Seagulls in the Attic

by Tessa Hainsworth

  This morning, though, there are few clouds, no mist, and an amazing sunrise. The colours of the sky seem to be competing with the colours of the flowering trees and bushes, and I find myself singing out loud with the sheer beauty of it all. There’s not another car on the road as I drive along the main road out of Morranport, and certainly nothing on the narrow lane going up to a tiny cottage belonging to the Yellands, a Cornish couple who used to live in Falmouth. Mr Yelland worked as manager in a shop in Falmouth, as he told me once, but when they realised how much they could get for their house in town, which they’d lived in for forty years, they sold up and Mr Yelland took early retirement. ‘The wife can support me now,’ he said as he told me this but when I asked what she did, they both roared with laughter as if I’d said the funniest thing in the world. Mr Yelland, it transpired, doesn’t believe in a wife of his going out to work; it would be ‘demeaning’ he told me once. Mrs Yelland, neat permed grey hair, a tidy face and body, wearing a clean apron over her flowery house dress, obviously agreed, as she beamed at her husband. As far as I can see, she cooks, cleans, waits on Mr Yelland hand and foot while he enjoys his retirement, with the local paper and an old pipe that I rarely see alight but that is always wobbling in the side of his mouth.

  As I jump out of my van, parked by a tiny creek on the Yellands’ property, I see a mass of hawthorn shoots growing near the gate to their garden. On the other side, there are dandelions. I can’t resist; I begin to pick. For some reason I leaped out of the van with my empty postie bag still on my shoulder, though I’m carrying the single letter for the Yellands in my hand. Putting the letter on the stone gatepost, I thrust the shoots and young dandelion leaves into my postbag.

  Luckily I remember to grab the letter as I go through the little gate leading into the garden. And there, growing wild in front of the Yellands’ flower borders, is what I’m sure is garlic mustard. But is it? My book says it comes out in April, but then it’s nearly April now, and anyway everything comes early in south Cornwall.

  I’ve been dying to find this plant, which is supposed to grow profusely all over the English countryside. It’s called garlic mustard because the leaves, when crushed, give off a garlicky smell and taste. Could this be it? I’m so thrilled that I kneel down on the grass, still damp with dew, to take a closer look. Plucking a few of the pale green leaves, I crush one, smell, taste – yes, it definitely is mustard garlic! I grab a handful, stuff it in my bag, and shuffle over, still on my hands and knees, to another patch further down.

  ‘Mrs Hainsworth, are you all right? Have you fallen?’ I look up to see Mr Yelland staring down at me. From this angle his face, pale and completely round, looks like the moon. His silver hair, smooth and flattened to the side with a nifty part, gleams like moonbeams.

  I scramble up quickly. ‘Uh, no, I’m fine. I was just, uh, admiring your roses.’

  For the life of me I don’t know why I said that. True, there is a rose bush by the gate, and true I have noticed it in the past, particularly last summer when the Yellands first moved in and it was in bloom. But it’s not in bloom now and in fact looks rather stark at this moment in time.

  Mr Yelland looks at me, his bland moon face expressionless. I look back at him, for once at a complete loss for words. Then he looks down. So do I. Because of the mild weather I’ve worn my baggie, official Royal Mail shorts. Is this what he’s staring at? Or is it my knees, black and filthy with mud from his garden?

  ‘Ha ha,’ I trill, finding my voice at last. ‘Didn’t realise the ground was still so wet.’

  We both turn our gazes to the ground, shaking our heads. I suddenly remember his letter, thrust in the pocket of my shorts, and hand it to him. He doesn’t even look at it. ‘Mrs Hainsworth,’ he says politely. ‘There are no roses.’

  Now we both look at the rather naked-looking rose bush. I say, ‘I realise that, but there will be soon. Look at all the buds.’

  By then Mrs Yelland has joined us. ‘Is she all right, dear?’ she says to her husband. ‘Oh Mrs Hainsworth, look at your knees! Did you fall?’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine. Just a bit dirty.’ I give a another little trill of laughter as I brush my knees nonchalantly, as if it’s no big deal for a postie to be scrabbling on hands and knees in a customer’s garden.

  Mr Yelland says, ‘Mrs Hainsworth was admiring our rose bush.’

  ‘Oh, are you interested in roses? Mr Yelland is, always has been. Oh, how happy he’ll be that he has another rose lover to talk to.’

  I can’t get over how Mrs Yelland always calls her husband Mr Yelland. I stifle a giggle, wondering how Ben would react if I began calling him Mr Hainsworth. He’d probably love it. Maybe he’ll start asking the children to address him as Sir.

  My knowledge of roses is zilch so I try to come clean. ‘Uh, actually, I was also looking at those leaves on the other side of the rose bush. They look like garlic mustard. Supposed to be great for cooking.’ I want to confess that I’ve picked a bunch of them and they’re now in my post bag but I’m too embarrassed. I can’t believe I forgot I was on someone’s private property when I started foraging. I do manage to mutter, ‘I’m afraid I picked a few leaves. Sorry, I should have asked.’

  Mr Yelland smiles expansively which makes his face rounder than ever. It looks odd somehow, naked. I realise his pipe isn’t in his mouth. Seeing me kneeling by his rose bush must have sent him rushing outside without it. Perhaps he thought I was worshipping it.

  ‘Now, is that so, my maid? Well, we can’t begrudge our postie a leaf or two now can we, Mrs Yelland.’ He stoops down and in a larger-than-life gesture, plucks a couple of leaves of the mustard green and hands it to me with a flourish.

  I thank him profusely while his wife beams at this gallantry. He goes on, ‘Mrs Hainsworth, I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I am that you share my interest in roses. Only an aficionado like myself would have known, without a bloom to identify it, that the rose bush you were admiring is an Old Garden Rose.’

  He’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Ah, yes. Yes, of course.’

  ‘And you know without my saying, that the Old Garden Roses are the predecessors of all the roses we have today. Some even date back to the Roman Empire, where they were revered for their beauty and fragrance.’ He takes a deep breath. Mrs Yelland does the same and I feel as if I must follow suit. The Yellands have a rapturous look on their faces as if they can smell the non-existent rose blooms but all I get is a far-off scent of manure from a dung-spreading farmer.

  After we’ve all sniffed the air like a pack of inquisitive terriers I say, ‘Lovely talking to you both, but I must get on delivering the post.’

  I start to go but before I get away, Mr Yelland says, ‘I’m so looking forward to your next delivery. Mrs Yelland enjoys looking at the roses, and inhaling their scent, but she’s not a connoisseur like you and I.’

  I’m still trying to explain that I’m not really as they follow me to my van, waving aside my objections. As we all wave an enthusiastic farewell, Mr Yelland calls out, ‘I’ll be waiting for you on your next delivery!’

  I groan silently, thinking I’d better read up on roses before I see them again.

  March turns to April and I’m in love with the magic of spring in this part of the world. Cherry blossoms are rampant, turning the village into a fairy tale of scented pink. All over the churchyard and in the beech wood alongside the village the wild garlic is out and the earthy scent of it mingles with bloom and blossom. The ground is carpeted with the white garlic flowers which then mingle with the stunning blue of early bluebells. I pick the first showing of the wild garlic and make a favourite soup with garlic and nettles, frying a clove of garlic with a chopped onion and a couple of potatoes, adding the trimmed nettles and garlic leaves to the pan, then some chicken stock. It only needs about fifteen minutes of rapid boiling, then I liquidise it, add salt and pepper, a touch of nutmeg, some single cream and I’ve got a soup that’s both scrumptious and economical. The bliss of it is, both t
he garlic and nettles are at their best all through April and May so there are dozens of wonderful soup meals ahead.

  In my hens’ orchard the old scabby apple and few pear trees amaze me by making a huge effort putting out blossom which dots the branches like little wisps of cloud, transforming the hens’ area. The hens seem to take it all for granted, but I spend ages sitting with them and imbibing the magic of the land stirring, growing, surprising me with something new every day.

  From the hens I check out the allotment. The lettuces I planted in my cold frame are growing beautifully. I can’t wait to transplant them into the garden but we’ve had some chilly nights and days, too. But for the last few days the sun has been quite hot and I’ve had to take the glass top off the frame so that the delicate plants don’t roast. Every evening before twilight I come down and replace it. Sometimes Will or Amy come with me, or Ben. Or we all go together, and if it’s decent weather we finish off at the beach nearby to give Jake a run. I love these spring evenings, balmy with the promise of summer. The sea air smells rich in ozone and ocean scents just as the earth smells warm and full of healthy growing things. There’s one beach we go to where the scent of the wild garlic mingles with the smell of sea and ozone and we inhale it like a drug, it’s so potent, so special.

  Tonight the cove is exceptionally beautiful. You can see the stars, galaxies of them, over the sea and sand, and there’s a full moon which strikes a reflection like a golden path straight down the water. We linger until dark, throwing sticks for Jake, taking off our shoes and paddling even though the water is icy.

  It isn’t until late that night when we’re getting ready for bed that I remember we have not put the glass back on the cold frame this evening.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Ben says. ‘It’s a warm night.’

  He’s right. Our bedroom window is open and the chilliness of the past few nights is gone. I fall asleep happily, secure in the knowledge that not only are my lettuces safe, but also that I have a day off tomorrow.

  It’s nearly noon by the time I get to the garden. After dropping the children at school, I have shopping and other chores, but now I have time to plant out my lettuces. Having consulted Daphne, Susie and other knowledgeable gardeners, I know what to do next. The plants in the cold frame have grown and the timing is right. The weather forecast is for blissful days at least till the end of April, not far away now.

  It’s so warm I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt. It really feels like summer, though I know by now that the weather can, and will, change again many times before summer really comes. But what a day to be in the garden! I’ve bought some runner bean seeds, and Martin and Emma Rowland, two of my customers who have now become friends, gave me some courgette plants. Then there is spinach, more leeks, and parsnips – so many things to plant. What a lark this gardening is.

  I wave to the Humphreys, sitting on their bench in the sun. They look odd, somehow bleached, but it’s only because they’re wearing identical white tunics or some kind of robe, sort of Gandi-ish. Lord knows what trunk they came out of, or what country they were bought in, but they do look cool and comfortable.

  They wave back so that I know they’re alive – they sit so motionless sometimes that I’m not quite sure – then I rush up to my cold frame. To my horror, the lettuce plants are gone. I stand staring, frozen to the spot. Has someone vandalised them in the night? I look closer. They’ve not been pulled out by the roots, it’s just the tops that are missing. The leaves, the whole plant, gone.

  I’m dazed, stunned, not knowing how to react to this wholly unexpected disaster as I can’t begin to understand how it happened. Edna and Hector appear at the gate. Hector says, ‘You look distressed, maid. Is something wrong?’

  ‘My lettuce,’ I cry. ‘All gone.’

  They come through the gate and peer into the cold frame, then nod sagely. ‘Rabbits,’ Edna says.

  ‘Plenty of them around this year,’ Hector adds.

  ‘Rabbits? They ate my lettuce? All of it?’

  Hector points to some little black things that look like small marbles. ‘You see? Rabbits for sure.’

  ‘But how did they get in?’ Then I remember, ‘I left the top off last night but it was so warm . . .’ my voice trails off sadly.

  ‘It’s not very high, you see, dear,’ Edna says as if explaining things to a child.

  ‘Quite easy for a bunny to jump over,’ Hector agrees.

  A bunny? He calls that creature which ate my prized lettuces a bunny? I’m so crestfallen that suddenly Edna and Hector are on either side of me, holding on to my arms and steering me out of the gate, through their front garden and into their vast kitchen.

  ‘A cup of tea is what you need,’ Edna says as she fills an old brown teapot with an even older kettle which has been boiling on an ancient Aga. ‘Nice old-fashioned ordinary tea.’ I’m relieved at this. Though I often drink various herbal teas myself sometimes at home, the kind Edna makes are really off the wall. I’ve never heard of half the herbs she uses. Most of the time they are completely heavenly but at other times the taste is either bitter or rusty, like drinking water that’s been sitting in an old iron trough for a decade or two. ‘I like to experiment with my brews,’ she’s said to me more than once. ‘I’m always trying something new.’ My pioneer spirit does respond to Edna’s concoctions and I usually enjoy them, but after rabbits have eaten all your lettuce plants, a good strong cup of PG Tips is just what you need.

  Though it’s still warm and sunny outside, it’s cold inside despite the Aga in the kitchen. The long corridor leading to the other rooms is lined with books. Some are in massive old wooden bookcases but many more are on the floor, piled in great rows lining each side of the hallway. Some are ancient hardbacks, others have shiny new covers that look as if they came out recently. There are paperbacks too, all sizes and shapes. All the books look well read.

  The floors in both the corridor and the kitchen are slate, and the few wool rugs lying about in the kitchen look lethal, frayed and loose, an invitation to be tripped over. They take turns fussing over me, bringing me tea and digestive biscuits from a tin, and I get this weird feeling that I’m the doddering one and they’re the carers, when it should be the other way around.

  I feel much cheerier after tea with the Humphreys and go back to my garden. At least the peas are beginning to come up, which is something. The onion sets were dug up a second time, this time by pigeons, Hector told me. He’d seen them on my garden and ran to shoo them away but it was too late. I shudder to think of Hector running anywhere. I hope the birds stay away, not only for my sake but for his and Edna’s.

  As I leave by the other gate, I see not one rabbit but two staring at me from the other side of the field. I used to love watching the little creatures playing in the meadows in the evening. First blackbirds, then rabbits – once friends, now enemies – how ambivalent nature is, I’m beginning to realise!

  I make a face at those cheeky predators, stick my tongue out in a half playful, half serious gesture. Poor things, I chide myself, a rabbit’s got to do what a rabbit’s got to do. But then again, my poor lettuce. Oh dear, who ever thought gardening would be such a battle? I go home wondering what other hitherto beloved little furry or feathered creature will turn out to be another Enemy of the Allotment.

  It’s gratifying how sympathetic all my customers are about the rabbits. Losing not just one lettuce plant but the whole lot is certainly discouraging, as all the gardeners amongst my customers agree.

  My colleagues are less inclined to sympathy. ‘A garden’s hard work, bird,’ Susie says, ‘and if you will insist on growing, when there be loads of food in shops, you’ll find they be lots more setbacks yet, believe me.’

  Eddie goes a step further. Creeping up on me in the St Geraint post office, he shouts, ‘Catch, Tessa!’ The next thing I know he’s thrown what I think is a pale green ball at me but as I catch it, I see it’s an iceberg lettuce from the Spar shop, still wrapped in plastic.

  He grin
s. ‘I was going to get to your allotment, stick the lettuce in your garden, but I got up too late this morning. T’would’ve been a right laugh, seeing your face.’

  I can’t help grinning back at him as I juggle the lettuce in one hand, some post I’m sorting in the other. ‘But you wouldn’t have seen my face when I found the lettuce, Eddie.’

  ‘Mebbe not, but I’d have seen it as you told us next day how one sturdy lettuce plant survived the rabbits against all odds.’

  I laugh. I know he’s teasing me but sometimes I wonder just how naïve and gullible they think I am about country matters.

  Later, I’m up at Poldowe, the village above Morranport, talking to a fiery middle-aged woman named Ginger. It’s not a nickname either; apparently her parents were great Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers fans and she was conceived after a night at one of their films. Or so she told me once with a rueful grin. Her hair isn’t ginger but brown with silvery grey streaks and she wears it pulled back in a ponytail high on top of her head, which makes her look like a high-spirited pony. Her manner is gingery, though. Widowed at an early age – her husband was a fisherman who died at sea many years ago – she raised their two kids on her own and then had a series of live-in partners but none of them lasted more than a year or two, according to local history. The story goes that there was nothing wrong with them that the locals could see, they just couldn’t live up to her husband. The children are gone now, neither lad became a fisherman but live way Up Country somewhere.

  Ginger talks tough and looks tough, but I have a feeling it hides something vulnerable and soft inside her. I don’t often see her as she works in Truro as a receptionist in a dentist’s office, but today she’s home and comes to the door for her post. ‘Hey, Tessa,’ she says, taking her mail. ‘Nell down at the Morranport post office says the rabbits ate all your lettuce plants.’