see how enterprising I’ve been.

  This is the life. I begin to whistle as I saunter back to my allotment, going in through the gate from the road and noting with satisfaction that all is as it should be. I’ve replanted the onion sets and they remain untouched by birds. The little leeks are perking up and the cauliflower plants I’ve just put out are fine. It might be only an hour or two since I was here last, but I can’t help feeling relieved that everything still looks the same.

  I take the fleece from my basket and painstakingly drape it over the row of peas. It looks sparse when it’s all spread out like that but Doug said it would do the trick. It looks pretty on the dark brown soil, like a light coating of snow or frost, or a delicate spider’s web, shining with dew, perhaps. The patterns the wisps of wool make are so intriguing that I can’t help rearranging them so that the sunlight
can shine on and through the wool making lovely swirls and intricate designs. Just because my garden is meant to be functional, I decide, it can still be aesthetically pleasing.

  I turn to gaze with admiration at my new cold frame, which I made with a top from a window and frame I found at the local tip and bits of wood. It’s extraordinary, the delight one can have in such simple things. Instead of a designer handbag or an exquisite new pair of shoes, I’ve got a cold frame.

  The clucking of the hens demands my attention next. It’s too early for them to go in for the night so I take them a handful of corn from the feed bin. They bustle up around me, fussing and making the friendly confidential clucking noises that I love. Originally we had only the brown Rhode Islands but a couple of them died and I’ve replaced one with a light Sussex, a white hen with black feathers on her neck and tail. I’ve learned that these Sussex hens were bred white so that no dark quill marks showed up on their skin when they were plucked. Her eggs are pale brown, not like my other replacement, the Maran hen, whose eggs are a rich dark chocolate colour.

  While my hens cluck and peck at the corn I’ve tossed them, I check the nest boxes to see if they’ve started laying again. They stopped over winter, and then with the move to their new home, they’re a bit slow getting started again.

  I put my hand in the straw. The first box is empty, but eureka! The other one has a single egg in it. I peer at it and see that it’s one of the brown Rhode Islanders. I’m so tempted to run home with it to show Ben, Amy and Will, but I know I have to leave it there. Even when there’s no need, when there’s no cockerel around to fertilise a hen’s eggs, she’s still massively protective of them. If I take this one away, whoever did the laying will decide the nest box isn’t a safe place and take her future eggs somewhere else. I don’t want them to start laying all over the orchard.

  I go out and croon over the hens. ‘Wonderful job, girls, you’re brilliant! Great start, whoever it was. I’m sure you’ll all be laying before the week is out. I can’t tell you how we’re all looking forward to fresh eggs for breakfast again.’

  They cock their heads to one side as chickens do, looking at me with one beady eye, following me around. As I walk through the old orchard, I feel, as I do each time, that I’m in some kind of fairy tale, an eerie yet benign story of ancient elves, sprites and spirits. The pear trees mixed in with the apples are old, gnarled and well past their prime. Emerald green moss grows up the battered trunks and on the odd rocks strewn seemingly randomly here and there. Branches have broken off throughout the years and been left to lie where they fell, some beginning to rot and split. From here you can see neither the road nor any house other than Poet’s Tenement, which, from this side, looks like a whimsical castle fit for a magnificent Elfin king.

  With great satisfaction I once again head towards home, stopping on my way to pick the tops off a bunch of nettles growing at the edge of the lane, making sure I don’t pick any leaves dog-pee height as I learned from the Truro lady in my food-foraging class. I’ve been reading up on how to find and identify food that can be picked for free. Apparently the early spring nettles are the best, and there are masses growing now. I pick enough to steam for our dinner tonight, wearing the thick gloves I bought especially for this purpose. Last time I picked nettles I wore my yellow Marigold gloves, learning the hard way how painful nettle stings can be. That time I obviously steamed the nettles too lightly as they were still a bit tough and stingy. Will and Amy will groan when they see me walk in with this next batch but I’m ever hopeful. Nettles are supposed to taste a bit like spinach when cooked properly. Trial and error, I decide, though this year might be more error as it’s my first attempt.

  Back home, Ben has made a delicious stew from cheap but nourishing cuts of lamb from the butcher at St Geraint, potatoes and veg from local producers. The gravy is his own perfect blend of herbs and spices. We’ve both learned how to make tasty meals at half the cost of our London meals, back in the days when we bought any ingredient we fancied no matter what the cost. None of us would say we enjoyed our food more in those days than we do now.

  To top off our meal I steam the nettles to go with the stew. This time I only picked the top leaves as I was supposed to, and steamed it until it was just right. To everyone’s surprise, it’s delicious, a bit like spinach only with its own distinct taste. This food foraging does pay off, I decide. I vow to carry a basket or rucksack with me everywhere I go from now on, along with some thick gloves.

  Next day I’m in my allotment when Susie comes by with a few more leek plants someone’s given her which she can’t use. I show off my hens, my new homemade cold frame. ‘I’ve bought some lettuce seeds,’ I burble with excitement. ‘I can’t wait to sow them in the cold frame tomorrow.’

  ‘They’ll be doing nicely there. But remember, my bird, once they begin to grow, take the top off that frame in the morning if it’s going to be a really sunny day so they don’t shrivel and die of the heat. Then back on in the evenings for those cold spring nights.’

  ‘Thanks, Susie. You’re a star.’

  She shrugs this off and turns to take a proper look at my garden. ‘Tessa, what on earth is that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That white stuff. All over that part of the garden.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the fleece.’

  ‘Fleece?’ she looks perplexed. Maybe there’s something about gardening I know that she doesn’t, thanks to Doug.

  I try not to sound smug as I explain. ‘You see, even though peas are the first seeds that can go into the ground because they’re quite hardy, there’s still a chance of night frost. So it’s best to put some fleece over them to protect them.’

  She’s staring at me as if I were a madwoman, ‘Who told you to put sheep’s wool down?’

  I’m beginning to feel something is not quite right. ‘It’s fleece. Sheep’s wool is their fleece, right? It was Doug, you know, works up at Daphne and Joe’s farm. Said the peas could do with some fleece over it for protection.’

  Susie is grinning before I even finish my explanation. I ask, ‘Was Doug having me on? Aren’t you supposed to put fleece on your garden?’

  She has to catch her breath before she can answer for by now she’s giggling like crazy, ‘No, my bird, Doug was absolutely right about the fleece. The thing is, gardening fleece does not come off sheep. It’s a roll of thin fleecy material. You get it in gardening or farming shops, not from sheep.’ At this she has to sit down she is laughing so hard.

  As usual Susie’s laugh is infectious and it’s not long before I start giggling too. We flop down on the warm grass by my new cold frame and cackle like a couple of crows, tears streaming down our faces. I look up when we’ve just about exhausted ourselves to see Edna and Hector staring at us over the gate that leads from their garden to the allotment field. ‘Oh, hello, don’t mind us, I just did the dumbest thing,’ I begin.

  Edna stops me, ‘Don’t explain, m’dear, please. And don’t stop. Hector and I do so love to see young folk enjoying themselves.’

  ‘We certainly do,’ Hector adds. ‘Please carry on.’

  But of course when someone tells you to go on laughing hysterically, it’s practically impossible to do so. Susie and I give them apologetic smiles, mumble something about getting on and get up quickly, wiping grass and loose dirt from our clothes. Edna and Hector look disappointed, as if someone has turfed them out of the cinema in the middle of a favourite film.

  ‘Please,’ I say to Susie before she goes. ‘Please, please, please don’t tell Doug. Anybody but Doug. He’ll never let me hear the end of it.’

  Susie promises, but a few days later I’m in my garden again when Doug stops by. He too is guffawing as he looks over at the sheep’s wool covering my peas. ‘Your veggie garden do be looking like one of them weird displays I hear tell about over at St Ives, that Tate place. Mebbe you should be charging admission, my lover.’

  ‘Susie told you, did she?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nah, my handsom
e, ’twere not Susie. Don’t rightly recall who told me, as all the village was talking about it last night in the pub. Your garden’s not exactly hidden, y’know.’ I take his point. He goes on, ‘So are you going to get it off and get some proper fleece? Nights still might get pretty cold, if you ask me.’

  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.

  Chapter 2

  A rose by any other name . . .

  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.