Seagulls in the Attic Read Online Free

visible in the moonlight; it looks as if it’s been sleeping for years and is waiting for a magic wand to wake it. I think about the couple from London who bought a second home here a year or so ago and tried to bully the local council to put streetlights on our one quiet main road. The man said it was awkward holding a torch when walking his dog at night. When all his arguments, threats and pleadings failed, and the streetlight idea was given a firm veto, he got into such a huff that he sold the house, much to everyone’s relief. I suppose he’s now in Devon or somewhere else in the West Country, making trouble for the locals there.
    Thinking thankfully about the absence of streetlights in Treverny, I start Minger’s ancient engine again and this time it grumbles into action. I drive along silent roads to St Geraint where I pick up the postal van which is parked behind the boatyard. Once again I linger, savouring the moonlight on the calm sea. My job, I think. The sea is my office. I still can’t believe it sometimes, that I and my family actually did it, moved from what had become for us a nightmare of commuting, juggling family and job, to this place where I am learning to live again, take deep breaths, stop and look at the stars as I am doing now.
    When I get to the sorting office in Truro, where today I’m picking up the post for St Geraint and Morranport, another, smaller seaside village, things are not so tranquil. It is never peaceful, with the huge sorting office teeming with postmen and women rushing to pick up their deliveries and load them into the waiting vans, but today there’s another crisis.
    Susie, the Cornishwoman who has been my lifeline as Ilearned this new job, finds me and says, ‘Eddie’s off sick, maid. Only just phoned in, so you and I got to split his round. No one else about who can do it today.’
    Eddie joined us as a relief postie about a year or so ago but now has his own round. He’s young, freckle-faced, cheeky and endearing, always up for a joke and a laugh. He’s not often off work so he must have the flu that’s been going around the villages.
    Luckily we all know each other’s rounds, so it’s not that bad but just makes a longer day. And it’s one of those days when everything seems to go wrong. For a start, the indicators on my van aren’t working so I have to use hand signals. This would be fine if I’d been right about assuming it would be a fine sunny day like yesterday. As the sun comes up the rain rolls in, the horizontal kind that blows right into my face every time I roll down the window to make a hand signal.
    As if I didn’t have enough trouble with the postal van, my old car also gives me grief when I finally finish, wet and soaking and hungry. I didn’t bring any lunch. I thought I’d be home in time to have a late one with Ben, but it’s too late now. Minger, after all my faith and patience, decides to be fickle and rewards me by absolutely refusing to start. I finally get out in the rain which is now a downpour and luckily find Mickey who sometimes works in the boatyard. He’s an ace mechanic and kindly does something magical to get me going again. As I thank him profusely he says in warning, ‘Maid, you need to be taking this old heap in. I’ve patched it up but it won’t last. It do be needing some serious work.’
    Serious work. More money. What we desperately need is a new car but we can’t afford it although this one is costing us a fortune. I drive home feeling rather less euphoric than I did this morning. But after a hot bath, dry clothes, and a great helping of a lasagne Ben has made, I’m feeling more optimistic.Maybe we can get a second-hand car with all the money we will save this year growing our food, producing our own meat. I’ve learned how to make bread and not with a bread-maker either, but with my bare hands. Apart from a few things like tea and milk, and maybe rice and pasta and a few dried beans now and again, we’ll hardly