Seagulls in the Attic Read online

  Ben wakes early to see to the gull before he goes off to work. Luckily, I have a day off. I’m not about to let him climb up a ladder with a baby gull in one hand without me to steady it. He takes our tallest ladder from the shed and marches with it to the next-door chimney, doing a recce before trying to restore the bird to its home.

  When he comes down he says, ‘It’s no use. There’s no way we can get to the nest. I can’t just drop the little thing down the hole, the nest must be quite a way down. I can’t even see it. I’ve checked if there are any places I can get into the attic but there aren’t. And the house is well locked up.’

  I know the owner lives in London and there’s no way he’d drop everything and come down to open up the house for a baby seagull. I say, ‘Ben, we’ll have to look after it. First we must get him out of our attic. He’ll die up there.’

  I find a box and put an old, soft cushion in it, as Ben brings down the gull. It flaps about in panic but seems to settle when placed in the box, standing there calmly looking at us as if to say, ‘Well, here I am. So what’re you going to do about me?’

  What indeed. Ben leaves for work and the children, after making a fuss of the bird and insisting on feeding it, go off to school, leaving me alone with the seagull. We stare at each other. It looks about a week old, the size of a chick, maybe a bit bigger, and covered with soft grey down. It has a few black spots on its head and looks gawky and pitiable. I feel a fool, but my maternal instincts are coming to the fore. I need to take care of this baby.

  First of all, I need advice. I try to phone the RSPB but can’t get through for some reason. So I think; what do gulls eat when they are in the wild? I mean, really wild, not along the seafront at Morranport or St Geraint. I recall seeing them swooping out over the water, plucking things from the sea. Fish. Of course. But I haven’t any fish in the house and I also know that none of us will have time to buy fish regularly or cut it into tiny pieces to feed to the seagull. Somehow I see that this is going to be a long-term project. I decide to go to the village shop and see what ready-made foods I can find that contain fish but that would be easy to feed a baby bird. I might also be able to glean some information about the habits of seagulls from the locals.

  Last night’s wind has died and there’s now a bright sun, drying the tree branches that were blown down in the night. The churchyard and woodland are alive with colour, the vivid pale green of early spring leaves and foliage, the white of the garlic flowers now beginning to be taken over by the deep colour of the bluebells which are everywhere, looking fresh and bright after the storm, the scent divine. I cut through the path between the church and churchyard, noting the fresh lilies on a couple of the gravestones. It’s an ancient church and used to be part of a much wider parish so some of the old plots are still carefully attended to by new generations. The church warden has forbidden plastic flowers so that there are always masses of freshly cut flowers here, but as always they seem pale and insipid next to the living growing ones. The rhododendrons are everywhere and, have been for a while, their colour spectacular. The neglected garden at Poet’s Tenement is a mass of purple and red as the huge rhododendron bushes that have been there for years flower at once. Azaleas abound too, their colours adding to the glow. There are times that I feel I’ve moved to a Technicolor world after living in a black and white film for years. Up above me in the trees the rooks have built their nests and are feeding their young. In the mornings and evenings their noise and chattering fill the whole village with caws and cries. There’s been a rookery in Treverny for four hundred years, apparently.

  Our one and only local shop is tiny but well stocked. There are five people in there and it’s crowded. The sun is so lovely and warm on my face that I decide to wait outside until one or two people leave. The first to come out is Doug, the farm worker. Jake, who is with me, yaps at him gleefully. To Jake, every person he meets is a possible candidate for a doggie game. ‘Oh Doug, hello, great day, isn’t it?’ I call to him.

  He peers around him then at the sky before saying noncommittally, ‘Might be.’

  ‘I was wondering, Doug, what you might know about seagulls.’

  He snorts. ‘They should all be shot, that’s what I know, me lover. Why d’ya ask?’

  ‘Oh, uh, no reason.’ He’s looking at me suspiciously so I add, ‘Many about, that’s all.’

  ‘You telling me? Should be blasted outa the sky, every last one of them,’ he shakes his head, glowers, then makes another snorting sound. Doug has the largest repertoire of snorts of anyone I know.

  The shop is almost empty now. I look around at the shelves for fishy things. There’s tuna, sardines, pilchards. All of them will do but will they be a bit messy to feed? And how much do young gulls eat? Maybe I should just stick to bread. The gull seemed to like the softened bread we’ve been feeding it. While I’m thinking I decide to get a treat for Jake so I look at the pet food section. And there it is, right in front of me – dried cat food with salmon in it. What could be better? I don’t have to waste a whole tin if the bird eats only a little and if it’s soaked in warm water it’ll have the texture of bread, plus it’s got fish in it. What more could a baby gull want?

  I buy a packet just as Daphne comes into the shop. ‘Oh hi, Tessa. When did you get a cat?’

  I smile. ‘Not a cat. A baby seagull. We found it in our attic and this is to feed it.’

  More people have come into the store and are listening unashamedly to our conversation. I found this unnerving when we first moved here, the way everyone openly eavesdrops, but I’ve not only got used to it, I like it. Well, mostly I do. When Ben was ill last year it was a great thing that the village soon knew, for they came around with offers to help, with food and comfort. I couldn’t have carried on without them. Just sometimes, like now, I find myself longing for a secret or two. Daphne is looking concerned but the man and woman behind her have expressions on their faces I can’t quite read.

  Daphne says, ‘Feed it? Look Tessa, I know your intentions are good but wouldn’t it be kinder not to? It’ll die anyway, they always do, when they drop out of their nest.’

  Before I can answer the man behind her says, ‘She’s right, y’know. It’ll be kinder to all of us, not just that bird.’

  The woman is nodding. They’re both locals, usually easygoing folk I’ve spoken to once or twice in the shop, but now she says, ‘You need to knock it on the head right now, maid. We can’t be doing with more seagulls about.’

  The two say a few more things along the same lines. Daphne to my surprise seems to agree with them though she says it in a gentler manner. I mumble something that I hope sounds neutral and slink away home.

  The baby bird is awake and gives a little chirruping sound when it sees me. He’s already recognising me as the bearer of food. I soak the dry cat pellets in hot water, talking to the gull as I do so, telling it not to be impatient, food is on its way. It cocks its head to one side as if it understands, or at least is trying to. When the cat food cools down, I hold a soft pellet over the gull’s beak and like before, it opens and I pop in the food. He loves it, I can tell by the way he nearly snaps my fingers off along with the cat food. As I continue with the feeding, I realise I’m referring to the bird as ‘he’ more and more, rather than ‘it’. How do I know it’s a he? I don’t, of course, but ‘he’ he is, until we know for sure. Which we probably never will, I muse as I continue popping pellets into the wide open beak. But this seagull is definitely acting like a boy baby, I decide, with the greedy way he’s demanding more food. I’m realising something else. I am acting as if this bird will stay in our family for ever, like Jake or Elvis, but I know, even without Daphne telling me, that baby birds don’t live long in captivity. I know, too, that even if we could get him back into the nest, the parents probably would not accept him. Oh dear, I think, what do we do now?

  I ask Nell this question the next day, when I’m back at work. The warm sun has held and she’s shed her fuzzy jumpers to put on a thin, vivid t
urquoise long-sleeved T-shirt with a scoop neck, showing off her massive cleavage to perfection.

  ‘A what? What you be telling me exactly?’ her voice is incredulous as she turns to stare at me. Her extravagantly frizzy white hair looks as if it’s standing on end.

  ‘A baby seagull, Nell. Found it in our attic. Not sure what’s to become of it.’

  Nell grunts, ‘I be telling you what’s to become of it, maid. The nasty bird will grow up to drive us all mad like the rest of ’em, screeching and quarrelling amongst themselves over a bit of pasty someone dropped in the bin, pecking open our rubbish bags, stealing food outa the mouths of babes and pensioners.’ She stops to take a breath. Luckily a customer comes in before she could say anything else.

  It will be the same no matter who I talk to, I realise as I walk along the seafront. Seagulls are the most unpopular birds in Cornwall and it’s understandable, I have to admit. Nell wasn’t just quoting clichés, the gulls have often snatched sandwiches from children on the harbour, or ice cream from someone sitting on a sea wall. In a crowded seaside town they can be a real health hazard with their aggressive behaviour.

  Some of the offending creatures are perched on the rocks at the edge of the water and I stop to look at them before continuing my round. Two of them fly off, graceful and elegant as they swoop through the sky, the sun making their white feathers dazzle. To me, the gulls don’t look predatory at all, but beautiful and even majestic as they fly around the shallows and sand or sun themselves on rocks. They belong here and they were here first. Maybe it’s us who are the predators, I think as I finally tear myself away from the birds and carry on delivering the post. Maybe we’re the intruders, not them.

  I go home with some trepidation, knowing there’s a good chance I’ll find our little bird dead, but to everyone’s surprise, our seagull lives. And grows stronger over the next few days, more noisy and demanding too.

  ‘He’s getting bossy,’ I say to the children.

  Now that it looks as if our gull will survive, we need to find a name for him. I’ve been calling him Google Gull, as I’ve been on Google nearly every day trying to find out how to raise a baby seagull. I was quite chuffed to discover my dried cat-food theory was a good one, that information on the search engine confirmed it was a decent food for gulls. We have a heated family discussion on names but since no one can agree on another name, Google he is, officially now.

  ‘You’ve got a what?’ Annie asks on the phone.

  ‘A pet seagull. He’s adorable.’

  ‘But I thought seagulls were the most hated bird in Cornwall.’

  ‘Um, yes. They are.’

  There is a pause on the other end of the line, ‘Let me get this straight. You can’t stand snakes yet one lives in your house. Seagulls are considered a menace by all the locals you’re trying to fit in with but somehow you’ve managed to adopt one.’

  ‘Actually, Annie, I think it was Google who adopted us.’ A long drawn out sigh comes down the phone from London, ‘Ah well, maybe you’re still a Londoner at heart.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Always at the cutting edge,’ she giggles. So do I.

  Suddenly Google, no doubt thinking our laughter has something to do with him, starts cawing to be noticed, and Jake, unsure of this new creature in the household, starts barking madly at the tall, sturdy box we keep the gull in. I say goodbye and begin to embark on a training session with Jake, on how to live with a seagull. It looks like Google is going to be around for a while.

  Chapter 5

  The mole whisperer

  I’m surprised to find Pete, Annie’s Cornish boyfriend, home on this Tuesday morning as he’s usually at work, but he comes to do the door feverish and coughing. ‘It’s only a cold,’ he tells me. ‘Not the flu, but I’m feeling rough and sorry for myself so I’ve taken the day off. C’mon in for a coffee unless you’re afraid of catching something.’

  I’m being plagued by moles in my allotment digging under the ground and tunnelling under my vegetables. No one quite seems to know what to do with them, so I accept Pete’s offer, hoping he’ll know of a solution, having been in the agriculture business all his working life. It’s also good to see him. I like Pete and think he’s perfect for Annie. He’s a solid dependable guy but also intelligent and fun.

  I follow Pete into the neat kitchen in his tiny bungalow.

  ‘Annie’s coming down this weekend, as you probably know,’ Pete says. ‘I hope this cold is gone by then.’

  I nod. ‘We’re getting together for a meal, right? The four of us?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ Pete says. ‘We’re both looking forward to it.’

  ‘So am I.’ When Annie visits now she doesn’t stay with me like she used to do but with Pete, which is understandable. They only have weekends after all. At least now I don’t have to spend hours hoovering up every last dog hair and keep Jake off the furniture for a whole weekend. Although Annie loves dogs, she is allergic not just to them but to animal hairs, tree pollen, grass seeds, plants and feathers – you name it and Annie sneezes. She lives on antihistamines when she visits.

  We talk mostly about Annie, as Pete is besotted with her. Before I go, though, I bring him back to earth by asking his professional advice. ‘Pete, I’ve got moles digging tunnels under my garden. What’s the best way to get rid of them?’

  Pete blows his nose before he answers. He’s really full of cold, red-eyed, red-nosed and washed out. ‘You need to get back to bed,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask you another time.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Moles are tricky things, hard to dislodge. We’ve got various things I could sell you, but none of it is very nice. For instance, smoke bombs.’

  ‘How do they work?’

  ‘You put them in the tunnels, smoke the moles out.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve not had anyone rave about how they got rid of their moles that way.’

  ‘So what does work?’

  Pete sighs, ‘Frankly, nothing much. We’ve got some newish product, some kind of solar thing that emits high-frequency sounds that apparently freak out the moles and they leave fast. It’s expensive, though, and the few I’ve sold haven’t had spectacular results.’

  ‘So that’s no help.’

  ‘Well, there are products that kill them. If you want to go down that road.’

  ‘Kill them? But they’re so little, so cute. I could murder them for tunnelling under my garden but not kill them.’

  He laughs. ‘Try talking to them. People talk to bees and horses. Why not talk to the moles and ask them nicely to leave your garden alone?’

  He sees my face and turns serious again, ‘Sorry, Tessa, I shouldn’t tease you. I know what a pest moles can be, believe me.’

  Next day on my round I park the van at a tiny beach where I sometimes stop to eat my lunch. It’s another fine day so I get out to stretch my legs and take a short walk on the sand. The changing nature of the shore never fails to fill me with wonder; it’s never the same two days in a row. Though the beach is sandy today and the tide out, I came here once after a storm and found to my astonishment that there was no sand only an expanse of pebbles. For a few moments I thought I’d gone to the wrong beach, but there was the same old harbour wall at the end with the rotting fishing boat moored to it. Bemused, I went back a few days later and there was the sand again.

  One of the locals told me it wasn’t a rare occurrence. ‘It’s the power of the sea, maid. When a storm’s that fierce, combined with the spring or autumn tides, the sand gets sucked back into the sea, only to be brought back on another tide.’

  Today there is a mass of interesting seaweed washed up on the shore. The shape, texture and colour – deep greens, rich browns, purple-blacks – are fascinating. A strand of coppercoloured seaweed, washed over a rock, looks like an exquisite fine stone necklace. Impulsively I pick it up and drape it around my neck over my red postie polo shirt. It smells divine, faintly fishy but mostly that wonderf
ul ozone scent that I can’t get enough of.

  An hour or so later, delivering post to the Yellands, I’m waylaid by both of them to see the magnificent blooms of the Old Garden Rose, which have outdone themselves this year. The great white roses are truly exquisite and Mr Yelland actually takes his pipe from his mouth to inhale deeply.

  ‘The scent,’ he explains. ‘Just smell.’

  I take a deep breath and the perfume is truly heavenly, or it would be if a slight fishy smell wasn’t mingling with it. I glance down and see my fat seaweed necklace hanging down my chest, the sun having dried away the salty sea scent leaving only an odour of decaying sea creatures.

  The Yellands must have noticed my unusual drapery, as we have been discussing roses for some time, but being so formal and polite they, of course, would not mention it. And, of course, I can’t begin to explain now to them just why I decided to adorn myself with seaweed jewellery. And so we all pretend that nothing is amiss, that I’m still their spruce uniformed postie and not some crazy woman pretending to be a mermaid.

  When I go, Mrs Yelland pays me for the week’s newspapers while Mr Yelland hands me a paper bag full of garlic mustard. ‘To thank you, Mrs Hainsworth,’ they say politely.

  Mrs Yelland sheepishly hands me another bag, this one full of Swiss chard and says, ‘I wonder if you could please do us a favour and deliver these to Mr Perkins on your round? He loves Swiss chard, his wife used to grow it year after year before she died.’

  ‘It’s just that we don’t see him that often these days, not since we moved,’ Mr Yelland adds.

  I take the bag, assure them that I’ll deliver the vegetable which I do shortly. There’s no post for Perkins (the Yellands are the only ones I’ve heard refer to him as Mr) but I drive out to his semi-isolated cottage anyway. He takes the chard with great pleasure and asks me to wait while he hobbles back into his house on his painful hips, coming back with an armful of magazines.