The rook does end up being called Lizzie. It much prefers men and attacks women, tugging at their hair and earrings, pecking furiously at the rings on their fingers, and even at their eyes. She has a very feminine air about her too. When she is a year old she will try to mate with Robert’s fingers, her soft feathers trembling ethereally in the palm of his hand.
Uncle Dick says, ‘Don’t get too fond of it, lad. Birds is like women, they always bugger off in the end. You’ve just got to enjoy them while they’re there.’ Robert already knows this. Members of the crow family will stay all summer, but they always leave in autumn. He has been bereaved before, and it makes no difference how much you love them, or they you.
Uncle Dick says, ‘Let’s teach it to say something,’ and every time he sees Lizzie he says, ‘Silly bugger, silly bugger, silly bugger.’
‘You could teach it something nice,’ reproves Robert’s mother, and Dick says, ‘Silly bugger’s probably more useful, innit.’
Lizzie passes through the stages of her infancy and youth. Robert makes her a little contraption out of twigs, and on it she learns to perch. Robert knows that if you don’t give them a perch they get sore backsides from sitting in their own waste. She learns to hop out of the log basket, and, just like a toddler, begins to empty the waste-paper baskets, tear things up, upset ornaments and excrete randomly. She clambers up Robert’s body, her wings beating, pricking him through his clothing with her sharp little claws, and spends most of her time sitting on his shoulder, rearranging tufts of his hair and murmuring strange, soft, guttural endearments in his ear. He wears a Breton sailor’s cap, in those days known as a ‘Donovan hat’, for those occasions when she prefers to be on top of his head, and an old tea towel for when she’d rather be on his shoulder. Uncle Dick chucks her under the chin, and says, ‘Silly bugger, silly bugger.’
To Robert she always reacts like a fledgling. Even after she has successfully pulled her first worm from the lawn, she still greets him with a gaping maw, quivering wings and vociferous affirmations of hunger. She is always in attendance when Robert’s mother is in the vegetable patch, demanding bugs and heaving at the laces of her clodhoppers. No one’s laces are safe from being tugged undone.
Later Robert makes her a little open-sided house with a grown-up perch in it, which he winds with string for better grip, and he installs it in a lilac bush with its back to the prevailing wind. Lizzie takes up residence, sleeping there at night with her head tucked under her wing. Robert goes out every night to say goodnight to her, and she rewards him with contented sleepy noises.
Robert used to teach birds to fly by sitting them on an outstretched arm and running, or by pushing them off. It didn’t work very well, because birds never see the point of flying until they have actually tried it, so now he takes the bird between his hands, and tosses it into the air like someone launching a racing pigeon. Uncle Dick showed him how to do it a couple of years ago, calling it ‘moonlaunch’ and saying, ‘It always works, boy. Toss ’em up, and they can’t help flapping.’ At first it causes Lizzie much comical alarm, and she protests indignantly, since hopping has been perfectly satisfactory so far, but she flaps her wings by instinct, and it is only a few days before she is flying tentatively round the house and returning to Robert’s shoulder, panting from the effort and very pleased with herself. They carry on playing moon-launch long after she has learned to fly. He chases her about the lawn while she takes evasive action, and then he scoops her up and hurls her into the air. She croaks with mock indignation, and then returns for more. Uncle Dick loves to watch it, and says, ‘Wish I had a camera.’ One day in summer, when the family is having lunch in their tiny garden on a Saturday, she takes a few beakfuls of Blue Nun from Robert’s mother’s glass, and puts on a comic display of inebriated flying that culminates in her landing unintentionally in a tureen of soup on the garden table. They drink the soup anyway, since she is generally a fairly clean bird, and she hasn’t pooed in it. She loves showing off to visitors, and performs aerobatics all over the garden for their benefit. She hurtles round and round the house, and the family start to refer to it as ‘Lizzie’s fly-past’. On days of high wind she flings herself about at altitude, and Robert concludes that rooks really do enjoy flying, because they definitely do it when they don’t need to.
Lizzie loves the games that are common to intelligent animals. She plays peekaboo, and chasing and being chased. Most of all she enjoys keepaway and ambushing. She takes nuts and bolts from Robert when he is working on his bicycle, and deposits them on the roof, so that Uncle Dick has to borrow a ladder from John the gardener to get them back down again. Lizzie goes up behind him, tugging at the cuffs of his trousers from the rung below. She particularly likes to make barefooted people dance by pecking at their toes, most especially if the toenails are painted. Dick sees the playful affection that has grown up between bird and boy, and reminds him once again that ‘Birds is like women, they always bugger off in the end, so don’t get too attached. She can’t go before she’s said “silly bugger”, though.’
In fact Lizzie has learned to say something else. The first time it happens is when Robert goes out as usual to call her from her lilac tree, first thing in the morning. He is spooked to hear his own voice, his own special sing-song bird-calling voice, cooing ‘Come on, come on’ from the middle of the tree. It turns out that Lizzie really does only say it when she wants him to come on. This involves a huge physical and intellectual exertion on her part, her whole body shaking with the effort, the feathers on her head fluffing up like a crest. Uncle Dick is disappointed. ‘I’ll get her to say “silly bugger” in the end, if it flippin’ kills me,’ he says, and he redoubles his efforts while Lizzie eyes him suspiciously from her perch, trying to stab him in the eye if he gets too close. It’s one of her golden rules that all that glisters must be pecked. It is also a rule that anything that is new, or that might annoy the humans, must be pecked. Robert accidentally breaks a window with a cricket ball, and when Uncle Dick replaces it, Lizzie systematically removes the putty and eats it. She does it so many times that finally Uncle Dick rigs up an apparatus made of wires to keep her away. She sways and rocks on the wires, balance being almost impossible, but manages to peck the putty out anyway, and Uncle Dick finally cuts strips from a metal tape measure, and sticks them down on to the putty. Lizzie is perplexed, and pecks at the steel strip until she realises the futility of it, whereupon she goes off to stab at the cat, where it sleeps on the lawn. Then she sets off the mole traps by tugging at the chains on the mechanism.
One day Lizzie takes the bait in a rat trap. It smashes across the base of her beak, and she stands for a second, paralysed by pain and shock, with her head pinned down. Fortunately Robert is in the kitchen, and he rushes to release her, his heart thumping with horror and dismay. He feels terrible, because it was he who set up the trap in the first place, ever since he’d seen a rat preening itself in the electricity box above the fridge. Lizzie stands perfectly still, blood seeping out of the cracks in her beak, and Robert sees that she has long fractures and splits running along the entire length of it. His first thought is that she will have to be put down, and his eyes fill with tears of guilt.
He scoops her up and takes her outdoors, but then brings her back inside. There is no one about, and no one to turn to. He puts her down again on the kitchen table, and goes to the telephone in the hallway. He searches desperately inside the spiral-bound telephone book, where finally he comes across the number of Mr Lakin in Farncombe, which his mother has entered under V for vet. The receptionist takes mercy on him because of the panic in his voice, and Mr Lakin talks him through. He tells Robert to look at Lizzie head on, and see if her face is symmetrical. He asks Robert if he knows what ‘symmetrical’ means. Fortunately Robert has recently learned it in maths. It is one of those words that makes you feel intelligent when you use it.
Robert takes Lizzie in his hands, and she croaks forlornly. He scrutinises her carefully and then goes back to the telephon
e. ‘Her head is still symmetrical,’ he tells the vet, adding, ‘and she’s not bleeding very much any more.’
‘Well,’ says Mr Lakin, ‘she is almost certainly all right then. It means that nothing important has been broken.’
‘What about her beak?’ asks Robert. ‘It’s all split.’
‘Beaks mend themselves,’ says Mr Lakin.
‘Do they?’ says Robert, sceptically. He has heard that beaks are made of the same kind of stuff as hair and fingernails, so surely they couldn’t mend themselves, not until they grow out?
‘You’ll be surprised,’ says Mr Lakin. ‘They really do. She won’t do much pecking until it doesn’t hurt any more, but she’ll be able to pick up food and swallow it. The only thing is, a bird can die of shock. You’ve got to keep it warm, and try to comfort it as much as possible. A drink of water or milk is a good idea as well, but not too much.’
Robert says, ‘Thank you,’ and the vet says, ‘If it takes a turn for the worse, just bring it in.’ Robert says ‘Thank you’ again, even though Uncle Dick isn’t there with his car, and the bus from Lane End takes an hour. He worries that Lizzie would be dead by the time they arrive.
He sits all evening with her cupped in his hands against his chest, talking to her and putting her up to his face. He loves her dry toasty smell, especially on the top of her head. The thought of her dying fills him with grief, and he tries to let hope get the upper hand, because now that his mother has come back from Hascombe he doesn’t want her seeing him cry.
In the morning Lizzie is in good spirits, and accepts gifts of grapes and cheese, but it is some weeks before she resumes the mischievous and violent pecking which is her main enjoyment in life. Robert worries for ages that when Mr Lakin’s bill arrives, he might not have enough pocket money to pay for it, but no bill ever does. Mr Lakin has several pro bono cases a year of little boys with accident-prone pet corvids, often including incidents with rat traps, and in any case he doesn’t charge for advice.
Lizzie reaches sexual maturity, and the lovable feathers at the base of her beak fall out in manifestation of it. Her violet eyes fade. She looks a lot less pretty now that she is a full-grown rook, but her feathers are glossy and iridescent. She has taught herself how to ant, utilising the ants that live in the crevices of the crazy paving, and two or three times a day she bathes joyously in a bucket that has been left to catch the overflow of one of the gutters. She stands on the edge of the bucket, and then hops in, splashing with delight. She hops out, shakes herself, and then skips back in again. Visitors watch her with pleasure sparkling in their eyes, and they say to Robert, ‘Whoever would have guessed that a bird could be so much fun?’ and ‘When you grow up I expect you’ll be a vet.’
It is autumn, and Uncle Dick warns Robert that soon Lizzie will leave home and go to find some rooks to live with. That’s what they always do, they can’t help it, that’s nature for you, it doesn’t mean that they don’t love you. Lizzie goes for walks with Robert and he holds her on his wrist and reaches up into elder bushes so that she can devour the berries. She loves them so much that she yells with pleasure in between each beakful. The lilac excrement that ensues is so acid that it removes patches of black paint from Uncle Dick’s Ford Prefect.
Every evening Lizzie meets Robert at the bus stop when he comes back from school. The moment that he gets off at Lane End, she lands on his shoulder and murmurs hoarse endearments as she rearranges the hair about his ears. The boys are envious because he seems like a wizard, and the girls are fascinated and repelled. Lizzie stabs anyone who reaches up a finger to pet her, and she is particularly infuriated by fingers that wear rings. Robert feels set apart, privileged, because he has a bird that meets him at the bus stop and comes home with him on his shoulder, even if occasionally she flies away and back again when their progress seems too slow.
It is autumn, and then winter, and Lizzie has still not left home. She sleeps in the lilac bush, her head under her wing, her feathers dusted with frost, and every day she follows her routine, confounded only by the ice on her bucket, which Robert has to remove so that she can bathe. He is astounded by her immunity to cold and high winds. Uncle Dick professes astonishment that Lizzie is still there, he says that he has never before heard of a rook that stayed after autumn, and neither has anyone else, and he is still determined that one day she will learn to say ‘silly bugger’. He says it to her repeatedly, and she just ruffles her feathers and replies ‘Come on’ in Robert’s voice.
The following spring Lizzie starts turning up with another rook, who remains at a sensible distance while she receives her grapes and cheese, or accompanies Robert home from school. Robert is glad that she has found a friend, but worries that he will take her away.
There is no sign of this, however, and she is her usual ebullient and affectionate self, until, suddenly, she has gone altogether.
There has been no slow detachment, no gradual growing apart, no chance to become reconciled or resigned, no chance of farewell. The little shelter in the lilac is deserted, the bucket is disused, there is no more need to buy a bunch of grapes every week. Now they won’t need so much Cheddar either.
Robert and Uncle Dick sit side by side on the doorstep at the weekend, and Uncle Dick says, ‘Well, I did warn you, son. They’re like women, they always bugger off sooner or later. Don’t matter how nice you are.’
Robert doesn’t believe him. He thinks that the bond between them was something special, that Lizzie wouldn’t just disappear all of a sudden. Even so, he can see that Uncle Dick is right. She probably went away with her friend to make eggs. That’s what Uncle Dick says. ‘It’s the call of the wild, son.’
Uncle Dick puts his hand on Robert’s shoulder as he stands up. ‘Sorry, son,’ he says, and as he walks away he adds, ‘Did I tell you, son? Couple of days ago I thought I heard her say “silly bugger”. I wasn’t sure, though.’
Robert goes up the lane and turns right into the woods behind the Institute of Oceanography. By the pink water tower he stands under the elms and looks up at the rooks. They are squabbling over nest sites, and repairing old ones. He sits on a stump amid the ferns of bracken until dark, convinced that Lizzie couldn’t be up there making eggs. He would recognise her voice if she was there, and in any case she would come down the moment she knew he was there. He sits there until dark. He thinks of what Uncle Dick says about women. ‘You can find a really special one, son, and then she goes and breaks your heart, and then one day you realise that you’re glad you had her, and all right, you’ll miss her for ever, but that’s that. You don’t have to grieve no more.’
Robert listens to the sleepy noises of the rooks above him in the dark, and because there is no one there except the birds, he allows himself to cry silently for a while. Eventually, when the cold sets in and the dew starts to settle, he stands up stiffly, rubs his eyes on his sleeve and starts for home. Once again, spring is about to hurl new life into the world, and soon there will be new birds to look after in his garden hospital. No doubt it will never be the same again, but, as Uncle Dick says, ‘You carry on, son. You got your memories, so that’s what you do. Life’s a bugger, but you look straight ahead, and you bleedin’ well carry on.’
SILLY BUGGER (2)
ROYSTON CHITTOCK WAS bought out by his partners for quite a handsome sum. They had been saying flattering things to him, such as ‘You’ve put so much into the business, old boy, isn’t it time you had some life for yourself?’ and ‘You deserve a rest, old boy, all work and no play, and so forth.’ But really it was because they could not bear to work with him any more. He was the kind of colleague who gets bees in his bonnet. He would become obsessed by trivial matters, and it had become worse and worse as time went by. Finally they had decided to try and buy him out after he had spent six months worrying aloud about whether or not the banisters on the staircase up to the office were the right height. He was getting the secretaries to walk up-and downstairs several times a day, in order to compare their opinions. He was
asking clients about it instead of discussing business, and he was taking up far too much time on the topic at meetings. His previous obsession had been to do with the properties of manila envelopes, and before that he had been worrying about the likelihood of an airliner falling on the office while on the way to Heathrow.
Blessed with a huge lump sum, and the relieved good wishes of his former colleagues, Royston Chittock sold his house in Dover House Road, Putney, and moved southwards down the A3 to Notwithstanding, a village where he knew nobody, and with which he had no prior connection. It was a short train journey from there to London, a fact which was of value to him because, like anyone who has been a Londoner for any length of time, he was profoundly attached to the delusion that London is the centre of the universe. He found a modest house near the sign which said ‘Best Kept Village 1953’ and planned to spend a long and comfortable retirement golfing, gardening, and collecting and dealing in stamps. There was very little that he didn’t know about the philately of Japan and the former colonies. It was an ill-omened time to move. The evening after his arrival, the Horse and Groom and the Seven Stars in Guildford were blown up, killing five youngsters and injuring sixty-five.
Notwithstanding: Stories From an English Village Page 18