by Eva Meijer
I smell it before I see it. Gunpowder. I open the door to the passage. The front door is off its hinges. There’s a hole in the wall. I switch on the light, very calmly, and pick up the broom that leans against the doorpost at the back of the passage. It’s clear outside, a starrier night than usual. I step into the silence. Everything in front of the house seems in order—the trees stand where they always stood, the picnic table, the garden chairs. I walk down the gravel path. On the wall at the side of the house someone has written in red paint: “THIS IS FOR STARTERS”. I put my hand on the bricks for support, their rough edges. Nothing is really wrong, I repeat to myself, the birds are still here, no one is sleeping in the passage.
Inside the house I make tea. My hand trembles as I put the kettle under the tap, and it still trembles when I pour the tea out. I could capture the Great Tits and take them with me, keep them inside till they’re used to a new place. I shake my head. I can’t do that, they’d hate it. They live here. They’re part of the place. They don’t belong to me. It would be a crime. And anyway, I’ve signed a contract for my third book. It’s meant to come out this year. A few months back I sent Roger and Joseph the first draft, but they found it too serious. “We want more of those delightful bird stories,” Roger said. “This is neither fish nor fowl; it’s too anecdotal to convince the scientist, and too serious to appeal to the ordinary reader.” Since then the manuscript has stayed on the table, under a tea towel.
On the following day Roger’s article about Thompson and Co. is published. It’s a long piece—a whole page. He has managed to include details about the attack, and even the television news has something about it.
On Monday morning the postman comes down the path. He had a hip operation last year and doesn’t walk well now. “Sorry,” he calls from a distance. “I know you don’t like this. But I can’t get them into the post-box.” He points at his bag.
I walk towards him. The bag is full of letters and cards sent from people throughout the whole country. Expressions of support, people offering to help with the campaign.
“Wonderful, eh?” the postman says proudly, as if he is responsible for the content of the post he carries.
“Truly wonderful.”
I walk in with the letters—it’s a huge pile. Perhaps when they start building we could form a living cordon round the house and garden.
The telephone rings. That’ll be Theo. He’ll think it’s wonderful, too, that so many people are concerned about us. We’ll have to organise a demonstration, or a sit-in at the District Council. “Miss Howard, Peter speaking. Peter Waters. I have good news for you. The Council has decided to revoke its permission for the moment, because of possible misconduct on the part of the firm. There’ll be an investigation, which could take years, so I assume that Thompson will make the best of a bad job and sell the land. Then the Council could buy it and rent it to you. I’m not saying that this will definitely happen, that would be jumping the gun, and I don’t want you to count your chickens before they’re hatched. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything about chicks not hatching. Well, anyway, definitely good news. I just wanted to tell you personally. And by the way, my wife was ever so pleased with the book you signed. Me too, of course.” His voice trills with enthusiasm.
After the call I stay at the table for a while, my hands on its cool top. In a moment I’ll walk to Theo’s to tell him the good news. But first the birds have to hear it.
STAR 15
Tinky was clearly upset. He would not take a peanut from me and flew back to the hedge. I followed him. He flitted back and forth there, calling loudly, and then to the tree and back. I knew immediately that something was wrong. I looked in the hedge, in the tall grasses beside it, in the uncut grass by the trees. Tinky kept fluttering around me. After an hour or so he went into his nest box, utterly exhausted, yet he swiftly came out again, but stayed close to the hedge. I could see no sign of anyone there, nor later that evening either.
The following day Star did not come for her morning nut. She did not come to tap. Nor did she visit the bird table, not even when I was on the bench observing the birds. She did not come at lunchtime, when I had my sandwich, nor later that afternoon when I filled the bird table for the second time. She did not come when I called her and Tinky at the end of the afternoon. Tinky was very agitated that day, spending a long time by the nest box. Once again I stayed outside when the birds went to sleep. It was quiet without their chatter.
The next morning, for the first time in years, I closed the sitting room window.
Two days later I spied the neighbour’s ginger cat creeping out of the hedge, near Star and Tinky’s nest box. I had no further doubts. He had caught her, at some point when she was flying to or from the nest. For years she had never been away from me for more than a few hours.
Star must have been nine years old when she died. She was at least a year old when, in the spring of 1946, she first flew into my garden. I realised immediately that she was special, although at that time she was still rather fearful. Her talent for mathematics was, of course, extremely unusual; yet just as unusual was the joy she derived from it. Star did not tap for reward, she found it fun to do, fun to work with me. Her understanding was unique; it seemed that she discovered things of her own accord. As if she truly understood me, often before I did so myself.
1973
They keep on knocking. Thief flies past. He’s gone before I can turn my head to the window. There is a board by the path: No Entry. There’s a board by the gate: No Visitors. Nesting Birds. Please Do Not Go In Front of Bird Cottage. It’s a good job that only Thief was inside. There’s a board on the door: No Knocking. There’s no need for it, no emergencies. There’s no one who could have died, it’s not wartime; when I go, I’ll simply go. There’s not a single reason for knocking. I get myself up, stiffer than ever, and peer through a crack in the shutters. It’s a young man, green corduroy trousers, a shirt without a jacket, most likely someone from the Council. Or he’s here to sell me something or measure something up. I walk back to the table. Thief is back on the windowsill already. Oakleaf comes to take a look. More knocking. I top up the cold tea with some hot. As I take a biscuit, Blackie flies to the table, followed by that little Thiefy. I crumble the last piece of the biscuit, then push the crumbs away with the edge of my hand. Oakleaf has flown out again. There’s probably an intruder who needs chasing off. He uses leaves to scare away his enemies. He’s the only bird I’ve ever seen who does this.
Thief is more temperamental than Blackie. He pecks as if his life depends on it. Recently he pecked at my hand when I didn’t give him his raisin swiftly enough. Blackie hops from crumb to crumb, in a stately fashion. I hold out a finger and Thief leaps away. Blackie lets me stroke him. Or could something be the matter with Theo? No, Esther would have come then. Or Linda. Or they’d have sent a card. That man is still there. I haven’t heard footsteps. Off they go: first Blackie, then Thief, but only when he’s sure there’s no more food. I lean to one side to pick up the broom. I have to half raise myself. My back. I hold the broom in my hand, then in my other hand, because that wrist has started complaining. I listen for footsteps. Outside Flea and Monocle II and Moses and someone else are calling. I think it must be Donny. I can feel a draught on my leg. I should ask Theo to ring that boy to mend the outside wall. One or two days, that should be enough for the job. But it’ll be a disaster for the spiders. Oh, they never watch out for the spiders. Or they say they will, then they don’t really try.
Louder knocking. The door creaks. I take a tight hold on the broom, then stand up, noiselessly. He’s pushing a note under the door. Then his footsteps disappear into the distance. He could at least try to be quieter. Those notices aren’t there for nothing. I sit down again. Meanwhile the tea has gone cold. I close the biscuit tin. Pippa flies to her roosting place, an old cornflakes box above the dresser. In the passage I can hear that there are Crows in the garden, but I don’t have to worry about that. There are no nestlings now.
Dear Miss Howard,
My name is Jonathan Brown. I’m a journalist, working for the Guardian. I would very much like to interview you about your books and your life with birds. You can contact—
I fold the note in two, then in two again, and push it into my cardigan pocket. I put the broom in the alcove, against the wall. Perhaps he’s read my books. Or perhaps someone has commissioned him to do this. Since Joseph died I’ve heard nothing more from Roger. He must have died too in the meantime. Whether that publishing company still exists or not, I don’t know. They haven’t sent me Out of Doors and Countrygoer for years. It probably doesn’t exist any more. Or it’s been taken over.
The beans are almost finished. Tomorrow I’ll have to go to the village. Saturday, market day, that’s good. And I can call on Theo at the same time. He’ll probably know what has happened to Roger. Jonathan Brown, never heard of him. Star II flies past me to the sitting room.
You see, Great Tits never stay. At the very most they return.
Before I sit down on the green wooden bench behind the house, I put my cushion on it. They haven’t pecked it at all. Neat and tidy they are, these birds, they’re all very tidy, there are no more troublemakers now, like Drummer or Joker. I tap on the arm of the bench, three times. Oakleaf is there beside me before I can even see him moving. I give him a nut. Presto II comes and perches next to him. Oakleaf opens his beak, displaying his throat. Presto II recoils. Telling it all again, all over again. No, not all. I can tell him about the birds. They always want to know more. But what? Actually, there’s nothing more to tell. Further on, over the meadows, against the hillside, Starlings are twisting and tumbling through the air—a body made of so many bodies, constantly changing form.
* * *
A Nightingale. I wake up in a dark room that I don’t immediately recognise as my own, remember what my dream was, then forget it. Blackie lands by my head. I sit up, headache, can’t lift my hand. Then I can. Blackie flies up. “Good morning,” I say to the birds, as I do every morning. Bernie flies swiftly at me, then flutters around. “Come on then.” He doesn’t give me a kiss.
Thief flits about me as I walk with the plate to the bird table. I bump my foot against the threshold, but I don’t stumble since I’m moving so slowly. “Thief,” I grumble. “Careful now.” They’re a threat to life and limb, especially when they’re still young. The cobbles are slippery too. I should take the moss off. I must still have one of those scrapers somewhere. In the hall cupboard. Or the kitchen drawer. Blackie takes over. I move even more slowly, step by step across the terrace. I place some pieces of bacon on the edge of the table—here come the others now, Light Brown first, or is it Stripy? The butter, the crumbs of bread, the birdseed. I call Light Brown to me with a nut. He picks a piece of bacon first, eats it in the apple tree. Stripy isn’t here. Or is it Light Brown who isn’t here? Perhaps I should get my eyes checked again. “Light Brown.” Blackie arrives, chases Light Brown off, then Thief returns again. “Come on, boys and girls. No fighting.” I go to the wooden bench and sit down. Light Brown lands on my lap. Yes, it is Light Brown. I don’t understand how I thought it was Stripy, but where is Stripy then? In the autumn they stay near the house, in the misty garden they know so well. Good birds. But sometimes Baldhead went a-roving. Oh Baldhead, always so bold, always the boss till the very end, till that last spring when he never left my side. Brave little creature. Bronwen vanished in September. Sarah too. “Stripy!” Stripy sometimes listens to his name; at other times he clearly has better things to do. I hold my breath as I call, to keep the sound clear—after a couple of seconds I’m out of breath. I should do some singing exercises. “Jingle!” That dear little Great Tit comes to visit more and more frequently. She was so shy at first. I take a nut from my apron pocket. She lands on my hand to eat it, then flies swiftly off. The other birds come; I can see Stripy too, finally. Blackie has finished eating. I can’t see Thief. Over there?
* * *
Knock, knock. Creaky knee, getting up is difficult. Tap tap. Dodie is tapping against the lampshade. “Stop it.” I flap my hand in her direction, without any result. That thing is full of holes already.
The old wooden floor, slippers, the tiled passage. Fluff.
“Morning, Miss Howard. How are you today?”
“Hmm.”
“Better than last week, right? That blinking cold, everyone’s caught it.” She hangs her coat on the coat rail, with the familiarity of a good friend. “Luckily I’ve been nabbed by it already.” She’s wearing a tight dress, very short, too tight for her to move with real freedom. Women are always forced to wear the latest thing that constricts them.
“Quiet, please.” Dodie has flitted out already, only Petrus is in his roost. They will come back, though, they know Miranda well enough now, but her voice is so loud and bright.
I sit at the table again. I dreamed last night, for the first time ever, that I could fly. I flew over the yellow autumn fields surrounding Wallington, saw the square where Kingsley and Duds always played marbles, the bench outside the baker’s, all untouched by time. I couldn’t smell anything at all. Sometimes I smell things when I dream. Cheese. Grass.
“I’ll give the floor a quick clean, then the windows and then if we still have time the bathroom, but that could wait till Friday as well.” Her voice is less rasping than it used to be. Perhaps she has stopped smoking.
“All right.” I’ve learned not to discuss her plans with her: it just makes things harder and then she says more and more and it takes even longer for her to leave. “Please watch out for the spiders though.” A few weeks ago a new couple installed themselves in the corner behind the bookcase. Awfully useful creatures and interesting to watch.
The broom scrapes across the floor. “Won’t you think again about getting me to buy a vacuum cleaner for you? They’re pretty cheap nowadays. Handy for all those feathers.”
I’ve always managed perfectly well without one. “Would you like a cup of tea?” It’s important to keep moving. If I sit too long, then I’ll never get up. In the kitchen I put the kettle on. Dark Brown and Light Brown are playing in the hedge. These two little brothers were born this summer and they’ve stuck to the garden—they sleep in a little box above my bed. Sometimes they come and play on the bed when I’ve just woken up. Then they slide down my pillow, their feet held stiff, bird skiing. Perhaps they’re still here because they hatched late. They were part of Bella’s second brood, which she had late in the summer, after her first nest was robbed by that tabby cat who belongs to the new neighbours.
The kettle whistles. Dark Brown is a crazy, creative little bird. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen sunbathing upside down: he hangs from a twig by his claws, his wings spread out—very clever: then the sun can reach the back and the front of his wings at once. But very risky too.
“Cup of tea?” I ask again as I sit down.
Miranda sits opposite me. “They’ve started building homes in Keymer, for older folk who need a bit more care. Sheltered housing. You can live there independently, but the home is nearby. And you get nursing when you need it. I know you want to live here as long as possible, but they’re really marvellous little homes. Light and roomy, with a beautiful large garden. Those Great Tits would like it too, I bet.”
Death on a stool in the corner of the room, on a stool in the corner of my head. “I’ll stay here.” That “here” gouges a line into the air between our faces. Pomfret, the Blackbird, comes through the top window, sees the guest, and twists herself round in the air. She vanishes swifter than she came.
“Your doctor thinks it’d be better if you lived a bit closer to other people.” She has a nervous tic, she rubs her fingers across her lips. It seemed to improve for a while, but she’s doing it again now. Perhaps she has problems. Everyone has problems these days.
“I have plenty of other people here.” Petrus also flies off.
She sighs. “But have you thought about that television?”
I don
’t know which television she means. “There was a young man at the door recently. A Jonathan Brown. Do you happen to know him?”
She shakes her head. “What was he here for?”
“He wanted to interview me. About living with birds.”
“Well that’s nice, in’t it? A bit of appreciation. You deserve that.”
I have no idea if she knows anything at all about my books. “No. It’s not possible. It would disrupt everything, drive the Great Tits away. New people make them nervous.” I’ve had quite enough of that.
Miranda takes a sip of tea, then abruptly sets the cup down. “You should do this interview, you know. It’s a fantastic chance to get people thinking more about birds. What you said last week, not to peek inside nest boxes ’cos cats can work out where the birds are, no one knows those kinds of things. Even if it saved just one single bird!”
I nod, slowly, sensing the weight of my head, forward, backward—brains, blood, bone, cavities, fragile skull. Someone should really take it over, someone young, with true feeling for the Tits and the Blackbirds, with love for them and with a calm demeanour. There’s no one. No one has appeared and I’m too busy to look for someone. The days are so short, always growing shorter. I should write things down again. Make time tangible through writing.
Miranda stands up and fetches the mop from the hall cupboard. She goes to the kitchen, fills a bucket. The wooden heels of her sandals always tell me where she is. She has pretty calves.
“Miranda?” My voice sounds shrill.
She pops her head round the corner, holding her face at an angle, as if she’s on a photograph, as if she’s looking through my eyes at her own face, posing it as favourably as possible.
“Forget the windows, won’t you? They’ll still be here next summer.” All that water. What a waste.