Seagulls in the Attic Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘Fleece.’
    ‘Fleece?’
    ‘Yep, that’ll do it. Get a bit of fleece and put it over the peas, that’ll give ’em some protection. Yes, that’ll do just fine. Best get on now, see you again.’ He walks away, no doubt quite pleased with himself, telling the city gal a few facts about the land.
    Fleece, eh? Well, that’s no problem. I know where to get some fleece, with all the sheep around here. Doug said just a bit would do. I have plenty of time to get some as Ben is picking up the children from school today.
    So instead of going straight home, I wander down the lane leading out of the village and down to some local farms. It’s such a golden day that I’m delighted to have an excuse not to go straight home. The narrow road is lined with hedgerows beginning to green up with the coming of spring. Pink, blue and yellow wild flowers peep between twigs and a robin is watching me from a beech tree. The warmth is soporific, I can feel it filling my body, warming my bones as it’s warming the earth. Spring in Cornwall has got to be one of most entrancing seasons of the year.
    After ten minutes of walking I come to a field of sheep. I’ve passed by here lots of times and noticed how, towards the end of winter and spring, before the sheep are shorn, their wool sometimes gets a bit straggly, catching on bits of fencing, brambles and low tree branches. A public footpath runs along the sides of this field which is ideal. I walk all around it, gathering bits of wool here and there, dropping it into my basket. There are more pickings in the field opposite. The sheep gaze at me from a distance, placid and undisturbed.
    By the time I finish collecting, I have a basketful of wool. Put together it must be almost as much as a whole sheep’s fleece. This is what Doug meant, I assure myself, for even I, townie that I am, know not even Cornish farmers shear in March, so finding an entire sheep’s fleece would be impossible. In fact, with my basketful of wool straight off the sheep’s back, I’m feeling quite on top of this gardening lark. Doug cannot resist poking fun at us city folk at times when we struggle to make sense of country ways so I wish he’d pass by now to see how enterprising I’ve been.
    This is the life. I begin to whistle as I saunter back to my allotment, going in through the gate from the road and noting with satisfaction that all is as it should be. I’ve replanted the onion sets and they remain untouched by birds. The little leeks are perking up and the cauliflower plants I’ve just put out are fine. It might be only an hour or two since I was here last, but I can’t help feeling relieved that everything still looks the same.
    I take the fleece from my basket and painstakingly drape it over the row of peas. It looks sparse when it’s all spread out like that but Doug said it would do the trick. It looks pretty on the dark brown soil, like a light coating of snow or frost, or a delicate spider’s web, shining with dew, perhaps. The patterns the wisps of wool make are so intriguing that I can’t help rearranging them so that the sunlight can shine on andthrough the wool making lovely swirls and intricate designs. Just because my garden is meant to be functional, I decide, it can still be aesthetically pleasing.
    I turn to gaze with admiration at my new cold frame, which I made with a top from a window and frame I found at the local tip and bits of wood. It’s extraordinary, the delight one can have in such simple things. Instead of a designer handbag or an exquisite new pair of shoes, I’ve got a cold frame.
    The clucking of the hens demands my attention next. It’s too early for them to go in for the night so I take them a handful of corn from the feed bin. They bustle up around me, fussing and making the friendly confidential clucking noises that I love. Originally we had only the brown Rhode Islands but a couple of them died and I’ve replaced one with a light Sussex, a white hen with black