Then there’s Google. The seagull tries to come into the house at every opportunity and it’s difficult keeping him out when the weather is good as we often leave windows and doors open. During one of the storms this past week he managed to get inside the kitchen door when I was holding it open trying to herd the children out. By the time I’d got them sorted and into the car before they got saturated, Google had demolished a fresh loaf of bread I’d baked, attacking it with his strong beak and plucking great holes all around it. Frustration and fury all fought a battle inside me. I only learned how to bake bread a few months ago, thinking I could supply the family with good wholesome organic loaves at half the price of bought bread. Since we don’t have a bread maker, I had to learn from scratch. My first few loaves were disastrous but this one was perfect. And now it was demolished by our tame seagull. If Ben had been around, we’d have ended up laughing about it, but all I can think of now is the chore of having to bake again when I get home.
My mood is as gloomy as the weather, which is unlike me. Shaking my head to snap out of it, I try to start the van. As usual on damp days, it splutters and mutters and won’t start. It’s been looked at by a mechanic who can find nothing wrong. This is totally maddening as I know there must be something wrong when it keeps doing this to me. I get out of the van, sighing over the phone calls Margaret will get if the post is late. Some will be complaints, most merely queries. It’s inevitable the post is delayed sometimes, with new relief posties or van breakdowns such as today, but you can’t tell that to some customers. As Harry had said to me, many rural folk time their chores by the arrival of the post and any variation in the routine is upsetting for them.
Standing out in the rain, stomping about wondering if I should give up and walk back to the post office to try to arrange for a replacement van, I have one of those ‘what am I doing here?’ moments. As I’m thinking this, there is a shift in the light. The sun, hidden for days, is at last nearly visible behind a sheen of thin clouds. This causes a kind of iridescent effect on the water, as if thousands of tiny jewels have been scattered all over it. It’s magical, and so mesmerising that I stand there for a good five minutes watching the changing patterns of light and colour. This is why we’re here, I think as I finally get back into the van. This is why it is all worth it. My mood shifts back into its normal optimistic mode again.
I’ve forgotten the van wouldn’t start. I only remember when I jump in, give it a go and it splutters into action first try. This day is getting better and better. Even the weather is beginning to clear up at last and I’m not only smiling but humming as I drive out of the town.
By the time I’ve gone a mile or so my smile is gone. There’s a terrible clunking sound under the van and my heartbeat quickens. Has something important fallen off? The engine perhaps? No, I’m still chugging along, but the sound seems to be getting worse so I immediately pull over in a layby. What now?
I get out, wondering what I’ll find dropping off the underside of the vehicle, but I don’t have to look far. There’s a forty-foot fishing net trailing along behind. I can’t believe it. Some-how it must have hooked on to the car as I drove out of the boatyard. I don’t remember even seeing it, no doubt because I was too busy being blissfully spaced out with the light on the ocean. Sighing, I get down under the car as far as I can, seeing if I can unhook it, but it’s no use. The net is totally wound up and fastened tightly. I have to call for help and by the time I’m on the road again, I’m an hour late on my round. Oh well, can’t be helped, and it’ll be a great story to tell Annie and my other old London friends.
At least the sun is now fully out and it looks like the weather has turned at last. When the sun appears after days of cloud and rain, people rush outside, and sure enough, there are Emma and Martin, sitting in their front garden enjoying a cup of coffee. They ask me to join them and for once I do, as I’m so far behind that another twenty minutes won’t hurt. When the coffee is poured, I ask them about their week, and I’m regaled with horror stories of the visitors they’ve had at the B&B.
‘Most are pleasant and no problem,’ Emma says. ‘But this week the complainers and troublemakers seemed to come all at once. It must have been the weather, which they seemed to blame on us. One couple actually accused us of false advertising on our website because we didn’t mention how wet and miserable it could be in Cornwall.’
‘Surely they must have been joking.’
As Emma shakes her head Martin says, ‘It wasn’t a joke. They actually said they were going to report us, God knows to whom, not that it matters it’s so ridiculous. They got really obnoxious at breakfast and while the room was full, too. I had to walk out in the middle of their tirade as I’d have thrown them out there and then. Poor Emma had to go deal with them.’
His wife reaches over, takes his hand comfortingly as he’s getting agitated again, remembering the incident. He loathes having to run a B&B, misses his farm with a passion and now longs for the day when their market garden and goat herd will pay enough so that he and Emma can shut it down for good.
Emma says soothingly, ‘It was bad luck, having so many awful people in one week. It’s not usually like that. Most weeks pass with no problems at all.’
‘I know. It’s hard, though, even with the nicest of folk. People in our house, the house I grew up in, the house we married in, raised our son – I can’t get used to it.’
I feel I’m intruding now and finish my coffee quickly, start to rise. But Martin stops me. ‘I’m sorry, Tessa, I’m a miserable old sod I know. Come have a look at the goats before you go.’
I tell him truthfully that he certainly is not miserable and that I’d have problems too with people who treated me so rudely in my own house. ‘Forget them,’ Martin says. ‘That’s why I loved my cows when we were in farming, they never talked back, never made nasty comments. Like the goats. Can’t beat animals, a lot less complicated than humans.’
He’s in a much better humour as we wander over to the goat paddock. The kid I’d seen when still practically a newborn is nowhere around and I ask Martin about it. I’ve been watching it grow, feeling it was one of my own animals somehow, having been there not long after the birth.
Martin says, ‘It’s weaned now and down at Dave and Marilyn’s, just took it there earlier today. It’s been sold to a man I know who keeps a few goats outside Truro. Dave’s going into work later and will drop it off in the van.’
I’m sorry that the kid is being sold but I don’t say anything. I’m trying to be sensible about animals on farms and not get sentimental over them. After all, I eat meat as does everyone in my family. I do wonder why Martin is selling it when he wants to build up his herd but I’m sure he has valid reasons.
I’ve got a few letters for Dave and Marilyn so I go there next. I’m pleased to see that the young kid is still there, in the fenced-in front patch where eventually Marilyn wants to create a proper English flower garden. ‘But that’s in the ten-year plan,’ she’d said to me, shrugging her shoulders. ‘There’s so much clearing up to do first.’
She’s there now, painting the downstairs window frames, her ginger hair shining in the sunlight. She’s wearing a sunhat as usual to prevent more freckles on her fair face, as she’s told me before. Plump and pert, she has round cheeks and wide expressive blue eyes. She makes a nice contrast to Dave who is tall, skinny and dark-haired.
Marilyn stops work to say hello and we rejoice together about the change in the weather. I tell her how they’ve made such a difference to old Mr Hawker’s house in the few months they’ve been here.
‘Still so much more,’ she sighs. ‘But we’ll get there in the end. I feel so lucky to be here I don’t mind the work.’
I remember that’s how I felt this morning, when I stood looking out over the sea and watching the light break through the clouds. I nod. Refusing a cold drink I say goodbye and get into the van. I have to back up and turn around to get away and as usual I check in my rear-view mirror that nothing has come
up behind me, not that anything could as the cottage is at the end of a disused dirt track. I know that they haven’t a cat or dog, or hens, or geese, all the animals that might be wandering around a house in the country, so when my mirror indicates all is clear I slowly reverse. Before I go more than a few inches I hear Marilyn screaming for me to stop. I brake, jump out of the car, and look in dismay as she falls to her knees next to the young goat.
I’m devastated. ‘Did I hit it? Is it OK? I thought it was fenced in?’
‘It’s supposed to be. It was, but somehow it must have got out, I don’t know how.’
The goat is lying on its side, panting. There don’t seem to be any outward injuries, nor is there blood. I was going extremely slow and hadn’t moved far, so perhaps it is only stunned. As we watch, unsure of what to do, the goat struggles to its feet. I’m filled with relief until I see it try to walk; it can hardly put its back right leg down.
At that point Dave comes driving down the track. The goat has now collected itself and is munching foliage at the side of the road, but he’s still not using that one leg.
Dave says to Marilyn, ‘I’ll have to ring the man who was having it. He won’t want it now, even if the injury turns out to be nothing much. He’s very particular about his goats.’
By now I’m wracked with guilt. I can see Marilyn and Dave are in a quandary. Marilyn says, ‘We’d better take it up to your parents, let them keep an eye on it. We’re both on a shift later this afternoon and I don’t think we should leave it on its own.’
I’m remembering how tired both Emma and Martin looked, about all the work they have to do with the animals and market garden now that most of the paying guests have left. They surely don’t need a maimed goat on their hands. Besides, Martin wanted to get rid of it.
This is all my fault so I say, ‘Look, leave it with me. I know someone who’ll check the goat over, a retired vet living not far from me. I’ll take the kid and bring it back to you tomorrow if you’ll be around.’
They look relieved. ‘Are you sure?’ Dave says. ‘If you are, that’ll be great. I’ve got a day off tomorrow and Marilyn’s on a late shift.’
‘Perfect. I’ll bring the goat back in the morning and let you know what the vet says.’
‘OK. But if you run into any problems just take it back to Trelak.’
Dave puts straw in the van and gently lays the injured kid on top of it. My round finished, I head towards home, planning to return the van and pick up Minger later. But first I need to get this goat to the vet so I turn down the lane where he lives. Ben and I knew the man quite well in our old city days, before we all moved here, and I know he’ll help. Quite honestly, I can’t afford to go to a vet’s practice; I know the price of a visit is out of my league. I’m sure one of the Rowlands would have offered to pay for it but seeing it was me who ran it over, I could never accept.
My vet friend is just about to go out but kindly dons some overalls, comes out to the van and has a quick but thorough feel for broken bones or other injuries.
‘No need to do anything, that leg’s not broken. A good night’s rest is all that’s needed.’
He’s in a rush so I hardly have time to thank him properly as he waves goodbye and jumps into his car, overalls and all. The goat bleats all the way back and I wonder if it’s homesick, or hungry. Dave threw some kind of feed in the van so at least it’ll be OK for tonight.
By the time I get home, Will and Amy are there to help me unload the goat and move it to the fenced-in patch of our back garden, transferring the straw from the van into the old chicken house. It’s clean and dry and should be fine for now. The children are hopping with excitement, asking if we can keep it, and I must say I’m tempted, thinking of fresh milk, creamy goat cheese, rich goat yogurt. Why not? So what if I don’t know how to milk a nanny goat; I can learn, can’t I? I go up to the darling little thing, stroke its head as it lies quietly, resting after its harrowing day. It really is adorable. If the Rowlands can’t sell it because of the bad leg, why don’t we keep it? The old chicken house could be a perfect home for it. I’m getting more excited by the minute.
I’ve just about decided that a goat of my own to milk is an absolute necessity for this self-sufficient life when Daphne comes over with a batch of scones she’s made. I love her scones; they’re the lightest, fluffiest and tastiest I’ve ever eaten. Every week she bakes a batch for her family and an extra dozen for me, and in exchange I supply her with eggs as they no longer keep hens themselves. Often she throws in a pot of the rich thick clotted cream she actually makes herself, from their own milk. Daphne comes from a long line of Cornish farmers and has maintained a number of the old ways of doing things.
The goat is putting weight on her back leg now, though it still has a bad limp. It bleats at us both and wobbles over to investigate. I tell Daphne about my plans to keep it. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ I say. ‘Look at that tuft of fluff on top of its head. Oh, I’m in love with this creature already.’
Daphne doesn’t answer. She’s gone into the enclosure with the goat. I say anxiously, ‘Do you think the pen is all right? Plenty of room? It’s quite a good grassy area; the hens were happy here.’
‘It’s fine,’ Daphne bends down to examine the animal. ‘And the goat looks fine too; it’s obviously got over its shock. What I don’t quite understand is what you want with a goat. Don’t you have enough on your plate, with Ben away, your job, the allotment? Not to mention this fellow here.’ We both look at Google who is perched on top of the hen house, or rather the goat house now, squawking for food. I have to give him a titbit to get him to pipe down.
‘I’ve always wanted a goat, Daphne, ever since last year when Emma and Martin Rowland started to get some in. This one is obviously meant for me, the way it happened, it getting out and me accidentally bumping it with the van. Besides, I was there when it was born, so I felt a connection with it from the start.’
Daphne doesn’t say that this is the dumbest thing she’s heard but her face betrays her. I try to explain further, ‘It’s not only that, it’s the practical side of it. I’m sure I can learn to milk a goat and Will and Amy should be able to as well. Think what a saving, never to have to buy dairy produce.’
She’s looking at me with a very odd look. I suppose it’s a bit ambitious, all my plans, so I say, ‘Oh I know it’ll take time, learning to make cheese and butter. I’m not silly enough to think it’ll be easy. But there’s plenty of time to learn.’
Now Daphne is shaking her head, ‘Tessa, hold on. Didn’t Martin tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘This kid isn’t a female, it’s a male.’
I stare at her in shock, ‘But – it can’t be.’
‘Didn’t you look?’
‘No, I didn’t think to look. I’ve hardly had time. I, oh dear, I guess I just assumed it was female.’
‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’
I think back over the day. I didn’t give anyone a chance to tell me anything; I was so upset about accidentally hitting it. I shake my head. ‘Whoops, goofed again. It just never once occurred to me that it wasn’t a female, I suppose because all the goats at Trelak are milkers.’ I ponder my mistake for a moment. ‘Hm, so that’s why they were selling it, huh?’
Daphne nods. I go on, feeling dafter by the minute. ‘Well, I guess I won’t be making goat’s cheese and yogurt in the near future.’ Daphne is grinning like mad. ‘No, I suppose you won’t.’ She starts to laugh. So do I. ‘Anyway, Tessa, it was a crazy idea, believe me. I’ve kept goats before and they can be a right pain. It’s not that easy to learn to milk them either; it takes ages to learn to do it quickly and efficiently.’
I sigh. ‘You’re right. I’ll take it back tomorrow morning as planned.’
We go inside to have a scone and a cup of tea. Google wants to come in and we have to scuttle past him. After we’ve settled at the kitchen table I say, ‘It’s all for the best, anyway. I don’t have time right now to learn how to milk a
goat, let alone make anything from the milk. I got carried away.’ I shake my head ruefully. ‘As I always do.’
She grins, ‘Don’t stop, getting carried away. We all think it’s delightful.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You mean the whole village likes a good laugh at my expense.’
‘Of course I don’t mean that,’ she laughs but I’m not so sure. Ah well, I think, it’s better to make the neighbours laugh than offend them.
When I take the goat back next morning, Marilyn and Dave are working, cutting back masses of overrun brambles at the side of their house. ‘What’s going to happen to the poor little thing then?’ I ask as Dave carries him into their front garden. ‘Is he still going to be sold?’
‘No, not now. Because he’s injured, the buyer doesn’t want him.’
‘But the vet says he’ll be fine in a day or two.’
Marilyn, who has been making a huge fuss over the kid, looks up. ‘I’m having him. We talked it over last night and decided. We’ve got all sorts of overgrown places he can graze in, and a shed out back that will make a great house. I love goats, and have always wanted one, but we just don’t have time to start milking and all that.’ The goat bleats, demanding Marilyn’s attention again and she goes back to stroking him.
Dave says, ‘We never had a pet in Bristol and we can’t have a dog here yet, our working hours are too erratic, so this little billy goat will be perfect. Marilyn’s wanted some kind of a pet since we moved back to Cornwall, so she’s over the moon.’
I can see that. Marilyn finally gets up and comes over to thank me for taking the kid to the vet and adds, ‘That was the best thing you did, Tessa, knocking down that little billy goat. Do come visit him often, okay?’
I promise I will, and go over and scratch his head before I leave. He rubs his face against my hand endearingly. I can see why Marilyn was so keen to keep him.
That evening Annie says on the phone, ‘I can’t believe that you couldn’t tell the difference between a male and female goat.’
Seagulls in the Attic Page 14
