‘Could you?’
‘Probably not but then I don’t need to. Besides, I’d never be able to get near enough, I’d be sneezing, itching and swelling up like a balloon.’
‘Anyway of course I can tell the difference. As soon as Daphne mentioned it I could tell. I know it sounds bizarre but I just didn’t look. It all happened so quickly. I would have noticed once things calmed down. But that’s enough of goats, I’ve given up the idea of having one here. When are you coming down to Cornwall again? We’ve got loads of wedding plans to discuss.’
‘As if we’ve not been talking about it every minute we’re on the phone or together! Pete’s coming to London this weekend but I’ll be down the next. Oh I can’t wait until I’m there for good. I still have to pinch myself to believe it’s all happening. Who’d have thought it?’
‘Listen, I think I’ve got a place for the reception, next time you’re down here we’ll have a look. It’s a small, elegant boutique hotel but with quite a large room. I know they sometimes rent it out for weddings and other big events. It’s central to the church and everything, and it’s not in a village or town but on a cliff top overlooking the sea. Spectacular.’
‘Sounds bliss. How did you find it?’
‘How else?’
‘One of your customers.’
‘Right. Someone who works there put me on to it.’
I give her the details so she can look it up online but I know she’ll love it; and I look forward to taking her to the charming hotel restaurant for lunch when she comes down so we can both have a nose around. But apparently that’s going to be sooner than I thought as she says, ‘Fantastic. Can we go Friday?’
‘But you’re working Friday. And Pete’s up in London this weekend, isn’t he? Aren’t you seeing some old friend who’s in town?’
‘That’s Saturday. I’ll come down on the train Friday morning and Pete and I will drive back the next day. And the hell with work – I’ve got loads of holiday due me and what better reason to take one than to see this hotel of yours?’
And so after delivering my round on Friday morning I rush home, change clothes, grab Jake, pick up Annie at the Truro train station, and we jump into Minger and head for the hotel. The weather is still overcast but it’s breaking up as we park in the gardens which are well maintained but not overly formal. The grass is sweet smelling after the rain and I wonder if it’s a camomile lawn. There’s a beech hedge edging the garden which will look lovely in October, the leaves beginning to turn yellow and gold. There are wrought-iron benches discreetly placed near mature shrubbery and everywhere you walk, there is that stunning view of the sea. Today it’s churning but in a benign manner, as if tired of all its frantic stormy activity and is settling down for a time. There’s quite a breeze, and grey and white clouds scurry across the sky but the patches of blue in between are intense. ‘Like it so far?’ I ask Annie.
‘Fantastic. If the inside is as stunning as this, let’s book it here and now.’
It is. Exquisite Italian tiles on the corridor as you come in with a couple of elegant pots on the floor which each contain a young, healthy lemon tree. The furniture in the reception area is a mixture of comfortable antique and stylish contemporary. The manager who shows us around is charming without being smarmy, he’s obviously handled many weddings and understands exactly what we want. After showing us into the room where the reception will be held he tactfully leaves us alone to discuss it.
Annie is dancing around with excitement. ‘It’s perfect. Great size, and look at the view, that whole wall of windows facing the sea. Oh I can see us all here, all my friends, everyone, dancing and celebrating,’ in her enthusiasm she grabs me around the waist, begins to sing loudly, ‘Oh, how we danced, on the night we were wed . . .’ She draws out the ‘wed’ on a long melodic note as again we dance around the room. ‘Remember that song?’ she says as she sings it again. ‘My grandmother used to sing it to me when I was tiny, God knows why. I haven’t thought of it since then.’
We whirl and twirl around the room, bumping into tables and chairs, me joining in the song, humming and making up words. On one of the twirls I see the sophisticated manager peering through the door at us and I give him a little wave as Annie tries to end the dance with an intricate flourish and we both tumble onto the floor. The manager rushes over, tries to help extract us from the heap of arms and legs while we’re breathless with the exertion and laughter.
Still on the floor Annie beams up at the manager, ‘I love this place. We’ll have it.’
Still suave, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, he smiles and invites us to his office. No doubt he’s seen it all before.
Later, I ask Annie what Pete thinks of it. I know he had a look yesterday as he was doing a soil test for a farmer nearby and was able to pop into the hotel. ‘Surely you’ve talked to Pete before booking it?’
She nods, ‘Last night, on the phone. He said it was fine, if that’s what I wanted.’
‘But what does he want?’
‘He opted for a good old-fashioned pub at first but he knows how much this means to me. And he agreed the location is fantastic. We’re coming to have a look together when he finishes work.’
I leave Annie at Pete’s house after a quick walk along the cliff path with Jake, who waited patiently in the car while we explored the hotel. She can’t wait for Pete to get home, shortly, to take him back to the hotel.
‘Tessa, thanks so much for finding this,’ she enthuses. ‘You’re a star.’ We kiss goodbye and plan a longer time together when she is next in Cornwall.
That evening I take Jake into the front garden for his last outing before bed. It’s a working day tomorrow and I need an early night as usual. It’s still quite light, and Google hasn’t bedded down yet. He hears Jake and me and flies out to join us, perching on top of the open door frame. Jake leaps up and tries to catch him but the seagull flaps his wing and makes excruciating noises at him. Google knows full well he’s a match for Jake any day. I’m sure the gull teases the dog deliberately.
As Google grows, I’m becoming more and more aware of our neighbours. We’re only a mile from the sea here and gulls have been a plague on this village for years. Though the problem is not as bad as it is for the seaside towns, the villagers here have had trouble with seagulls nesting in their roofs, tearing rubbish bins and even trying to get into compost bins. It wouldn’t be so bad if Google wasn’t so incredibly noisy. All seagulls are, but he seems to be more vocal than most, attracting attention to himself. The children think it’s because he wants to talk to us and is trying hard to make us understand what he’s saying.
I’m still surprised that he hasn’t flown away for good. He goes off for a few hours every day but then returns and seems content to hang around the house. Lately he’s taken to following me around the village, flying ahead of me and then hopping down in front, causing the rooks in the trees above to kick up a noisy fuss. They do this every time they see Google almost as if they’re wondering what this strange bird is doing in their village.
The other day when he was following me, Old Yeller, the ancient Labrador who walks himself around the village, tried in his lumbering way to take a look and sniff at Google but the gull squawked so loudly at the poor dog that Old Yeller went yelping away. I had to admonish my bird, tell him not be so bossy.
‘You know you’re really a pussy cat underneath all that screeching and flapping of wings,’ I told him, hoping Doug wasn’t around to see me talking to a seagull.
‘Shush, Google,’ I say now, trying to shush him, and shush Jake who is barking madly at the bird. ‘Both of you, stop making so much noise.’ But they ignore me so I rush into the kitchen to find some treats for the bird and the dog. Finally when they’re both munching the village is quiet once more.
A few days later when I’m delivering some post to Dave and Marilyn I ask about the little goat, for he’s nowhere in sight.
‘Oh he’s fine,’ Marilyn says. ‘C’mon around th
e back and say hello.’
We skirt around the house onto the back patch which one day the couple hope there will be a lawn and a garden. The old man who used to live here never went out of his house so right now it’s a semi-cleared wasteland, full of weeds and all sorts of foliage growing out of control. In the midst of this, though, is a nifty new wooden shed which Marilyn says is full of straw for her new pet.
‘He’s tethered for now, but Dave is getting fencing material. Then Gruff will have all this to walk around in.’
‘Gruff ?’
She smiles sheepishly. ‘Yeah, as in “Billy Goat Gruff”. My favourite story when I was a kid.’
I give Gruff a nuzzle and feed him some lettuce leaves I’ve brought with me. He bleats loudly. Marilyn says, ‘That’s his thank-you bleat.’
‘You can tell?’
‘Oh yes,’ she’s quite serious. ‘I can already distinguish his sounds. He’s got a I’m lonely and no one wants to play with me bleat. There’s his I’m hungry why doesn’t anyone feed me? bleat, and his it’s raining and I’m getting wet bleat which is weak and pathetic; he used it yesterday afternoon during that sudden heavy shower. He’s got a dry stall with straw but when he’s feeling sorry for himself, and knows I’m around, he’d rather stand in the rain so that I take pity and fuss over him.’
Goodness, I think, Marilyn is as dotty about animals as I am.
From then on, every time I deliver there, I bring a titbit for Gruff. Today I pass a hedge trimmer at work so I stop, pick up the trimmings scattered on the road and gather them for the goat. Even if Dave and Marilyn aren’t home, like today, I go around the back to say hello to Gruff which is fine by them. He’s no longer tethered and as I go into his enclosure, he gives me his play signal, pushing his nose into my hand. I gently push his nose back and he leaps into the air, gambolling like a young lamb in springtime. I spend a good ten minutes playing with him, admiring his grace as he jumps up onto his wooden shed in a ballet leap, kicks up his legs and jumps down again.
Before I go I scratch his head again in his favourite spot, deciding that the next best thing to having a milking nanny goat in my garden, is to have unlimited playtime with a Billy Goat Gruff.
Chapter 9
Let it be, city postie, let it be
Though my allotment is still not the perfect specimen of vegetable growing I’d hoped for in my overexcited naïve way, the food foraging is a huge success, although I have made a mistake or two. I was thrilled to find cow parsley growing wild and picked a batch of it, having read that the tender young leaves are similar to chervil and can be used in all sorts of stews and soups. Before I used it Daphne asked if I was sure I had the right plant, as cow parsley is similar to all sorts of poisonous plants including hemlock. I did know this but when confronted with the actual plant, rather than a photo in a book, I had some doubts. Daphne did too, so I asked Edna who peered at it through her huge owleye spectacles and said it was probably cow parsley but the only way to be sure was to make a tea of it.
‘But – what if it is poison? And you drink the tea?’ I stammered.
‘You sip the tea, dear. Don’t drink it. If it tastes fine, then no doubt the plant is perfectly edible.’
The look on my face must have been one of horror, for she went on placidly, ‘If you like, I could try it out for you.’ She reached out to take my bag of either cow parsley, hemlock, or some other toxic foliage, but I held on tightly and muttered something about trying to get a positive identification. Edna said, ‘Just as you like, my dear. If you try the tea method, remember to take only a sip or two.’
I left her and deposited my haul in the compost bin. If no one could identify it positively without a shadow of a doubt, it wasn’t worth the risk, but all my anxieties about the Humphreys flooded back. What an outrageous, totally crazy way of trying to find out if a plant or herb is edible or poisonous, by trying it out! Did Edna do this all the time, is this how she made all her herbal tisanes? Hit and miss? Then I remembered her age, her fitness, and thought not for the first time that if she’s survived this long, she’s probably immune to many things that would kill off the rest of us.
I’ve found all sorts of other goodies though, so I didn’t mind about the cow parsley. I’ve been gathering elderflowers to try my hand at making champagne out of them and I’ve found edible ground ivy, wild thyme and comfrey. I take long walks on the cliffs with Jake, rucksack on my back, eyes roaming from the stunning sea views across to the fields and meadows where I’m always on the lookout for plants.
The light is so fantastic these early summer days as I head for work that I feel sizzling with energy. It’s as if the sun’s rays reflecting on the glassy blue sea and bouncing onto me fill me with purpose and vitality. This is going to be another great day, I know it. I breathe great gulps of sea air as I park Minger in the boatyard and do a few deep breathing exercises. Since becoming a postwoman I’ve become amazingly fit, and it’s happened without trying. All the years I used to go to the gym, struggling to keep trim and healthy, never came near to achieving the fitness I have now. It’s the kind of health that only comes with plenty of fresh air, loads of walking for hours a day, and eating as much home grown, or at least local, food as possible.
In fact I feel so high today with the ozone, the enchanting sunlight, with life in general, that before I leave the boatyard I skip a few steps and dance a couple of jumps, yelping gleefully as I twirl and land face to face with Mickey, the man who works now and again on the boats.
‘Oh, Mickey, what’re you doing here?’ I manage to stammer, slightly out of breath by now.
He’s looking at me as if I were a lunatic. ‘I work here, remember?’
‘I know. It’s just that it’s so early. Didn’t think anyone was around.’
He gives me a cheeky look, ‘So I see.’ He’s waiting for me to explain why I was gyrating about like a Native American, but what can I say? I decide a dignified silence is the best policy. Finally he says, ‘I got me loads of work. Boats with engine trouble which need fixing. All them emmetts keen to be out there, weather like this.’
‘Don’t blame them. Well, you’ve got work to do and so have I. See you later, Mickey.’
When I get to the St Geraint post office I see Susie and Eddie taking ages as usual stretching red elastic bands around the mail they are going to deliver, as they do every day. All the posties need to put the mail in the order of delivery for the day and most of them also use red elastic bands about each and every delivery. This not only amounts to around three hundred red elastic bands a round by my calculations but it takes longer to prepare, although when you’re out delivering the reasoning is that you can be quicker if the post for each individual address has been banded together. I’ve devised a different way of doing it by getting the mail ordered and bundled up just a section at a time. This gets me out of the post office quicker and it still speeds up delivery as all I have to do is quickly glance at the individual mail to double check before delivering and it takes only fifty red rubber bands, rather than three hundred.
I total in my head how much Royal Mail could save in both time and money by doing it my way and decide it’s enough to mention it. After all, we’re always hearing about what dire straits the post office is in financially, and also hearing about ways in which it must learn to be more efficient. I want to share my time-saving idea with the others, so when I see Susie and Eddie later, I tell them about it.
‘You must try it,’ I enthuse. ‘You’ll be out of here loads quicker if you do it this way.’
I wait for their response but they are both staring at me, not saying anything. After another moment of silence Susie says, ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why, my bird, do we want to be out of here quicker? ’Tis warmer here than out in the vans in the winter and friendlier too, gives us a chance to chat before we get out delivering.’
‘Yes, but – it’s loads more efficient this way. And we don’t waste rubber bands, you see?
It’s such a waste, the amount we use.’
Susie shrugs, waves in her nonchalant way and goes off, saying she’s late starting on her round.
I turn to Eddie. ‘What d’you think, Eddie? Why don’t you at least try it the other way? I bet you find it works better.’ He turns from his post and glares at me. Eddie is so easygoing and relaxed most of the time that his fierce look takes me by surprise. I say, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘’Tis you, Tessa. All of a sudden, lately, you’ve been trying to organise us. Susie just laughs but some of the rest of us, including me, are getting fed up with it. Mebbe that’s what you used to do in London, telling folk how to do their jobs, but here we been doing it this way for years and don’t need no city person interfering.’
I’m stunned and hurt. I try to mumble something, say I was only trying to help save them all some time, but he’s finished banding his mail and is out of the door before I can formulate the words. It’s true that lately I’ve tried to suggest some changes over things that seemed so time-wasting and cost-consuming but I didn’t think anyone minded. It used to be part of my job in London, trying to make the team at The Body Shop as efficient as possible, so in that respect Eddie is probably right, but why not use the skills I learned if they would help out in my new job?
I’m subdued during my round this morning, which is so unlike me that some of my customers remark on it. I keep thinking about what Eddie said. When I finish work I go home, get Jake, and take him for a long walk along the cliffs. After I’ve dropped him home again, I go to Poet’s Tenement to take some food scraps to the hens. They greet me with noisy enthusiasm and even Pavarotti, my cocky cockerel, struts up to say hello. The pushy way he walks around, shoving the other hens out of the way to get at the scraps of food I throw them, used to make me feel he was a bit of a bully. After watching this manoeuvre a few times, I’ve realised that what he is actually doing is selecting a particularly tasty grub and laying it at the feet of one of the hens, as a kind of tribute. This amazes me every time I see it, and I’ve had to completely revise my opinion of Pavarotti. He’s not a pushy chicken with a sense of entitlement after all, but on the contrary a wonderful gentleman.
Seagulls in the Attic Page 15
