Seagulls in the Attic Read Online Free Page B

bewildered and indignant. Who did this? Who dared vandalise my garden? All I can do is stand there and gape. What happened? Why?
    As if I’ve spoken aloud, a voice answers my silent question. ‘It’s those blackbirds, maid. They think there’s something tasty under there and peck the onions out. Too bad. You’ll have to sow them all over again.’
    I turn and see Hector nodding at me. He’s barely taller than his wife and just as bird-like only instead of a tiny beak for a nose, his is long and bony, more like a hawk’s. Covering his bald head today in a straw hat which appears to have been run over a few times by a horse and cart. He looks distinguished, though goodness knows how he manages it with that ruby red drapery and an old straw hat; perhaps it is his manner. Both he and Edna never seem flustered or fazed by anything. Though old and fragile-looking, they both stand ramrod straight, which gives them the appearance of always being in control despite their whacky clothes and advanced age.
    I look at him quizzically. ‘Blackbirds? But I like blackbirds. They have such a lovely song.’
    A glimmer of amusement passes over Hector’s face. ‘So do we all, maid, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be pesky at times. Best make the most of it and get on with replanting. Shall I give you a hand?’
    ‘No, thanks, Hector. I’ll be fine.’
    I’ve just replanted the onions and am investigating my leekplants which look a bit beaten down after all the rain. At least the peas seem fine. Carefully I plant out the cauliflowers that were given to me, with a cursory nod at the blackbird watching me in the tree.
    ‘Leave my patch alone,’ I mutter. As if in answer the blackbird bursts into song. I listen for a minute then grin. ‘OK, I forgive you. Just don’t do it again.’
    I’m about to go when someone calls to me from the other gate, the one leading onto the road. It’s one of the farm workers from Daphne and Joe’s farm, a middle-aged man called Doug, who also works a morning a week strimming the Humphreys’ front path. ‘Great day for gardening, ain’t it? Great day all around, if you ask me.’ He leans over the gate, surveying my allotment.
    ‘Oh hi, Doug. Yes, it’s gorgeous isn’t it. I thought I might have planted too early but it looks like spring is here to stay.’
    ‘Hmm, mebbe, mebbe not. Them leeks don’t look too good. A bit early I’d have said for leeks. And you’ve put the cauli in. Hmm.’
    ‘Oh? Oh dear. But it’s so warm and sheltered, I thought they’d be fine.’
    Doug purses his lips and sucks air through them, making a whistling sound. I’ve seen Cornish farmers do this many a time, especially when they’re about to pronounce something horrific, like the price of feed rising exorbitantly or the impossibility of selling an animal for the price the buyer is asking. ‘Don’t know who told you that, my lover. If you ask me, peas are the only crop hardy enough to sow now.’ He makes that air-sucking noise again and shakes his head.
    ‘What’s the matter? What is it?’ I ask. He’s not saying anything and I’m beginning to get a bit nervous. After all, Doug’s been working on the land since he was a boy and he should know what he’s talking about.
    Finally he speaks, ‘Peas is all very well, my handsome, but even then, you got to be careful, if you ask me. You see, I hear tell that there’s gonna be a frost tonight.’
    ‘What?’ I nearly shriek the word. ‘This is south Cornwall, look at the sun. There can’t be a frost.’
    ‘I feel it in my bones. If you ask me,’ he folds his arms stubbornly across his chest. He’s a burly man, rugged and jowly.
    I stare at him. ‘OK, Doug, so what do I do? Everything’s already in the ground. I’m not about to dig it up because you think there might be a frost.’
    He looks chuffed at being asked. He makes that whistling sound again as if the answer is going to be tough and then says one word,