Seagulls in the Attic (7 page)

I remember how in London I never even knew my postman’s name and saw him only occasionally, fleetingly, on a rare Saturday. Yet all over rural England there are others like me, performing all those services that have sadly been abandoned as we plunge into a frantic modern world. This is, I think, the best part of my job, getting to know my customers, giving help when I can, and having the time and space to be able to do it.

A snake has entered our household. If there’s one creature in the animal world I cannot bear, it’s a snake.

‘Elvis is a reptile, not an animal,’ Will says.

‘Besides,’ Amy adds, ‘You’ve gone off rabbits after they ate your lettuce.’ She doesn’t much like snakes either but she’s siding with her brother on this one. Solidarity between siblings, it’s the only way to outwit the parents.

‘You know I haven’t gone off rabbits, I adore them. I was only cross that day when all my lettuces were eaten in one night. It’s nature. It was my fault for not protecting my plants. I’ve learned my lesson now.’

‘You’ll get used to Elvis,’ Will says philosophically and wanders off to play with his pet.

I’ll never get used to snakes, I think disconsolately. I not only can’t bear snakes, I also have an irrational fear of them. I mentioned it to my doctor once, years ago just in passing while talking about other things, telling him about this fear.

His answer didn’t exactly inspire confidence. ‘It’s not irrational, Tessa. The world is full of poisonous snakes that kill people. Your fear is perfectly rational.’ Thanks, I thought to myself, that’s a big help!

How did I let myself get talked into this? It all began when Will started saving his pocket money and doing extra jobs around the house to buy his ‘very own pet’. Ben and I thought it was a good idea; it would give him a sense of responsibility, looking after what I assumed would be a small furry creature. We have Jake, of course, but our dear Spaniel is a family pet, not Will’s alone. So we agreed.

Will spent hours on the Internet, researching various sites to find the kind of pet he wanted most. Unfortunately, the one he fell in love with was not a cute fuzzy kitten, or a tiny sweet bunny, but a snake.

I begged, pleaded, bribed. All to no avail. Will stood his ground. ‘You promised I could choose my own pet,’ he said over and over.

So I had to give in. ‘All right, Will, but only on the proviso that you assume full responsibility for it. I want nothing to do with it, ever.’

Off we trotted to a garden centre which is also a reptile centre. I tried not to run screaming from the place as we kneeled down in between twenty odd plastic boxes the size of a sandwich. The ‘snake lady’ took out one reptile at a time to introduce Will to the various hatchlings while I looked about for the nearest exit should one of them escape and begin slithering towards me. All the hatchlings looked horrifically alike to me, but Will knew immediately which one was special, the best looking, the best personality, the one that would live up to its name.

‘This is the one,’ he said proudly, holding up this six inch long horror. ‘This is the king. I’m going to call him Elvis.’

Thinking of that day, the day a snake entered our household, I say to Ben as we’re preparing dinner together, ‘Why did I agree to it? Why did I ever permit it?’

Ben carries on chopping onions. He’s heard me say this a dozen times since Elvis became ensconced in his glass cage, called a vivarium I soon learn, in Will’s bedroom.

‘We agreed because in the end we had to. We couldn’t persuade him that a rabbit or guinea pig or even a rat might be better, if he wanted a pet in his room.’

I shudder. At least I’ve been spared a rat. But my fear of snakes is so ingrained that even a horrid rat would have been better than Elvis. I peek through the door of Will’s bedroom, watch him as he takes his baby snake out of its home, holds and strokes it. The look on his face is rapturous, and despite the fact that even seeing it from this distance makes me shudder, I’m glad my son has his snake.

The next day I’m on my walking round in Morranport, stopping first at the tiny post office/shop perched on the edge of the sea. The tide is out and the few boats anchored on the sand look as if they’re snoozing in the sun. Little water birds are pecking amongst the rock pools and so are a few toddlers, their mums and dads fondly hovering over them. You can tell these are second homers from their brand new pink, green and blue polka-dotted Wellington boots, their smart pushchairs and designer clothes. Most likely they own one of the sweet Georgian fishermen’s cottages just up the road, the ones with the wrought-iron balconies, facing the sea. All of them are owned by out-of-towners now, used only for holidays. They were packed and bustling over Easter which has just passed, and it was a joy to see the houses come to life for a brief week or two. A few of them will be occupied off and on now throughout the summer, by couples who are either childless or whose children are still under school age. In winter it’s a
different scene and it saddens me to see the houses empty and desolate, the soul gone out of them.

Nell, the perky eighty-something-year-old who runs the shop and post office, greets me with a huge grin. ‘You look like the Cheshire Cat,’ I say.

Her smile gets wider. While Delia at the same age looks over ninety, Nell looks no more than sixty. Delia also acts how one used to expect old people to act, while Nell refuses to be pigeonholed as a pensioner. How weird this age thing is, I think not for the first time since I became a postwoman. I adore Nell, as does everyone, especially the men of all ages who know her. Though she doesn’t suffer fools and gives short shrift to anyone she thinks deserves it, she’s got a warm heart despite her sometimes gruff manner.

‘You’d be grinning too, my maid, if you’d just sold out of all your kiddies’ beach toys. They was all a’standing there waiting for me to open up the shop, they was that keen. Bought fishing nets, balls, toy boats, the lot. And you be telling me I shouldn’t be grinning?’

I start to protest that I never said anything of the sort then remember that’s just Nell’s way of speaking, often ending sentences on a challenge. I shake my head to indicate that she should go on.

‘Made all me day’s profits in ten minutes,’ she points through the window at the family outside. The two little ones are clutching nets on sticks and poking them into rock pools. ‘Me favourite folk from Up Country are parents who spend far too much money on their spoiled offspring, so long as they spend it in my shop.’ She gives me a fierce look, ‘And I reckon now you be telling me I be getting too consumer-oriented?’

I laugh. ‘Nell, I wouldn’t dream of telling you anything like that.’

She offers me a cup of tea from the kettle in the back of
the post office and I accept. Though sunny, there’s a chilly breeze outside. The sea looks ruffled, rather like Nell’s hair which is thick and white, standing up all over her head. That and her solid, no-nonsense bosom, huge on her rather small frame, are her most prominent features, along with the clothes she wears – ordinary old cord jeans topped with a marvellous array of jumpers, all vividly coloured, form-fitting and usually of some kind of fuzzy material, mohair, angora, or indescribable home-knitted wear.

As I take my post bag and get ready to go, Nell asks, ‘So how’s the snake then? Has Will brought it home?’

I groan. ‘Yep, two days ago. Its name is Elvis. Because he’s The King, like Elvis was. Elvis, King of Snakes.’

Nell looks dreamy. ‘Good name, that. I did fancy Elvis something fierce, when I was a girl.’ She sighs then pulls herself together. ‘So what d’you feed it? What do they eat?’

‘Oh Nell, it’s awful! It has to be fed mice. Tiny newborn baby mice, poor hairless things, they look like pink jelly babies. We have a bag of them in our freezer next to the ice trays. And it gets worse. As the snake gets bigger, so do the mice. There will be the fluffies next, a bit bigger, with hair. Ugh! Later it’ll be big mice or small rats. All in my freezer.’

Nell grimaces, ‘Well, my handsome, mebbe you could write a recipe book, one of them new-fangled ones for folk who like to try something different. How to use leftover snake food. Mice mince, stuffed mouse.’ She cackles away, delighted with her joke.

With a slight shudder I say, ‘Nothing about snakes makes me laugh.’

‘So you still be nervous of the creature, even though you’ve seen your boy handling it? Can’t be that frightening, can it? ’Tis only a baby, you said.’

‘It still gives me the creeps. I’ve tried to rationalise the whole
thing, tell myself logically it’s only tiny, can’t hurt me, can’t get out of the cage, but I’m still terrified. I’ve got a snake phobia, not uncommon apparently.’

‘Well, mebbe having your own snake in your own house will cure it once and for all. Though I reckon you be telling me now that I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

‘It hasn’t cured me yet, Nell, but you’re right, maybe it will. I can hardly bring myself to go into Will’s room but I take a deep breath, tell myself it’s only a poor harmless creature, and plunge in there. I’m determined to get over this.’

‘Good luck to you then, my lover.’

Walking along the seafront is a joy, as usual. The breeze has not turned into a howling gale as predicted but is gently being warmed by the sun. I pass the happy little family but they’re not so happy now, the toddlers are squabbling and throwing sand at each other and their parents are trying to reason with them, explain why the oldest child should not throw things back at her younger brother even though he started it. You can tell the explanations don’t mean a thing to the little ones: they keep slinging sand even as the parents talk and plead.

Happy holidays, I think as I smile to them as I walk past. They don’t even notice me, they look too fraught. God help them if it starts to rain for a week, as it can do at times. But not today. I saunter along, delivering my post, and because it’s just that kind of day, I stop for a cold drink at the old stone house at the end of the seafront, one perched overlooking the sea. It’s the home of another older couple, Archie and Jennifer Grenville. Though a retired teacher, Archie comes from a couple of generations of fishermen and this house, once a fisherman’s cottage, has been in his family for decades. Jennifer is upstairs having a lie-in, Archie tells me. ‘She had a restless night, couldn’t sleep.’ I follow him into the kitchen, warm and
cosy, and with a window overlooking the sea. Around the walls are Jennifer’s paintings; she’s a talented artist, doing mostly portraits. I accept a glass of apple juice and sit down at the table with Archie for a few moments. Books cover it, some opened, some with pages marked with Post-it Notes. He’s an amateur historian and knows everything there is about Cornish life both past and present.

After he’s handed me the drink he says, ‘Has your son brought the snake home yet?’

‘Goodness, Nell just asked me the same thing.’ I’m feeling embarrassed. Have I been obsessing over this snake to everyone? No, I remember, I only mentioned it to a couple of people, but the rural grapevine is in full growth as usual. I tell him what I told Nell, about my phobia. ‘It’s only a harmless corn snake,’ I finish. ‘But that doesn’t make me like it more.’

Archie nods, ‘Snakes are rare in Cornwall, but we do have some. There’s the adder, of course, and the snakes in legend. All those pre-Christian sites were known as dragons’ dens, or serpents’ lairs. And there’s the legend of St Michael slaying the poisonous serpent on St Michael’s Mount. The story goes that he put great stones on the body of the huge reptile and that’s how the stone circles got there.’

‘Well, thank God for St Michael then. A poisonous serpent on my rounds is just what I need.’

Archie smiles, ‘And then there’s the Morgawr.’

‘The what?’

‘The Morgawr. Haven’t you heard of him? The name means “sea giant” in Cornish. He’s the giant sea serpent of many local legends.’

‘You mean like our own Cornish Loch Ness monster?’

He nods, ‘There have been many sightings around Falmouth Bay, you know. The first recorded one was in 1876 when a fisherman claimed to have caught a twenty-foot sea serpent. The more
recent eye-witness accounts describe a great prehistoric snake rearing out of the sea.’

I make a face. ‘Yuck. Could put you off swimming for life.’

‘Poor serpent, he’s blamed for everything, or has been in the past. Bad luck, bad weather, bad catches when the boats go out.’ I start to leave, ‘Well, it makes little Elvis seem harmless anyway.’

I can’t get away just yet though. Archie, the Cornish historian, is still talking and I love his stories. He’s told me so many about local people both past and present, as well as the myths and legends of the county. ‘Snakes were also thought to slither under the earth in Celtic times, symbols of the mysterious forces of the underworld,’ he begins.

‘Oh dear. Prehistoric serpents in the sea I can just about cope with since I’m not a fisherman and don’t have to go out on boats every day. But snakes slithering under my feet as I walk? No thanks, Archie. I don’t want to hear another thing.’ I grin then go on, ‘Just teasing, you know I love your stories. But I’ve got to get on now. Give my love to Jennifer.’