Seagulls in the Attic

by Tessa Hainsworth

  Unfortunately they can’t afford to give up the paying customers. I see by the cars parked around the front that the house must be full. ‘Yes, we’ve got a good week, and it’s not even half term,’ Emma says, coming out to meet me in the van. We chat for a bit and then I go with her to look at the goats. A tiny newborn is suckling his mum and I want to whisk it home. I love the little kids and spend more time than I should cooing over this one.

  My next call is just down a narrow lane, with hedgerows on either side and beneath them, a mass of yellow primroses, crammed together like rows of luscious yellow sweets. They’re so perfect, and there are so many of them, that I stop the van to just sit and stare. Once again I’m aware of that special rural silence, the kind that is only interrupted by a robin or thrush, the song of a blackbird, or perhaps the high swish of a soft breeze blowing through trees which are just beginning to come into leaf.

  I drive on a short distance and then I spot something else, dandelions in flower in a small clearing. I’ve got my basket in the van, ready for such finds. Last year Daphne gave us some dandelion flower wine and it was so luscious I’m hoping to make some myself. It’ll make great Christmas gifts for next year too. I know it’s only springtime but this year I plan to make as many gifts as I can and dandelion flower wine will be a great one.

  I feel a twinge of sadness when I deliver to this next house. One of my favourite customers, an old farm worker called Mr Hawker, used to live here and died during my first year. I was fond of the old man. But as I pull up in front of the stone cottage my heart lifts to see his small place, neglected for decades, looking cared for and loved. The front garden, which was a mass of weeds and brambles, has been cleared and there are pansies and marigolds planted along a narrow border. The windows, some broken and papered over when Mr Hawker became a recluse, are mended, cleaned and freshly painted.

  ‘Tessa, hi. All right?’ a cheery voice greets me and Dave appears from the back of the house, carrying a ladder.

  I’m pleased to see that this is a sensible sturdy one, as safe as ladders can be. The couple moved here from Bristol after a distant relative who inherited Mr Hawker’s house said they could live in it and do it up as part of the rent. Dave is Emma and Martin’s son. He and Marilyn are Cornish but, like so many young people, had to move away to be able to afford a decent place to live. Now they’ve been able to move back, as they’ve been longing to do for ages. They’re helping Dave’s parents build up the goat-and-garden business but it’s an enormous struggle as they are still also working full time as physiotherapists at the hospital in Truro.

  Dave asks, ‘Have you seen the new young goat at up at Trelak?’ I nod as he goes on, ‘Marilyn is besotted with it. Besotted with all the goats, actually. Dad and Mum say she can be in charge of the milking later, when she can afford to quit work.’

  ‘Is that where she is now?’

  ‘Yeah. She has a long shift today. They’re short staffed as usual. I had a long one yesterday, was called in on my day off, which is why I’m off today.’ His normally upbeat manner turns a bit glum. Fitting in overtime at work with helping at Trelak Farm and doing up the wreck of the house they live in is exhausting even for people as young and fit as they are. The dream is that eventually the new project will support all of them but they know the reality is years, even decades into the future. As if reading my mind Dave says, ‘We’re hoping that at least Marilyn can stop work at the hospital soon, or at least do loads less hours, but we’ll see. At least we’re back home, back in Cornwall. We’re luckier than most and we know it.’

  I leave feeling quite cheered. The plight of young people in the county, as in other popular areas of England, is dire. The boom for second homes has put property prices way out of reach for those who were born here or those who live and work here. But Marilyn and Dave have found a way to come back, though it was a rare stroke of good fortune that enabled them to do it.

  When I finish my round I go home, have a quick snack, change my clothes and go out to the allotment, but by the time I get there it is beginning to rain so I abandon the garden for today and stop at Poet’s Tenement. I still smile when I hear the name and amuse myself wondering who would be the most likely poet, Edna or Hector? Both would fit the role, if I remember my English Lit lessons correctly. Some of those long-ago poets, both male and female, were quite eccentric, and some led spectacularly wild lives. I’m sure both the Humphreys had some bizarre experiences in their youth.

  I have to knock hard on their old, swollen, wooden door that hasn’t shut properly for years. I’ve seen Hector nearly topple over backward onto the stony cobbled path as he’s pulled on it to get it open. That’s another thing I want to do, ask if I can sand the door so it opens and shuts properly.

  Where are they? I’ve been standing out here for nearly five minutes now. It’s so much easier when they are outside in the afternoons on their bench, sunning themselves like skinny little lizards. I don’t like to intrude, especially on days like today when they don’t seem to hear me banging on the front door. There’s no bell and not even a knocker. I have to use my fist to make myself heard through the thick wood. Finally I resort to shouting. ‘Hello, anyone home? It’s Tessa here.’

  I know they must be home. They always are. They don’t drive any more, they have their food shopping delivered to them from a supermarket and top up with goods from the village shop.

  There is still no sound from inside the house. I shout again. Nothing. I don’t like to pry but what if one of them is ill or injured? I saw Hector’s panic when the cat was in the tree and he wasn’t even in danger. Would he completely lose it if Edna was hurt? I’ve heard of old folk sitting by the bodies of dead husbands and wives, not wanting to let them go and I shudder. I walk around the house trying to peer into the windows but the rain, gathering force, is belting against the panes and there are no lights on inside. Though it’s only about five o’clock and the days are long now, the sky is dark and stormy. I go back to the front door and bang on it one more time. When only silence and an increasing wind answer me, I realise I have to go in. I don’t really want to, especially as the house is starting to look creepy.

  I pull myself together, remembering that the house was named after someone called Pote, or Pottes, or whatever, and it won’t be haunted by the ghosts of long-dead demented versifiers. I need to curb my imagination. I also need to get into the house. I know I can’t leave without making sure everything is all right. I’d never forgive myself if I left now and then find out tomorrow that a tragedy had occurred that I might have prevented. So I pull on the door, which is so swollen I have to yank it hard. As I do it suddenly flies open and like Hector, I nearly topple over on my back. I’m soaked by now but relieved to be inside. It’s odd that neither of them has heard me and I’m convinced something is terribly wrong.

  I stand in the cavernous hallway with its piles of books and give one last shout, ‘Edna! Hector!’ Still no answer.

  With trepidation I move through the house, nearly tripping on a stack of what look like ancient texts of some kind, and find my way through the dim semi-darkness to the kitchen. The door is half open and I call again, more softly this time. ‘Edna? Hector?’ I don’t want to frighten them.

  Hector’s voice says, ‘Come in, maid. Since you’re in already.’

  Edna says, ‘Is anything wrong, my dear? You look quite agitated.’

  The couple are perfectly fine and calm. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, a beautifully carved ivory chess set between them. In front of the Aga sits the Venerable Bede who regards me suspiciously.

  I stammer, ‘So sorry to interrupt. I knocked, and called out, and no one answered. I was afraid something was wrong.’

  They both look genuinely puzzled. Hector says, ‘Whatever could be wrong?’

  ‘Are you ill?’ Edna asks, suddenly concerned. ‘Or is it the garden? The rabbits haven’t come back, have they?’

  ‘The hens? A fox hasn’t got into their pen, has it?’ And now
they are both standing up, offering me tea, a chair, fussing over me, sure that whatever it is, it’s an emergency they are prepared to deal with.

  ‘I’m fine, my garden is fine. I wouldn’t have barged in but when you didn’t answer my shouts and knocking I, uh, well I thought I’d better check for myself.’

  Hector and Edna look at each other. She says, ‘Check what, dear?’ Her voice is not as warm as it was moments ago when they thought I was in some kind of trouble. I try to make my voice light, ‘Oh, just that everything was OK. And I see it is.’ I want desperately to change the subject. ‘I see you play chess. I never learned. Must be fascinating.’

  Hector says, ‘It is, maid. Learned it in Peru, actually.’

  Peru? That’s a new one. Without thinking I ask, ‘Really? When were you there?’ But of course they’ve clammed up again, acting as if they never heard my question.

  Hector goes on, ‘Yes, it is a very fascinating game. So much so that we get completely engrossed in it. That’s no doubt why we didn’t hear you knock.’

  ‘We are completely absorbed when we play,’ Edna adds.

  ‘Ah. Yes. I see.’ And I interrupted you, are the words that have not been spoken aloud but are silently flitting around the room.

  I’m about to apologise and slink off when I remember why I called in the first place. I look down at the cold, stone kitchen floor with its threadbare rugs and say, ‘I wanted to see you as a matter of fact because I brought you these.’ I hold out a packet of rug fasteners I’d picked up at a shop in Truro a day or so ago. ‘I saw these and, uh, bought some for my rugs at home.’ This is a little fib but a necessary one, I feel. ‘And I suddenly thought you might find them useful too. I know how easy it is to skid on a loose rug. Will and Amy do it all the time, and so do I, Ben, too, and even our dog Jake, and really it’s quite dangerous.’ I’m waffling I know, but they are looking at me with totally blank faces. Perhaps they haven’t seen anything like this before? I rip the packet open and start putting them on the rusty-coloured rug in front of me. It’s thin and slippery, worn with age. ‘You see? It works like this. One side sticks to the rug and the other to the floor. It prevents the rug from slipping out from under you.’

  I work feverishly then demonstrate how much more secure the rug is now. Neither Edna nor Hector has said a word. I’ve bought enough of the things to do all the rugs they could possibly have in the house and now I lay them on the table next to the chess set.

  Finally Edna says, ‘Thank you, dear.’ Her voice is polite but not enthusiastic. Hector still has that blank look on his face. I remind myself that they’re old, set in their ways, and that they will need time to adjust to even something as simple as rug fasteners. But they’ll come around.

  I say, ‘I’d be happy to do all your rugs, next time I’m here. I’d do it now but you’re in the middle of your game.’

  Hector finally speaks, ‘That’s kind of you, but it won’t be necessary. Now how much do we owe you for these?’ His voice is distant.

  Neither of them have made a move to even look at the rug fasteners and I realise, far too late and to my extreme mortification, that far from being helpful, I’ve offended them by implying that they need help, need an outsider like me to come in with my health and safety rules, my busybody attempt to organise their lives. Oh dear, I think, what do I do now? Finally I manage to stutter something about the items being merely a few extra we had left over that we have no need for.

  Edna says, ‘We really don’t need them either, to be honest. Our rugs have never given us trouble.’ She pauses then adds politely, ‘Though it’s kind of you to think of us.’ The way she says it, I can tell she is fibbing too.

  Hector is nodding in agreement. I say, as nonchalantly as possible, ‘That’s fine, if you don’t need them. Just thought I’d ask.’ I pick up the rug fasteners that are on the table and put them in my pocket. ‘I’m sorry I interrupted your chess game.’

  And now they are themselves again, that awful distance between us gone. Walking me to the door they talk in unison, offer to lend me an umbrella for the rain and see me out.

  Despite the storm I walk home slowly, getting drenched but not noticing. I think wryly that my efficient, organised, managerial ways that stood me in such good stead in London, are not just useless here but sometimes positively detrimental. Well, live and learn, I think as I put on dry clothes and make tea. I’m on my own in the house again and suddenly I hear that same scrabbling rat-like sound in the attic. Ben is going to go upstairs and look tonight when he gets home from work. I’ll be glad when he does as that constant scratching is unnerving. And then I remember – I’ve got a box in the attic of some family photographs, old ones left to me by my parents before they died, and I don’t want any horrid rat chewing on them. The photographs are special, precious. How could I have forgotten they were there?

  I sit with my tea and listen to the noise coming from the attic. Am I imagining it or does it sound louder? Perhaps there are dozens of rats up there, all having a romping great feast on my family photos. The thought upsets me so much that before I know what I’m doing, I grab the stepladder, position it below the attic opening, and get myself up there before I can think.

  I’ve not been here since we moved. There’s the usual stuff, a couple of crates of things we brought from London that we didn’t quite know what to do with but were reluctant to throw away. They are still there, looking untouched. Next to the crates is a small cardboard box with a few albums, including the one from my parents. I make my way to it noisily, thinking that any self-respecting rat will hide when it hears me coming. All I want to do is grab the irreplaceable album and get out of the attic.

  Luckily it looks untouched. I’m tempted to take the whole box downstairs but I remember Edna on her ladder against the pear tree. I’m more or less half her age, and my ladder is in excellent shape, but I don’t fancy coming down on my own carrying an entire box. Sensibly, I decide to wait until Ben gets home before doing anything more than rescuing the album. I’m halfway down the ladder again when I hear the scratching noise. I yelp, thinking a rat is about to land on my head which is now on a level with the opening. Then there are more scrabbling sounds and I’m petrified, frozen to the ladder for a second or two until I hear another sound, more like the caw of a bird than the squeak of a rat.

  The noise comes again. It’s definitely a bird. Slowly I poke my head back into the attic’s opening and look around, noticing for the first time, some feathers near the crates. I scramble down the ladder with the album and go up again, no longer afraid. I like birds, and I don’t like the thought of one trapped in my attic. Slowly, so as not to frighten it, I creep over to the crates and peer behind one of them. There, looking up at me, is a baby seagull. I haven’t a clue how old it is but it still has fluff instead of feathers. And it can’t fly either, because as I approach it starts flapping about in a panic but doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

  I’m not quite sure what to do. Making soothing noises, I try to get a better look to see if it’s injured. It seems only to be frightened. I back off down the ladder, grab some bits of bread and cheese from the kitchen and go back to the attic. I make myself comfortable, sitting on the floor behind the crate, and try to pop some food around to the bird as unobtrusively as possible. The gull looks up at me and opens its mouth, whether in shock or in an instinctive gesture, I’m not sure, but I take the opportunity to pop a tiny piece of crumbled cheddar in its beak which he swallows ravenously. Then he opens it again and this time I try some bread. I know from experience that seagulls eat anything – Cornish ice cream, pasties, fish and chips – so I’m not worried about feeding it correctly.

  When the bread and cheese is gone, I go down for a bowl of water which I place not far from the bird. I’m not sure about their drinking habits so this will have to do. Its beak is still wide open but I decide it’s had enough, for now. ‘Go to sleep, little thing, have a rest,’ I say softly. ‘We’ll figure out what to do with you later.’<
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  For the next hour or so I listen for more sounds but all is quiet in the attic. I vacillate between feeling good that the baby is now having a peaceful slumber and being terrified that I killed it off with the wrong kind of cheese or something. I remind myself how the seagulls are thriving in St Geraint, Morranport and all the other seaside places, living on the rubbish from restaurants and food dropped by tourists, so they must have cast-iron stomachs.

  Ben and the children arrive home at the same time and I tell them about the seagull. Ben goes up straightaway to investigate. When he gets down he says, ‘It obviously got through from the attic next door. There are seagulls nesting there and one of the babies must somehow have scuttled into our attic.’ That makes sense. Our cottage is a semi and the one next door has been a rented for years. It’s now up for sale and the owners haven’t bothered to do a thing to it despite a hole in the roof and other problems. I say, ‘Oh Ben, we’ll have to put the baby back into the nest, at once.’

  The children are all for this idea, identifying with the poor baby bird separated from its mum, dad and siblings. But by now it’s not only raining hard, a gale has started to blow. Though the nights are pulling back and the days getting longer, it’s like late autumn this evening with the black storm clouds and lashing rain.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Ben says firmly. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow morning.’

  And so I soak some more bread in water and take it to the gull which devours it hungrily. Then we leave it for the night, and when I’m woken by scrabbling noises I’m reassured rather than frightened, knowing that the sound is not a rat noise and knowing, too, that our baby bird is still alive.