by Eva Meijer
Charles was only a few weeks old when my father found him. We thought he wouldn’t survive. But after the first night I was allowed to keep him in my own room. At first he slept in a shoebox, then in a canary cage. He can’t speak, but he understands a great deal and he’s just like a dog. He loves following me everywhere and when he was younger he loved to play with sticks and balls. As soon as he could fly properly, I’d leave the window open for him, even when it was frosty, especially when it was frosty. At first, he’d come indoors every evening, but later he stayed away. Sometimes he flies with a group of other Crows, but I don’t think he’s found himself a mate. Perhaps he’ll find someone next year, when they start nesting again in March.
The water is warmish by the edge of the pool, cooler where it gets deeper. Charles gives himself a shake, pecks at his feathers, stays in the shallows. Spatters of water pat onto the surface, clearly audible. We’re the only ones here. The water makes my legs slanted and slender below the knee, makes my hands when I put them in more supple than usual. “I have to practise and practise to be really good. I have to be awfully good. Then I can go to London.” Charles tilts his head and looks at me. “I’ll miss you though.” Olive has been hunting for men recently, at our soirées. She’s looking for a husband, though she’ll never admit it. Getting married, having children, gradually slipping into our parents’ habits—the boys don’t have to do that. They can do exactly as they like. I wet my arms, then wade out of the water.
Small birds are singing in the distance. They seem to be Blackbirds, but I can’t quite hear them. Charles is listening too. “You’re not allowed to eat any little birds, do you hear?” I say as he hops around me. He gives me a little look. “I do understand why. Margie is so beautiful. I just thought…” Charles flies some distance away, pecks at an insect. I sit down and wipe the dirt from the soles of my feet before putting my shoes on. “…that he understood me.”
STAR 3
In the early spring of 1946 an unknown Great Tit and her mate moved into my garden from my neighbour’s garden on the west side. She took possession of the nest box on the oak tree, beside the path that leads to my house. She had a small, white, star-shaped patch on her forehead, and moved with exceptional elegance. I called her Star. The regular visitors to my garden kept the new couple at a distance and I would only see them in passing.
In the summer of 1949 she lost her mate and set her heart on Baldhead instead. Baldhead had always lived in my garden. He was a robust, sturdy little Great Tit who completely trusted me. Star did not instantly charm him. He had a mate already, whom I called Monocle, because of the white rim around her left eye, and at first he regarded Star as nothing more than a troublemaker. She was very persistent, however. First she chased Monocle away and then she pursued Baldhead for the whole of that autumn, until halfway through the winter she finally won his heart.
Together they launched a battle against Inkey, Baldhead’s old enemy, for possession of Baldhead’s former nest box at the side of the house. Inkey was to blame for Baldhead’s bald head and his lame foot—when Great Tits fight they sometimes lock their claws together and roll over the ground until one of them has the other on its back and in its grip. The conflict between these two birds had started when they first came as youngsters to the garden, and it flared up again each spring. The feathers that Baldhead lost last year, in his continuous fights with Inkey, did grow back again, but the enmity remained as fierce as ever. Baldhead lost the war last year because Monocle had let him do all the fighting. This year, however, he had Star at his side and the outcome was very different. Star fought against Smoke, Inkey’s partner, and although these two were equally matched in physical terms, Star was much more tenacious. Baldhead, however, was not really able to do battle with Inkey because of his lame foot. Instead of this he would swoop down whenever Inkey came too close to their nest, and call as loudly and fiercely as possible to warn him off. In the end, because of their determination and strong characters, Star and Baldhead won back the nest box.
Monocle returned in the early spring, but Star chased her off so forcefully that she almost never came back to the garden again. Instead she retreated some distance away and nested with a younger bird. Her new mate, Peetur, became friends with Baldhead and the two males would often forage in each other’s territories. The females, however, maintained their distance. If she caught sight of Star, Monocle would sometimes hide herself under the hair in the nape of my neck. She knew me very well, in fact, and trusted me, because when she was still Baldhead’s mate she would often come inside the house. There are some Great Tits who readily trust me, and others whose trust I shall never win. These birds are also more introverted in their relationships with other Great Tits. But birds can learn trust from each other. When Star was living in the nest box by the path she was still quite afraid of humans, but because Baldhead was so fond of me, it was not long before she trusted me too.
1911
“Gwendolen? Will you play the Mozart suite this evening?”
I shake my head.
“Why ever not?” My mother gives me a surprised look, her eyes deliberately widened, the look she turns on men: she knows nothing at all, do enlighten her, give her a hand.
“I always have to play.” I walk away from her, into the garden, into the late August warmth.
“Pardon me, young lady, but that’s not how it goes. We’re counting on you.” She follows me, the heels of her white shoes sinking into the damp earth. “Gwen, wait a moment.” My mother takes hold of my face with both her hands. “What’s wrong with you these days?”
“Nothing.” I push her damp hands away from my face.
“But I know you, darling.” I smell the sherry on her breath (strange how something from the outer world enters the body, then still wants to get back out) and I take a step backwards. I understand. I’d also go mad with boredom. She holds her hands in the air a moment, as if to indicate the shape of my face. “We’re worried about you.”
“I want to study music. In London.”
“I realise that, sweetheart. Let’s talk about it next week, when your father’s here.” Newman is in London at present, seeing his publisher. “Not that he’ll have anything useful to say.” She attempts a sideways step, totters. A heel is still stuck in the earth. “Give me a hand then.”
“Mrs Howard. Let me help you back into the house.” Dimitri gives my mother an arm, me a wink. He coaxes her back over the cockleshell path. Muffled footsteps, then crunching.
In the conservatory Paul’s face is bright among the other faces. I pretend I can’t see him.
“Gwen, are you playing tonight? Dimitri’s going to read his work. Me too. New stuff.” He puts a hand on my shoulder.
“No, I haven’t studied enough this week.”
He takes his hand away. I can still feel its imprint. “This is my sister, Patricia.”
The young woman standing by his side looks like him. Her eyes are just as bright as his. She has a bobbed hairstyle, as is the mode now. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” She has just arrived and is staying with Paul.
Dimitri joins us. He drains his glass in a single gulp.
“Nervous?” I ask him.
His face flushes. “A little, yes.”
“Don’t worry. They’re tipsy and will think everything is marvellous. Everyone’s bored to death here, you know. The tedium of Aberdovey and Towyn has stunned their senses.”
He lets out a high-pitched giggle and picks up his folder of poems. His hand is trembling. “I ought to give them another look.”
All around us people are conversing, glancing over shoulders, searching for better people to chat with—the conversations are all about neighbours, love affairs, everything that’s off limits, and never about why those limits exist.
“Ladies and gentlemen. It’s almost half past eight. We’re about to begin.”
Once everyone is seated, Paul opens the performance. His eyes search the rows—I haven’t sp
otted Margie either. He smiles at me, almost conspiratorially, then smiles at his sister.
Dimitri is second. His voice is gravelly, deeper than you’d expect for his physique. My foot has gone to sleep. I shift my leg, trying to get rid of the sensation. He watches me do so. The paper trembles in his hand. The door opens. Margie slips in as quietly as possible. Dimitri stutters, seems to lose his thread. She walks over to my mother, whispers something in her ear, then beckons me.
“Where is he?” my mother is saying to Olive, in the hallway.
“In hospital. He’s unconscious. They don’t understand what’s wrong with his leg. It doesn’t seem broken, but he’s got no feeling in it.” My sister gasps out the words, high-pitched.
“Dudley’s had an accident,” Margie says. “He dived off a cliff and landed on a rock, not far from where we were sailing.” The wall is near me. I place my hand on its cool stone. “He fell onto the base of his spine. His leg is broken.”
My mother’s face drains. “We must go now, but someone has to warn Newman.”
“You go with Olive,” Margie says, “and Gwen and I will look after things here.”
“I want to visit Dudley too,” I say, feeling dizzy.
“But they won’t let three people visit him at once.”
Olive leaves with Mother. The sound of applause rings out. I open the door, see Dimitri bow, his poems falling from his hand. Margie goes and stands with him. “Ladies and gentlemen, Florence has asked me to thank you for your presence. There has unfortunately been an accident, so there will be no more refreshments here tonight. Please leave now and go home. Thank you.”
“What is the matter?” a man with a deep voice calls out.
“We’re not exactly sure.”
“Has she fallen ill?”
“Florence is in good health. Thank you. Please save further talk for outside.”
I leave the house and stand behind the little wall that encloses the veranda, waiting till everyone has gone. The garden seems to reach further than before—it’s a darker green. Things will never be the same again. Restlessness creeps over me, coils around me like ivy. The back door opens. Dimitri steps onto the veranda. He leans his elbows on the wall. It will mark his skin.
“Have they gone now?” The lights are on in the house, as if something else is about to happen.
He jumps. “Blimey, Gwen. Where did you spring from?” He gives a high-pitched laugh, then lights a cigarette.
“Do you know where Kingsley is?”
“He’ll be with his girl.”
Kingsley usually shows up in the course of the evening, though he’s not keen on music or poetry. His place is out of doors, not inside. My mother used to call him “The Changeling”, but now she doesn’t call him anything at all.
“Did the rest of your performance go well?” I flap my hands to shake out the fear.
“No. But at least I did it.” He looks at me. “Your brother will be all right. He’s as hard as nails.” He gives me his cigarette.
I draw on it and inhale. It irritates my throat and I try not to cough.
Dimitri takes the cigarette back.
A Blackbird lands in a sycamore behind him and begins to sing.
“Shouldn’t that Blackbird be asleep? It’s far too late for music.”
“They’re talking to each other.”
“Like you with your violin.”
Dimitri puts the cigarette on the wall and takes a step towards me. I stay where I am, standing straight, and close my eyes till I feel his breath.
The smell of brilliantine, smoke, his lips, the hairs above them, he’s gentle with me, then greedy, it lasts a minute, two, I stop counting, the Blackbird is still singing, I’m dizzy, his hand on my arm, my back, my body is alive, my hand is asleep, it’s as if all my feelings are on my skin or inside my skin. I take a step back, see Dimitri open his eyes, see a look in them that I don’t know but do understand, then I go inside.
In my room I undress myself, layer by layer, my body feeling strange and tingling. I open the window, dressed in my nightgown. “Charlie,” I call. “Charlie.” I can’t call loudly. Everyone is asleep now. Just as I’m on the point of closing the window I hear the beat of his wings. He perches on the windowsill. “Come on,” I say. He settles onto the edge of the bed. I gently stroke his back, even though I know he doesn’t like this. Weariness grips me, replacing the tension. Charles takes a sideways step, plucks at his feathers. “Sorry, Charlie. Dudley’s in hospital. It was such a strange evening.” I tell him about Dimitri. Perhaps he already knows. From the sky he sees everything.
He stays in the room until I fall asleep. I almost wake from the beat of his wings as he leaves, a black scratch across my dream.
* * *
As I’m returning from the hospital I see Patricia sitting on the wall in front of our house.
“Hallo.” She jumps down. “How’s your brother?”
“They’re operating on him now. My parents are with him.”
“Was it a terrible shock for you?”
“Not too bad.”
She gives me a questioning look.
“I have to go in,” I tell her.
“All right. I understand. I just wanted to find out how things are for you.”
I walk to the front door.
“Are you busy this evening?”
I turn to face her. “Sorry. I’ve hardly slept and I’m awfully tired.”
“Tomorrow then?”
The wind rises, blows my coat open. She’s still standing there, as if she has the right to something.
“All right.”
“I’ll come and fetch you.”
She runs off, like a child, in the direction of the park. In the field beside her a Partridge flies up. She moves like her brother does, taking large strides.
“Hallo,” I call out in the hallway. No answer. I go to the grand piano in the sitting room and open the lid. I play ‘Chopsticks’, Für Elise and then, three times, the first parts of Mozart’s ‘Turkish March’ in far too slow a tempo. I love playing the piano, but the others don’t like it when I do because I make too many mistakes. I slip up more when they watch my fingers. When I stop playing I hear applause. Cook is standing in the doorway watching me. “How beautifully you play, dearie.” Her accent seamlessly threads the words together. I go to her and fling my arms around her. She smells so safe, so familiar—of bread and meat and sweat—and she cuddles me as if I’m still a little girl.
* * *
In the morning the oak leaves are blowing against my window. It’s not yet autumn, not even late summer, but the fleecy clouds above the garden scurry by and the day already holds the coming months within it: long rainy Sundays, cold walks on the beach and boxes with injured Pigeons inside them, too weak to survive the winter, though sometimes they do.
Mother isn’t at breakfast. I go and sit next to Olive.
“And couldn’t you let us know? Your brother is in hospital.” My father’s voice fills the hallway. Kingsley mutters something. “Yes, I know he isn’t dead. But as long as you live under my roof you remain a part of this family.”
Kingsley comes into the dining room with lowered head, bags under his eyes, uncombed hair. Papa’s face is red with pent-up fury and his right hand tightly clasps a pen. They both have exactly the same angry expression on their faces.
My father pulls back a chair, almost missing it as he sits down. When I look at Olive we both start laughing, so I concentrate on my toast and suppress a giggle. The lump of jam on the bread looks like a flop-eared puppy. I spread the puppy out, eat it in silence, hiccup only once.
“Are you going to practise now?” my father asks as I stand.
I nod. I should really be studying two new pieces for tomorrow—the Haydn is going well, but the Mozart is pretty difficult, or at any rate fast, and I’ve spent too little time on it.
I meet my mother on the staircase. She takes me in her arms and presses my head against her shoulder. She holds me just a l
ittle too tight.
“Mama,” I say, and wriggle free.
I go up the stairs two steps at a time: the music is already in my head.
On my bed I tune up and think about Dimitri, the nervy one. I don’t want to marry him or be his girl. Do I want to see him again? I play a little melody to warm up my fingers. Perhaps. He wants me.
The Haydn piece starts calmly—my fingers know the way, as far as the modulation. I search for the correct positions, think without thinking, do it all by touch, play what isn’t right till it’s nearly right. Notes give shape to other people’s thoughts, from former times, become mine, allow my thoughts to disappear, change them into music.
After an hour I put the violin down, its strings resting on the blankets, and search for the Mozart piece in my sheet music—my left hand is already working the fingering out on the bed. I look at the oak tree by the window, the ancient bark, and feel its form inside my fingers; the branches are pointing at the window and every now and then they let a leaf fall—green leaves with brown edges. Trees carry the whole year within them, broken into pieces by the seasons. A day is broken into pieces by appointments, words, promises, thoughts. A street is broken into pieces by footsteps, houses, poplars (houses for Blackbirds, for Blue Tits).
My eyes are drawn to the garden wall, where there’s a little figure sitting, biting her nails.
I’d forgotten all about her.
I open the window. “Hey! Have you been sitting there long?” My voice wafts back into the room.