Seagulls in the Attic Page 7

  I agree that’s pretty old for a cat. ‘How did he get up there in the first place?’

  ‘Oh my dear, that’s just what Hector and I have been asking ourselves. He decided to go out today for the first time and before we knew it, he was up the tree. He hasn’t done that for years.’

  Hector mutters, ‘Must have been feeling frisky. Beautiful day like today, spring, sun, rush of hormones, that kind of thing.’

  I look up at the cat. Hormones? That skeletal, funny-looking thing with clumps of hair sticking out, his age showing in his white whiskery face, the patches where his once luxurious grey fur has thinned. But I keep quiet. Maybe Cornish tomcats are randy long into advanced old age.

  Edna looks at Hector. ‘I think we should call the fire department.’

  He nods. ‘That’s what we were about to do when Hector heard you arrive.’

  I say, ‘Then why were you halfway up that ladder?’

  She shrugs that little incident away, ‘We decided to try the ladder first. Then we were going to call the fire brigade.’

  I look up at the cat again. Pear blossom has covered the Venerable Bede with a cloak of white petals. I say, ‘Do you have any other ladders?’

  ‘Yes, maid, of course. Many more. But this seemed the right size.’

  ‘It might be, but the rungs won’t take my weight.’ I point to the broken one. ‘It barely took Edna’s.’

  She says to Hector, ‘I told you I was putting on weight.’

  I ignore this and say, ‘So where are these other ladders? If we can find a decent one, I’m sure I can get Venerable Bede down.’

  ‘The Venerable Bede,’ Hector corrects me. ‘That was always his full title, that’s the way he’s referred to. Of course we’re so familiar with his namesake that sometimes, not often I assure you, we just say Bede, which is fine now and again. But when you use Venerable, you should always put the in front as the full title.’

  I can’t believe I’m having this bizarre conversation. Going around the house, Edna and Hector lead me into an old wooden shed with a door half broken and hanging off. ‘This is where the ladders are kept,’ Hector says.

  I’ve never seen so many. They’re all jumbled, criss-crossing each other like that children’s game of Pick Up Sticks. It looks like every ladder used since Hector’s father’s time has been saved and stored in here.

  Edna beams at me, ‘Take your pick, my dear.’ She says it grandly, as if offering me an Aladdin’s cave of treasure, but all of them are extremely old wooden ones, most with broken rungs and rotting frames. I’ve never seen anything so lethal in my life.

  The couple are looking at me hopefully. ‘Well, maid, which one suits you best?’ Hector says. Then, gallantly, ‘I’ll carry it for you over to the pear tree.’

  ‘No!’ I holler. Then, more quietly, ‘Uh, no thank you, Hector. The thing is, you see, these won’t do. In fact, they’re dangerous. Look at the broken rungs. You really need to get rid of the whole lot.’

  Both give me a scornful look. ‘Every one of those ladders is made of high-quality wood,’ Hector says. ‘There is nothing wrong with them. We don’t throw things away just because they are old.’

  Edna says, ‘Never mind, dear. I’ll phone the fire brigade.’

  I’m about to let her do it when I remember how short staffed the local fire department is this month. Some of the men are my customers and I know one has an ill wife at home, another a broken arm. Of course they would round up enough reinforcements if they were called out, but this is definitely not an emergency.

  My voice firm, I say, ‘No need for that. I’ll get your cat down but first I’ll nip home and get my own ladder.’

  They start to protest that they have plenty of decent ladders to choose from but I stop them. ‘It’s best to use a ladder one is used to. Especially when trying to take a cat out of a tree. I’m sure you understand.’

  This they do. Thank goodness. I rush home, sling our short, sturdy, aluminium ladder into the car and drive back with it. The Humphreys are under the tree again. ‘Oh do come down, Bede, come on old boy,’ Hector is saying. He shakes his head when the cat doesn’t respond. ‘Oh, you be a right ole’ bugger, me lover.’

  It’s the first time I’ve heard either one of them lapse totally into Cornish dialect, despite the odd word. It sounds as totally natural as it does when he speaks like an old colonial. I’d love to know more of this couple’s history but it will for ever be elusive. What I find so incredible is that they’ve somehow managed to keep their travels and affairs out of the tentacles of that unstoppable rural grapevine, a mystery in itself as I know so well.

  Edna and Hector watch me as I prop my ladder carefully against the tree, making sure it is completely safe and stable before I attempt the first rung. I can feel the Humphreys’ impatience flitting around me like invisible mites, but I’m determined to teach them a lesson in self-preservation.

  I climb slowly up the ladder. Within moments I’m face to face with the cat but now that I’m here, I don’t quite know what to do. I don’t know this cat very well and from what I’ve seen so far, he looks mean. He might be old but he’s got sharp claws, sharp enough to get up this far. I’ve taken the precaution of wearing the thick gloves I use for nettle picking and I’ve thrown on a long-sleeved fleece just before ascending, much to the disgust of Edna and Hector. Neither said anything but I could see it in their faces. Well, it’s a lesson they should learn, an ounce of prevention prevents a pound of cure. Or something like that. Goodness they’re old enough to have invented that saying, so why don’t they follow it?

  I take a deep breath and prepare to gently extricate kitty from the tree, shove him under one arm and use the other to get us both down. ‘Right, Beedy-boy, here we go,’ I mutter in a pussy-friendly whisper. I figure as I’m his rescuer, I’ve a right to speak to him in a more familiar manner.

  But before I can make a move a strange thing happens. The old cat delicately stretches out a skinny front leg, places it on my shoulder then follows with his other limbs and before I know it, he has sedately and with great dignity climbed onto my shoulders.

  ‘Good old boy,’ I hear Hector murmur from below.

  ‘Darling old thing,’ Edna whispers.

  I climb down slowly. The cat remains motionless on my shoulders and when we’re down, lets Hector take him and tickle him under his whiskery chin. Hector hands him to Edna who kisses the top of his head. When he’s allowed these small celebratory gestures, the Venerable Bede shakes himself in such a way that Edna knows to immediately put him down: he’s had enough affection for the moment, thank you very much.

  ‘Dear Bede,’ she says as they fondly watch him walk up the garden path and settle in the sun beside the garden bench. Then she turns to me. ‘Well, my dear, that was easy, wasn’t it. I would have got him down eventually, or Hector would have, but we do appreciate your help. Now let’s all go and have a cup of tea.’

  This time Edna ladles the tea into our cups from a huge pot burbling away on the Aga. I peer into it and see that it is full of green things that look like weeds. ‘Something I found in the hedgerow, dear, I’m not sure of the name. It’s not one of the common plants but it makes a delicious tea.’

  I look at it warily. It looks like dirty bath water. I can’t refuse so I take a cautious sip but surprisingly the taste is wonderful, sort of tangy and refreshing at the same time.

  The Venerable Bede has followed us in and is drinking milk from the lid of some kind of old pot. I try again to ask them how they gave the cat his name and this time I’m lucky. Not only did they travel to Jarrow, where the Venerable Bede lived, but they also stayed at Holy Island where he is supposed to have visited.

  ‘And that’s where we found our kitten,’ Hector says with a wide smile.

  ‘So sweet,’ Edna adds. ‘A tiny stray. Wild. So we brought him home and gave him his true name, the one he had before.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Now both of them look cagey. I have the
feeling they think Edna said too much. She smiles politely. ‘Merely a whim, my dear. He was such a wise kitten and we were studying karma at the time even though we were living temporarily in a Christian community on the island. So we made a little game of it, you see. Now, would you like a top up of my herbal brew?’

  Karma? Christian community? I’m buzzing with questions but as I open my mouth Edna says, ‘Oh, look at the time. My dear Tessa, I’m afraid we’ve made such a dent in your afternoon and you’ve still got your garden to see to.’

  They are both standing up, thanking me for my help, making it quite clear that I will not learn another thing from them today. The Venerable Bede looks hard at me with his green eyes as I go. I’m dying to know more. Do the Humphreys really believe that the cat is a reincarnation of a monk that lived up north more than a thousand years ago? Surely it’s nothing more than a joke between an old married couple. I catch a rather perceptive look between them and wonder if they’ve read my thoughts. What an enigma these two are. Fascinating, though.

  I go back to the allotment, set out my plants and think about Hector and Edna, how I might help in some way. There are dozens of tiny things I can do or suggest to make their lives easier and not so precarious. Cook a meal now and again, check that they’ve got plenty of warmth in the winter months. Before I know it, I’ve finished putting out some cabbage plants. My mind has been so busy organising the Humphreys that I hardly knew what I was doing. I quiet the head noises, breathe in the smell of the warm earth and listen to the birds for a few moments before I go home.

  The children are having dinner at Daphne and Joe’s place tonight – they’re often at the farm, playing with their friends. Ben opens a bottle of red wine some visitors brought us, which we eat with a soup made from chickweeds I picked earlier in one of the Humphreys’ wild meadows. It’s rather tasty, flavoured with lots of wild garlic, and makes a good starter for the leftover casserole from last night. Nothing is wasted now. We’ve learned to love leftovers and anything that remains after we’ve picked over it goes into the compost bucket to be taken to the allotment when it’s full. I’ve got a proper compost bin there now, donated by one of my customers who gave up her vegetable garden when arthritis set in her knees.

  ‘I’ll stick to flowers and shrubs,’ she told me when I delivered the post to her one day last month. ‘The compost bin is nearly new, I’ve only a year’s use of it, so please take it.’

  Ben and I talk about our day as we sip the wine. That’s a treat too. In London we bought our favourite wines whenever we felt like it, as we love a glass with our meals, but now we only have it if someone brings us a bottle or when we see a decent bottle on sale. It’s no hardship, in fact it makes us savour each sip more.

  Ben’s had a long day, for after his stint in the café he had to rush to the Roswinnick Hotel to give a massage to a client there. Ben is a qualified aromatherapist and sometimes the hotel, which is in St Geraint and terribly exclusive, calls on him when one of their residents desires some therapy. Not long ago the manager phoned him in a complete flap. The chef’s wife was suffering with a bad back, the chef couldn’t leave her, there was a famous London theatre director coming to dinner that night as well as some minor royalty, and please could Ben help?

  He’d treated the woman for back and shoulder pain before, and rushed to the Roswinnick to do it again. This too was successful: the chef was happy because his wife was happy, he went back to work and the evening was saved. For payment the manager offered Ben and me a free meal at the hotel which he accepted gratefully, knowing we’d never in a million years afford to eat there. Now we are saving the treat for a special occasion.

  ‘But how about you?’ he asks, after telling me about his latest client at the hotel. ‘What kind of a day did you have?’

  My day seems so long that I have to think back to the beginning. It started at four when I got up but that happens every day. ‘I suppose the first exciting thing that happened came after I’d done my rounds and was at the St Geraint post office.’

  Ben grins. ‘The first thing? You’ve had more than one exciting event in your day? Fantastic.’

  I tell him about Eddie and the life-like snake, and we laugh about it. Next I tell him all about the Humphreys, their cat with the bizarre name, Edna up that rickety ladder, the shed full of broken ones, me running home to get ours to rescue the cat.

  When I finish Ben says, ‘Snakes and Ladders.’

  ‘What?’

  He’s starting to laugh again. ‘You know, the game we’ve played with Amy and Will since they were little. You’ve been playing it all day, by the sound of it.’

  I grin. ‘So I have. Well, who’s the winner then? Eddie with that ridiculous fake snake, or the Humphreys? I suppose it’s got to be the cat. The Venerable Bede wins.’

  Ben pours us a second glass of wine and clinks my glass with his. ‘Not them, you, Tessa. You won by getting through the day unscathed.’

  I raise my glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Chapter 4

  A seagull in the attic

  The phone rings one evening when I’m on my own. Ben is at Joe and Daphne’s farm helping Joe unload some sheep he bought in a market several counties away. Will and Amy have gone too, to help, they said, but really to hang out with their friends.

  I pick up the phone and hear a familiar voice, ‘Hey, country mouse, at last! We haven’t talked for ages. Have you forgotten the big city and all your debauched city friends?’

  ‘Annie, hi, city mouse. Great to hear your wicked London voice. What’re you up to?’

  Annie is such a Londoner that I’m surprised she didn’t send us care packages when we moved to Cornwall. She thought we were totally mad – until she met Pete, the agricultural merchant who lives not far from Treverny. Since then they’ve had a long-distance romance and Annie has begun to see the positive side of living where we do.

  After she’s told me all the latest news about our mutual friends in London, she says, ‘Oh, and Pete’s coming to London again this weekend.’

  ‘Hey, that’s twice in a row. How about you coming here? At least your oldest dearest friend could get a look at you now and again.’

  She sighs. ‘I’d love to. But I’ve got a wedding to go to on Saturday, someone from work. Pete’s going with me. But I’ll be down soon, I promise. Now tell me what’s new in Cornwall.’

  I tell her about my garden and rhapsodise about the new lettuces. When I take a breath she says, ‘What about the old couple who live in the house? They sound so intriguing.’

  ‘They are, but I’m worried about them. They seem to live so chaotically, which is fine when you’re young but at their age it could be deadly. Those loose rugs on the floor, the uneven steps and garden path – it’s all so deadly, an accident waiting to happen.’

  Before we can say any more, I hear the noise again. I hadn’t heard it while we were chatting. ‘Uh oh,’ I say. ‘I was hoping it had gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. I hope nothing much anyway. There’s this noise, up in the attic.’

  ‘What kind of noise?’

  ‘Sort of eerie. Scratching, scrabbling sounds. We’ve been hearing it off and on all day. It sounds worse this evening. Maybe because I’m alone.’ I giggle, trying to make light of it. ‘Actually, I think it’s a ghost. Oh no, you don’t think it’s a snake? Could an adder get into the attic?’

  ‘How would I know, I’m a city gal, remember? I shouldn’t think so. Don’t they just slither on the ground?’

  I make a strangled, gurgling sound. ‘Don’t, Annie. Don’t talk about slithering snakes. Anyway, I’m sure it’s a ghost. What else could it be?’

  ‘Rats.’

  ‘What?’ my voice hollers at her down the phone.

  ‘It’s obvious enough. You’ve got rats up there. You said there was lots of scratching.’

  I stare up at the ceiling as if a rat is going to fall through and land on top of me. ‘How would you know, Annie?
You’re a city girl, like you just said. What would you know about rats?’

  She snorts. ‘That’s one form of animal life everyone who lives in a city knows about, Tessa. You know the statistics, everyone in London is never further than a couple of metres from a rat.’ There’s a pause. ‘Or something like that. Statistics never stay in my head unless I need them for the job.’

  ‘Omigod, rats! What’ll we do, Annie?’

  ‘Send for a rat catcher. That’s what I’d do. Exterminator 2 or whatever they call them down your way.’

  ‘Stop joking.’

  ‘I’m not. I should do it fast too. They breed like rats.’

  ‘They are rats.’

  ‘That’s what I mean, you see?’

  ‘Annie, we can’t afford a rat catcher. We can’t afford anything. Anyway, I’d better go. I hear Ben and the children coming home.’

  I put down the phone and roll my eyes at Ben, surreptitiously trying to indicate the ceiling. I certainly don’t want to frighten the children with stories about rats in the attic.

  Amy says, ‘Oh, those noises again. Are they still there?’

  Will says eagerly, ‘I bet they’re rats. Great, maybe I can catch some babies for Elvis.’

  I sigh. Rats and snakes, and God knows what else. Sending the children up to bed, I turn to Ben. ‘Can you go up and take a look? I think Will is right. There must be rats up there. You’ll have to put some poison down. Or a trap, or something.’

  Ben assures me he’ll take care of it tomorrow when he’s home from work. We go to bed and I lie awake for a long time, first hearing the scratching noises, then not hearing anything. Maybe the rat has died? I’m relieved until I start imagining a dead rat over my head, with only a floorboard and ceiling between it and me. By the time the alarm rings at 4 a.m. I’ve hardly slept a wink.

  On my round the next day I find two of my customers, Emma and Martin Rowland, out in the pasture near their farmhouse with their goats. The Rowlands unwillingly had to give up farming a few years ago, as the struggle against new regulations, larger and larger farms swallowing up smaller ones, the shrinking margin between profit and loss, all combined to make it impossible to carry on. They converted Trelak Farm to a B&B but neither of them is suited to the work, especially Martin. They have slowly been working towards becoming a market garden and plan to go organic as soon as possible. They’ve also got a small herd of milking goats which they are hoping will make some much needed money.