I can tell that even the Humphreys have had enough rocket and spinach, though they seem to eat masses of it and never refuse anything that I bring them from the garden. Perhaps that’s the secret of their long and healthy lives, all the vegetables they seem to consume.
They are standing talking to the hens when I arrive, and after we’ve collected the eggs we turn to the vegetable patch. In with the successes I’ve had a few disasters. Tiny cabbage butterflies have made Swiss cheese of my small cabbages and my potatoes, not much good to start with, have suffered the same fate as the lettuce and every time I cut one open there’s a slug staring me in the face. There are more slug holes than potatoes but at least we have some to eat. My summer leeks are growing enormously as are the beetroot and carrots. And of course the spinach and rocket are endless.
I’m learning a dozen ways to use the spinach. I’m making wagon loads of spinach soup, and quiches filled with the stuff. I’m making sauces with a tomato base, using sieved spinach. We’re eating it every day, in salads, mixed surreptitiously into curries – you name it and I’ve put spinach in it.
‘Next year I’ll try fruit,’ I say, brimming with optimism. ‘Some strawberries and raspberries perhaps.’
‘Steady on, maid,’ Hector says. ‘Young girl like you shouldn’t overdo it.’
Edna nods her agreement. I love it when they call me a young girl, especially when I’m stooped from pulling a back muscle while digging up leeks, when I have bags under my eyes through lack of sleep and when I haven’t had time to look in the mirror for days.
She says, ‘I hope you are taking time to enjoy some of this sunshine we’ve been having, dear.’
I tell her truthfully that I have. No matter how busy I am, I never miss a chance for a walk on the beach, usually first thing in the morning as I’ve done ever since moving here and then again in early evening often with the children before I take them to Daphne’s to spend the night. Precious moments, all of them.
Edna also asks if we are planning a holiday this year and the question stumps me. The last holiday we had was when we lived in London and we took a cottage in Cornwall. Now we live in a cottage in Cornwall, so what do we do for a holiday? It would be fun to go to London and see our old friends, visit the city and maybe take in some shows, but no way can we afford that. We can’t afford to go abroad either, and anyway, right now I don’t want to; this new life still feels very much like an extended vacation to me most of the time.
Still, a holiday would be good. I decide to talk about it to Ben next time he phones, see what we can come up with. Camping would be fun. We’d want to stay in Cornwall, but in a different area, I decide, somewhere new to explore. I ask Emma about possible camping spots next day when I deliver to Trelak Farm. She suggests the Penwith area, at the tip of Cornwall.
‘You’ve not only got the coast but the moorland around there to explore,’ she tells me. ‘The landscape is quite different from here. I know the perfect campsite too, owned by old friends. They had to sell their land but they kept a large field and got planning permission for a campsite.’
It sounds promising and I’m so lost in thought planning this holiday as I go on the rest of my round that I have to brake suddenly when I see a young goat in the middle of a narrow lane. The goat is lying down and in front of it there’s a woman waving at me to stop. It’s Marilyn and that’s Gruff behind her. I pull the van into a layby and jump out.
‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Is he hurt?’ He doesn’t look it. In fact Gruff looks perfectly contented, chewing his cud placidly.
Marilyn says, ‘I decided that Gruff needs to graze more, since he keeps getting out to find more interesting things to eat. So I’ve started taking him for more frequent walks, along the back lanes so he can nibble at all the wild stuff growing in the hedgerows. I don’t even need a lead as he usually follows me quite happily, never letting me get far ahead.’
‘So why is he just lying there? Is he tired or what?’ I say.
Marilyn shakes her head, ‘He’s done that once or twice before. Just decided to stop for no reason. Usually a gentle shove gets him up but this time I can’t budge him, he’s been here for ten minutes now. I don’t know what to do, I’ve been pleading and cajoling and tugging at him but nothing works.’
I’ve got to get down this road to deliver more post so I give her a hand. We push and tug but Gruff won’t move. It’s a narrow road and not much used but as luck would have it, a car zooming around the corner, nearly hits the postal van before jamming on its breaks and screeching to a stop. The driver gets out and walks towards us with a murderous look on his face. I recognise him as Mr Lander, one of the second-homers in our village and not a favourite amongst the locals. He’s the one who raised hell when Joe drove through the village with a load of muck to spread on his fields something he’s done regularly for twenty-five years. Mr Lander tried to get Joe stopped, complaining that it was not only a health hazard but that the smell gave his wife intense migraines. This was such a new one on the villagers that he was the laughing stock of the place for weeks. No one has laughed lately, though, as he’s still fighting Joe and the other farmers, writing letters everywhere, calling meetings that no one attends, except a very few second-homers. Mrs Lander wanders around the village as if everyone is invisible and she never even looks at her neighbours, let alone speaks to us. So this is the last person we need glaring at us as Gruff sprawls stubbornly across the road.
I say brightly, ‘Why, hello Mr Lander, how nice to see you. This is my friend Marilyn, and this is Gruff. Billy Goat Gruff.’ I grin, hoping for even a half smile in return.
Marilyn, joining in the joke, says, ‘I hope you’re not a troll, Mr Lander.’
He may as well be a troll, the way he huffs and puffs out his chest and demands to know whose goat it is and why it’s sprawled in the middle of a public highway when he’s in a hurry to get back to the village and the bloody animal is blocking the bloody road. Marilyn is so taken aback by his vehemence that she doesn’t know what do or say so I come to her rescue.
Still keeping calm and polite I say, ‘Goats can be quite stubborn, and Gruff has decided he’s not going to move. I’d suggest you back up a bit, turn around and go back to Treverny on the other road; it’s not far out of the way and it’ll be quicker than trying to move the goat.’
He’s completely ignoring me, walking around Gruff and giving him a push in the back then a tug on his front legs but the goat stares reproachfully at the man and doesn’t move.
Marilyn says, ‘Look, it won’t work, we tried everything. He’s a very stubborn goat and the more you pull him about like that, the more determined he’ll be to stay put.’
I say with my best diplomatic voice, ‘You could have been in Treverny by now, Mr Lander. You might as well turn around, you know. I don’t think he’s going to move just yet.’ I look at Gruff placidly chewing his cud.
Mr Lander blows. He completely loses it and starts shouting at me, Marilyn and the goat, swearing at us all and finishing by hollering, ‘If you think I’m going to let a bloody goat get the better of me you’re both out of your bloody heads.’ With that he kicks Gruff hard on the side of his ribs.
Gruff bleats loudly with the pain but doesn’t get up. Mr Lander looks as if he’s going to kick him again but Marilyn shouts, ‘Don’t you dare!’
At the same time I cry, ‘If you do that one more time I’ll report you to the RSPCA for cruelty to animals.’
Mr Lander shouts back, ‘And I’ll report you to the police, causing wilful obstruction on a main road.’
This narrow lane a main road? As he jumps into his car and reverses it up the road, revving like a maniac, Marilyn and I look at one another, shake our heads and roll our eyes.
‘Man that is one stressed friend of yours,’ Marilyn says. ‘Obviously the slow calm ways of us rural folk have not rubbed off on him.’
‘He’s not my friend; he’s that new incomer in Treverny.’
‘Ah, that explains it. I�
��ve heard talk of him. None of it good.’
‘Sorry I can’t stay and help any longer, Marilyn, but I’ve got to get going. I’ll reverse and go the other way. If you’re still here on the way back I’ll lend a hand again.’
Even as I speak, Gruff is stirring. Moving slowly and with great dignity, he gets up and walks sedately to the edge of the road where he starts nibbling goodies from the hedgerow.
Ben comes home for good the first day of August and as part of our joyous family celebrations, we have a day out at one of our favourite events of the year, the Penrundell Fair. It’s like an old-fashioned village fete and it’s been going on in Penrundell since, folk say, for ever. Every antiquated game ever played seems to go on here and the place is always happily packed with both locals and visitors.
It’s a breezy day when we set out, with high clouds flitting benignly above us, not interfering with the intense blue of the sky and the heat of the sun. There are already loads of people at the rugby grounds outside the village where it’s held though it’s not even ten o’clock. All the proceeds go towards a fund for the church roof so folk spend freely on the coconut shy, the darts game, hoopla, and guess-the-weight-of-the-pig. The prizes are just old-fashioned sweets, there are no fluffy teddy bears, or plastic trinkets. There’s a huge beer tent, stalls selling local sausages and other treats to eat, and wonderful events which draw crowds either to enter or watch.
I start talking to one of my customers while Ben takes Will and Amy off to watch some men, and a couple of women, try to throw bales of hay over a crossbar which keeps being raised. I can hear their supporters cheering them on. Later there will be the donkey derby but meanwhile the sheep race has begun. This is hilarious and we watch while several sheep come out each with a knitted jockey figure perched on top. The audience roars with approval and bets are placed on favourite sheep. There are tiny jumps around the field which, led by their owners, they are supposed to leap over, though more than one refuses point blank to do so, to the consternation of those who bet on them.
We wander around the fair for hours, sometimes together, sometimes separately as the children run off with mates, and Ben and I meet colleagues and our own friends. We eat the homemade sausages that are out of this world, drink ice-cold beer and lemonade, join in a few games and sit on the grass to watch others. My favourite is the terrier race. About a dozen excited yapping terriers, held on to precariously by their frazzled owners, are suddenly let loose to chase a sort of wiggly fake fox tail which stands in for the hare. It’s exciting to watch. The terriers get distracted, bark frantically at each other, run the other way and start skirmishes while their owners shout and try to control them. One delightful little Border Terrier runs joyfully away in the opposite direction with its owner, a huge Amazonian woman of great weight and height, running madly after it. I don’t know who is having more fun, the terriers or the spectators.
It’s a lovely day all around, and on our way home we stop at the harbour town of Fowey to eat fish and chips at a cheap and cheerful takeaway, settling by the water to watch the yachts sail into harbour. The food is delicious, the sea air bliss, and there’s nowhere else on earth any of us would rather be at this moment.
Chapter 13
A-camping we will go . . .
August, and Cornwall is buzzing. Holidaymakers abound, there are regattas every weekend, the beaches are full and the seaside towns and villages are filled with a festive holiday atmosphere. And now we’re having a holiday too. We’ve never gone camping before, so it will be a huge treat. We’ve got an old but barely used tent a customer was getting rid of, sleeping bags and some air mattresses that Daphne lent me.
In London when we went on holidays to Cornwall, we packed children and dog in the car, a few clothes and that was it; our rented cottages were fully equipped. With camping, my list of what to bring is endless. And then there is the problem of the chickens, the seagull and the lamb – we can’t take them with us, much as we’d like to.
The chickens and Patch are easy; the Humphreys will feed and look after the former, and Joe will do the same for the latter. I’m worried about Google, though. No matter where or how far he flies off, he’s always at the kitchen door twice a day at least. He expects his dish of dried fishy cat food which he still loves, as well as all the other scraps we give him. Then I have a brainwave. There’s been another reshuffling of part of our rounds and Eddie is now delivering to Treverny, for the summer anyway.
I find him in the Morranport post office chatting to Nell who says, ‘Oh there you be, maid, Eddie and me was just talking about you, wondering whether that snake of yours be found yet.’
I shake my head, ‘No, Elvis is still at large. No sign of him anywhere. We figure he’s either died or slithered off somewhere. The woman at the reptile centre says we’ll probably never find him now. Though I still check the bed before I get into it.’
Eddie grins. ‘Mebbe it’s for the best. We’ve all seen what happens when you spot a snake at your feet.’ He’s not forgotten his little joke with the fake snake and this is not the first time he’s reminded me of it.
I grin. ‘Yeah, Eddie, it was a great gag. Now, how about doing me a favour, since I think you owe me one for being able to laugh at the fact you nearly gave me a heart attack, throwing that thing at me.’
I explain what I want, which is basically to stop by my house every day he delivers to the village and put some food out for Google. Eddie, after making all sorts of over-the-top gestures of astonishment, rolling his eyes, grimacing and the like, reluctantly agrees. Like me and the other rural posties, he’s used to feeding cats, rabbits, other small animals when the owners are away, but a seagull? I know he thinks I’m bonkers, but he’s basically a good lad and he agrees to do it. So that’s it, then. Animals all sorted. I can’t wait until we go camping.
Unfortunately a wintry white fog settles over Cornwall for a few days and it seems more like January than August.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it’ll go before we start our holiday. The tourists try to entertain themselves while the chilly mist envelops the beaches and the cliff tops. A wind has blown up with the fog which makes it swirl and move like something alive. Now and then the sun tries to break through but so far fails every time.
It’s not only the holidaymakers who are restless but the locals, too. It’s unseasonable, this weather. In summer people want to turn outward and live in the light, not huddled up inside themselves like winter, cosy by a roaring fire lit against the cold and dark. Perhaps the fog is the reason why my menagerie is getting restless too. Google hangs around the house more in this weather and sits on our roof screeching most of the day, scaring away the thrushes and other small birds. Our neighbours are getting annoyed and I don’t really blame them. I keep expecting Mr Lander to report my seagull to the police, along with reporting Joe for his dung and Marilyn for obstructing the road with a billy goat.
The next morning it’s still foggy. It doesn’t feel like summer at all and it was hard to get up this morning, which is why I’m half asleep as I drive the empty streets to work. When I hear that raucous, familiar seagull shriek right in my ear, I nearly crash the car. I whirl around to see Google sitting on the back seat.
‘How did you get in here?’ I shout at him. Then I remember leaving the door open when I ran back inside for a cardigan.
It’s too late to go back home and anyway I’m nearly at St Geraint. Google is getting bored with being in the car and starts flapping his wings. I step on the accelerator and get to the boatyard where my post van is.
I say loudly to my seagull, ‘Well you can’t come with me on my round, that’s for sure.’
Mickey, materialising out of the fog, says, ‘Talking to yourself, are you my lover?’
‘You’re here early,’ is all I can think of to say. I can’t, I just can’t, tell him that I’ve got a seagull in my car, let alone that I was talking to it. I’ve heard Mickey’s view on seagulls many a time.
‘Yep,
got plenty of work on today as usual. Thick old mist, ain’t it?’ he walks over towards my car, ready for a chat. Mickey likes to chew the fat despite always talking about how busy he is.
I open the car door, trying to get out quickly before he sees Google, but I’m in such a rush I somehow manage to trip over my own feet and land in a heap on the ground.
Mickey is with me in a flash. ‘Hey, you OK?’ When I nod he starts to pick me up but as he does, an almighty squawking and flapping of wings puts the fear of God into him and he drops me again. ‘Shite! What is it? What the hell?’
I’m on my feet, trying to calm Google, and trying to calm Mickey who is jumping up and down severely agitated. ‘God, Tessa, what the hell you got in there? A vulture? Scared the shite out of me.’
Google has calmed down so while I’m mumbling apologies Mickey calms down enough to peer into the car window. ‘God Almighty. A flipping seagull. How the hell did he get in there?’
Now that Mickey knows it’s a seagull and not an albatross or some such rare and dangerous creature, he becomes The Hero. ‘Don’t worry, Tessa, I’ll get the bloody thing out. Right nuisance, those birds. Don’t you fret, maid, I’ll get rid of it for you. Just you stand aside now.’ He picks up a shovel lying against the boatyard shed and goes towards the car.
Seagulls in the Attic Page 20
