Seagulls in the Attic (27 page)

August, and Cornwall is buzzing. Holidaymakers abound, there are regattas every weekend, the beaches are full and the seaside towns and villages are filled with a festive holiday atmosphere. And now we’re having a holiday too. We’ve never gone camping before, so it will be a huge treat. We’ve got an old but barely used tent a customer was getting rid of, sleeping bags and some air mattresses that Daphne lent me.

In London when we went on holidays to Cornwall, we packed children and dog in the car, a few clothes and that was it; our rented cottages were fully equipped. With camping, my list of what to bring is endless. And then there is the problem of the chickens, the seagull and the lamb – we can’t take them with us, much as we’d like to.

The chickens and Patch are easy; the Humphreys will feed and look after the former, and Joe will do the same for the latter. I’m worried about Google, though. No matter where or how far he flies off, he’s always at the kitchen door twice a
day at least. He expects his dish of dried fishy cat food which he still loves, as well as all the other scraps we give him. Then I have a brainwave. There’s been another reshuffling of part of our rounds and Eddie is now delivering to Treverny, for the summer anyway.

I find him in the Morranport post office chatting to Nell who says, ‘Oh there you be, maid, Eddie and me was just talking about you, wondering whether that snake of yours be found yet.’

I shake my head, ‘No, Elvis is still at large. No sign of him anywhere. We figure he’s either died or slithered off somewhere. The woman at the reptile centre says we’ll probably never find him now. Though I still check the bed before I get into it.’

Eddie grins. ‘Mebbe it’s for the best. We’ve all seen what happens when you spot a snake at your feet.’ He’s not forgotten his little joke with the fake snake and this is not the first time he’s reminded me of it.

I grin. ‘Yeah, Eddie, it was a great gag. Now, how about doing me a favour, since I think you owe me one for being able to laugh at the fact you nearly gave me a heart attack, throwing that thing at me.’

I explain what I want, which is basically to stop by my house every day he delivers to the village and put some food out for Google. Eddie, after making all sorts of over-the-top gestures of astonishment, rolling his eyes, grimacing and the like, reluctantly agrees. Like me and the other rural posties, he’s used to feeding cats, rabbits, other small animals when the owners are away, but a seagull? I know he thinks I’m bonkers, but he’s basically a good lad and he agrees to do it. So that’s it, then. Animals all sorted. I can’t wait until we go camping.

Unfortunately a wintry white fog settles over Cornwall for a few days and it seems more like January than August.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it’ll go before we start our holiday. The tourists try to entertain themselves while the chilly mist envelops the beaches and the cliff tops. A wind has blown up with the fog which makes it swirl and move like something alive. Now and then the sun tries to break through but so far fails every time.

It’s not only the holidaymakers who are restless but the locals, too. It’s unseasonable, this weather. In summer people want to turn outward and live in the light, not huddled up inside themselves like winter, cosy by a roaring fire lit against the cold and dark. Perhaps the fog is the reason why my menagerie is getting restless too. Google hangs around the house more in this weather and sits on our roof screeching most of the day, scaring away the thrushes and other small birds. Our neighbours are getting annoyed and I don’t really blame them. I keep expecting Mr Lander to report my seagull to the police, along with reporting Joe for his dung and Marilyn for obstructing the road with a billy goat.

The next morning it’s still foggy. It doesn’t feel like summer at all and it was hard to get up this morning, which is why I’m half asleep as I drive the empty streets to work. When I hear that raucous, familiar seagull shriek right in my ear, I nearly crash the car. I whirl around to see Google sitting on the back seat.

‘How did you get in here?’ I shout at him. Then I remember leaving the door open when I ran back inside for a cardigan.

It’s too late to go back home and anyway I’m nearly at St Geraint. Google is getting bored with being in the car and starts flapping his wings. I step on the accelerator and get to the boatyard where my post van is.

I say loudly to my seagull, ‘Well you can’t come with me on my round, that’s for sure.’

Mickey, materialising out of the fog, says, ‘Talking to yourself, are you my lover?’

‘You’re here early,’ is all I can think of to say. I can’t, I just can’t, tell him that I’ve got a seagull in my car, let alone that I was talking to it. I’ve heard Mickey’s view on seagulls many a time.

‘Yep, got plenty of work on today as usual. Thick old mist, ain’t it?’ he walks over towards my car, ready for a chat. Mickey likes to chew the fat despite always talking about how busy he is.

I open the car door, trying to get out quickly before he sees Google, but I’m in such a rush I somehow manage to trip over my own feet and land in a heap on the ground.

Mickey is with me in a flash. ‘Hey, you OK?’ When I nod he starts to pick me up but as he does, an almighty squawking and flapping of wings puts the fear of God into him and he drops me again. ‘Shite! What is it? What the hell?’

I’m on my feet, trying to calm Google, and trying to calm Mickey who is jumping up and down severely agitated. ‘God, Tessa, what the hell you got in there? A vulture? Scared the shite out of me.’

Google has calmed down so while I’m mumbling apologies Mickey calms down enough to peer into the car window. ‘God Almighty. A flipping seagull. How the hell did he get in there?’

Now that Mickey knows it’s a seagull and not an albatross or some such rare and dangerous creature, he becomes The Hero. ‘Don’t worry, Tessa, I’ll get the bloody thing out. Right nuisance, those birds. Don’t you fret, maid, I’ll get rid of it for you. Just you stand aside now.’ He picks up a shovel lying against the boatyard shed and goes towards the car.

I holler, ‘No, no!’

Mickey turns to reassure me, ‘Don’t you worry, I won’t get no blood over the upholstery. Just gonna drive it out with this, y’see?’ He brandishes the shovel.

I pull on his arm. ‘It’s OK, Mickey, honest. He’s not any
old seagull, it’s my pet, it’s tame. We raised him from a baby.’

Mickey drops the shovel and stares at me. ‘You what?’ He says it as if I’ve nursed a baby cobra at my breast. ‘You gotta be joking.’

‘Uh, no.’

He peers into the back of my car again then jumps back quickly as Google flaps his wings at him. ‘You must be daft as a brush, maid,’ he mutters as he walks away. ‘I never heard nothing like it.’

By the time I’ve finished my round, all the post office workers plus half the village of both St Geraint and Morranport are talking about my domestic relationship with a seagull, taking it around for drives in my car along the seaside. And like the snake, when Elvis first came to live with us, Google is the subject of much larking about at my expense. I get comments all day like, ‘Hey, me handsome, I hear tell you be keeping a home for seagulls, so how about taking away a dozen more?’ and ‘I done give those pesky gulls that hang out in front of me shop your car number, postie, so you can drive them all Up Country somewhere.’

When I get back to my car at the boatyard, Google is gone. I left the windows open despite the damp fog still swirling around. Everywhere is white, the sea, the sky, there’s no horizon, nothing but this haze.

I jump when Mickey suddenly appears in front of me, materialising like some lanky spirit. ‘He be gone, my lover. Your bloody gull. Scrabbled outa the car and flew off soon after you’d gone.’

‘Oh. Well, I half expected it. I didn’t think he’d stay in the car all day. Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘How the hell should I know? Out there somewhere with all the other gulls, stealing food, plaguing the emmetts, splattering the town with bird shit.’

‘Right. Sorry I asked.’

He takes my words at face value. ‘That’s all right. No problem. But let me give you a piece of advice, my lover. Next time you find a baby gull, you ring its bloody neck.’

I make some kind of non-committal sound and wave goodbye. Sitting in my car, I look at the gulls sitting on some nearby rocks. They look majestic, beautiful and free, especially when they soar up from their perches or dive down after fish. Sighing, I wonder if Google will come back. Maybe he won’t find his way, or won’t want to come back now. I peer through my open window, hearing boat and bird noises in the fog, but I can’t see anything but the swirling mist; even the gulls have gone. I wonder if I’d recognise Google with all the other seagulls but I then remember he’s got a red band around his leg. Ben banded him when he was still a baby, so that if he went off we’d always recognise him amongst the other birds.

I drive home slowly, stopping every time I hear the cry of seabirds, looking out over fields and cliff tops to see if it’s Google. It’s daft I know, especially as the mist is so thick now I can hardly see anything, but I’m worried about my seagull. The pragmatist in me knows that if he has flown away at last, joining the other gulls on the cliffs, it would be for the best. But he’s my sweetie, my baby bird that came to stay in our attic and has never left home. Not just me but the whole family would miss him if he goes now.

As I get home the first thing I see is Google, flying above the car as I slow down and park. ‘I thought we’d lost you,’ I say, so pleased to see him that I give him half the cheese sandwich I was saving to eat when I got home.

The unseasonable fog lifts just in time for our camping trip. August is hot and sunny and we’re on our way to a campsite near the sea. We’ve chosen the West Penwith peninsula, still
in Cornwall but a totally different landscape. The coast is more rugged and there are the moors to explore when we want a change from the sea.

We leave early in the morning so that we can ramble a bit before we set up camp. Stopping at a layby on the edge of the moors we set out for a trek. It’s wild country, with craggy sheep paths, patches of yellow gorse and already purple and pink heather spreading across the hills. Then there’s the granite and the incredible rock formations everywhere. We come across some prehistoric standing stones and stop, not speaking, feeling as if we’ve been whooshed back into some primeval time. Though it’s high summer, we’re the only ones on this spot on the moor and it feels as if we’re the only folk in the world, just us and a lone buzzard that is circling above us making his memorable mewing call.

We walk for ages, coming across wonderful old clapper bridges across little creeks and inlets, stumbling across ancient archaeological sites – the haunting ruins of the once great copper-and tin-mining works, and the settlements that grew up alongside them. We find stone crosses and circles in the middle of nowhere, and in the expanse of lowland heath we have to find hidden sheep tracks to walk along between the gorse and brambles.

Our campsite is on the top of a cliff. There’s a narrow path and rocky ledges down to a cove and a sandy beach. The children are over the moon. I’m a bit less enthusiastic. Camping is a challenge for me as I love my creature comforts especially a bed and a cosy duvet.

All goes well as we set up the massive tent. It’s a perfect day and when the tent is up, the children walk to the tiny nearby village shop for freshly baked bread. I slice it for lunch, along with farmhouse cheese and tomatoes we picked up from a roadside stand. Ben spreads a blanket on the sweet-smelling
grass in front of our tent and we eat with relish as we watch the sea which is still and smooth, with not a whitecap in sight. A gentle breeze prevents us from getting too hot and all my misgivings about camping vanish.

It gets better and better. In the late afternoon we walk down to the cove and spend a lovely couple of hours swimming and sunning. Because this is such an isolated beach with no access other than the fairly long, rather precarious walk down the cliff, dogs are allowed even in summer. Jake is delirious with the fun of it, bounding in and out of the shallows playing in the gentle waves. And though the walk uphill to our campsite is steep and tiring, we all feel fit, healthy and glowing when we finally reach the top. I sauté a vegetable mixture for dinner with courgettes from the garden – they are all ripening at once, as courgettes do – mixed with more fresh tomatoes, onions from the allotment and garlic. The village shop has local ham for sale and it tastes delicious with the vegetable mix.

We sleep well, after the day of fresh air and exercise, and breakfast is heaven. Emma’s friends, who live in the farmhouse, are friendly and helpful. We buy new-laid eggs from them and scones the woman bakes herself, as well as her own clotted cream. In the tiny shop we stock up on locally reared, cured bacon as well as more fresh bread. We take our hoard back to the campsite, delighted with our purchases.

It’s another glorious day and this time we start with a walk along the cliffs, planning a good hike before lunch and an afternoon lazing on the beach. The walk takes us past stupendous views of the sea with a horizon gauzy with heat mist. The rock formations are rugged and majestic. A turning in the path leads us off the cliff top as the trail meanders through a wild meadow. It’s lush with late summer foliage and I revert from holidaymaker to my foraging self and look for something we can pick to eat. While Ben and the children find a mossy spot under a shady tree
at the edge of the meadow for a drink of water and an apple, I start poking about in the long grass to see what I can find.

I’m in luck. After ten minutes or so searching I find big clumps of sorrel, tucked away in a small patch of grassland. With a shriek of delight, I run back for my rucksack and start stuffing it with sorrel leaves. I’m not quite sure what to do with them but I know from my research that they’re edible. And I know this really is sorrel as Edna showed me the leaves she’d collected one day.

That time she was absolutely positive what it was. ‘I’ve been making sorrel soup for years, m’dear. Before your parents were born, I should imagine,’ she had said.