The Burying Beetle

by Ann Kelley

  Today the sea seems bigger than usual. The waves are sort of wintry and… broiling, I think the word is. I don’t think I like the sea very much. It’s just too… big!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Note: There are so many different sorts of gulls and I can’t tell the difference between them really, except I know what a herring gull looks like, because of Pop. He’s a mature male – larger than the female – you have to see them together to tell that the male is heavier and bigger than his mate. The young ones are brown and speckled. In St Ives they are all over the roofs, making a great racket, all squawking and wheezing and hunching their shoulders like they’ve got asthma, and the very young ones jump up and down flapping their virginal… or is it vestial… wings? They hang about for weeks being waited on by their parents who regurgitate fish and chips and pasties for them to eat. I wonder if they suffer like humans by eating rubbish? All those E numbers.

  Pop hasn’t brought a female to our house to nest. He must be a bachelor or a widower, or maybe he’s gay. I wonder if they have homosexual gulls?

  Last year’s young are all flying together and learning stuff from the mature ones. They gather at sunset on our beach and listen to one or two mature gulls and go off together and rise on the thermals. I think they’re learning how to fly and gather food and chase hawks. I’ve seen them go really high.

  I’M MUCH BETTER today so I’ve got a backpack – very lightweight – with a bottle of water, an orange, a banana, a Mars Bar (yum), and a pocket book of bird identification. And of course, I’ve got Mr Writer’s binoculars around my neck. And I’m going for a nature walk. Mum is sunbathing in the garden. And I’ve got my new notebook and pen.

  I’ve already seen a stonechat, I think it was – it makes a noise like a stone scraping on another stone or a chalk on blackboard. Sort of crich, crich!

  Last night I read right through Jonathan Livingston Seagull in one go. It’s very short. I think it’s about religion really, or maybe just about trying to achieve something special in your life – a sort of philosophy. It’s about this gull who doesn’t want to be part of the flock, he wants to be the best, fastest flier of all time, and he goes off on his own to do just that, and I think he dies and goes to heaven but I’m not really sure, and then he teaches other extraordinary gulls to do what he has done. Anyway, since I read it I’ve been watching the gulls more carefully, and it’s true, there are gulls who only seem to be with many others in a flock, doing whatever everyone else is doing, whether it’s scavenging in the harbour or flying out to sea to sit on a load of fish, and then there are the unusual gulls who seem to fly on their own, the individualists. Maybe they are more like people than we think.

  It’s a very beautiful coast path, this, with pink heather blooming and bright yellowy gold gorse, which smells lovely – like Ambre Solaire or something. There’s only the sound of the sea.

  It makes all sorts of sounds. Like breathing. It’s like a great alive beast, breathing heavily sometimes, and then other times it’s panting, or coughing, or even sneezing and snoring loudly. Mostly it just sighs heavily the way I do when I’m really fed up about something. (Fed up – where does that expression come from? Why does it mean miserable?) But the sighing sound is quite relaxing somehow, and so is the whole background constant sound of moving heaving water. Good for the soul, as Mum says. I like the little waves that have white lace on them and that make pretty patterns on the sand. And I love the bluey, greeny turquoise of the shallow water and the way it turns deep blue, navy blue, and dark jade green as it gets deeper. Not like the horrible brown-grey of the Thames at Shoeburyness where Grandma and Grandpop lived.

  I wonder how slowly water has to fall before the sound is a torture? How can the sound of a leaky tap or a drip from a broken gutter drive you mad, but the constant gush of a waterfall be soothing?

  And sometimes the sea booms like a drum and huge waves bash the cliffs, crashing into them as if the ocean is trying to move them out of the way so it can carry on into the whole land, take over the countryside, and the villages and towns and cities and make everything into sea, which is a pretty terrifying idea, and might well happen even here, what with global warming.

  I should think dying by tsunami must be the most awful way to die. Imagine that giant wall of water coming straight at you. Would you run? You would run, of course you would. How would you feel? Does your whole life really flash before you, when you know you are going to die? Who said that, anyway? How does anyone know that that is what happens when you know you’re going to die? Like that story you used to hear at school. That dream about falling down stairs – if you don’t wake up before you hit the bottom, you die. Well, that’s stupid. How can you know you’re going to die if you don’t wake up? What I mean is – how can someone who wakes up know what will happen if she doesn’t wake up? No one ever dies and comes back to tell us what it was like, do they? Oh, it’s too confusing and stupid.

  And think how the poor cats would feel if there was a tidal wave. They hate water, except Charlie, who always comes into the bathroom with me when I go to the loo and sits on my lap, and gets on the edge of the bath when I’m in it and pats my wet head, and drinks from the bath water, leaning right over, only her back legs hanging on the rim of the bath. I know she’ll fall in one day. She’ll scratch me when she panics. She loves me so much, she can’t bear to be away from me, and knows she’s my favourite. Every morning she rushes into the bathroom after breakfast, if I go anywhere near, even if I’m not going in there yet. She’s so funny and sweet.

  I think I’ve seen a chaffinch, which has a pink breast, and a pair of stonechats, and I’ve definitely heard a skylark. They go crazy, flying higher and higher, flapping their little wings like mad, and singing all the time. There are more of them here on the sand dunes than further along on the rocky path that runs along the cliff edge.

  I like this bit, because I can sit down on the tussocky grassy sand and read, and have a rest. The path further along, nearer the house, is too narrow to sit down on.

  I wish I had a dog with me. A dog would chase birds though, and I’d have to pick up the poo and put it in a plastic bag – yuk! Perhaps a dog isn’t such a good idea. If only the cats were brave enough to walk with me. I think Flo might be. Maybe I’ll test her out – try little walks at a time. But if she meets a dog, what could she do? She’d be terrified.

  Note: The blackbirds here in Cornwall are not as good at singing as the ones in London. Really, I’ve noticed. They sound sort of wooden and stilted as if they are just beginning to learn to play the piano. I suppose London blackbirds have expensive private education that includes music studies, and are sent, eventually, to the equivalent of the Royal School of Music. And local blackbirds have to learn their music from their parents. So if their parents don’t have very good voices, the young won’t know how to sing properly. Life’s not fair, even for the birds.

  Another bird observation: our pigeons, I think they are rock pigeons, but they hang about in our trees, don’t know how to fly. They just think they do. They know what they’re supposed to do, flap like mad and swoop, but they suddenly fold their wings back and sort of stall, like a little paper plane. They drop, flapping their stubby wings like mad trying to gain height until they find a suitable branch or rock to land on. But it’s a very clumsy effort at flying, I must say. Grandpop used to make me paper planes when I was little. I’ve just remembered that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Note: Found a beautiful little nest on the path, it must have fallen out of a tree in the wind or something. It’s empty – no eggs or baby birds, thank goodness. (Does that come from ‘thank God’?) There is a book on nests and eggs here of course, so I’ve looked it up. It’s small and rounded and neat, and made of tiny twigs and hair and fine strands of orange string, and lined with what looks like long fair dog hair, or human hair, and on the outside there are tiny bits of green lichens like pebble dash on walls, and moss woven in. It smells of damp moss, like a florist’s shop. Th
ere are one or two tiny feathers inside, so maybe there were babies and they’ve flown. I think it might be a chaffinch nest. Another book says chaffinches are also called pink spink, twinck, and tink, because of the shrill note of the male bird. And in the autumn it sings ‘tol-de-rol, lol, chickwee-ee-do,’ the first few notes uttered somewhat slowly, then more rapidly, and a final cadenza at the end.

  I WONDER WHAT I would have done if there had been babies in the nest, if they were nestlings with no feathers. Would the parents have come back to feed and care for the chicks if the nest fell out the tree? I don’t see how they could really, and a cat could find the babies if it was on the ground. If I found an injured bird, could I ever kill it to put it out of its misery? How would I manage? Do they survive if you try to feed them?

  ‘Mum, what would you do if you found a baby bird that’s fallen out of its nest?’

  ‘Put it somewhere safe away from cats and hope the parents come to look after it. And keep the cats indoors.’

  ‘What if it’s got no feathers on?’

  ‘There’s a bird sanctuary in Mousehole, near Penzance. I’d take it there.’

  ‘Is there? Can we go there sometime to see it?’

  ‘Some time. Anyway, Gussie, don’t go Looking for Problems before you’ve got them. We’ve got Enough Problems already.’

  It’s Sunday and Mum always takes me to the local car boot sale on Sundays. It’s a great place to find old books – not that we need any more old books – and homemade marmalade, and clothes that people don’t want any more (but some are very Decent and Cheap), and plants. Mum has started doing more in the garden, since she’s had such success with the herbs, so she’s decided to make her mark on the wilderness, as a thank you to Mr Writer.

  There are some very sad people here at the car boot – people who look very poor and sort of crooked and with missing teeth. I’ve never seen so many people with crutches and walking frames and even wheelchairs, and double buggies and dogs, usually very big dogs or Staffordshire bull terriers or Alsatian dogs wearing masks. Muzzles, I mean. Some people bring two or more dogs with them and always stop in the middle of a narrow bit to talk to other people with dogs, so you can’t get by easily. And some of the people speak in such a broad accent I can’t understand anything they say. It’s like a foreign language. And the local men call each other ‘my lover’, or ‘my handsome’, which I think is sweet of them. One old man called me ‘my flower’. I felt all soft and fluffy and feminine. I liked it. It made me feel sad all over again about Grandpop.

  Mum has bought three red geraniums in plastic pots and from the same man I bought another very long bird feeder that can hang from the copper beech tree with the other one, and a large bag of sunflower seeds. The birds get through a whole feeder full each day. The man sold trays of mesembryanthemums – which Mum said she used to think were called messy bums when she was young.

  The car-booters who sell plants all seem much friendlier than the other traders. I wonder if working with plants makes you a happier person? Or maybe they are lonely because they work with plants and not people, and that’s why they are pleased to talk to people. It must make you patient I should think, growing plants, because you have to wait such a long time to see the results of your work. I wonder if it’s like that when you bring up a child. Except that you do sometimes see people being horrid to their children, so maybe it doesn’t make you patient at all. Maybe it makes you the opposite of patient. Cross and fed up.

  London parents seemed less tolerant of their children than parents who live here. I think people who live here have a better life in many ways than Londoners. They breathe cleaner air for one thing. They don’t bump into each other in the street all the time – except in the summer – and they don’t have traffic jams so much, except on bank holidays.

  I really would like to go into St Ives and sit on the beach and watch the sun go down. We don’t see it from where we live.

  That was my favourite thing about being in St Ives. We sat against a high wall on the beach, facing the sea and sun, all of us wearing baseball caps, and Mum and Daddy drinking wine, and I was allowed cola – which I’m never usually allowed because of the E numbers. I get quite silly, apparently. It must be like feeling drunk. And Mum and Daddy were nice to each other and even held hands, and I made friends with some other children who lived there and they let me play beach cricket with them, even though I was only four or something, and they were very kind. One boy showed me how to catch properly, not snatch at the ball. He was so good-looking and tanned and at least ten years old. I wonder if I’ll always be attracted to older men because of that?

  Grandma used to play cricket in a men’s team with Grandpop. She was the only woman in the team. I never saw her play; she was too old by the time I was born. It’s so cool, having a gran who played cricket in a men’s team. I think she used to run a women’s team but it fizzled out.

  They both loved to watch cricket on the telly, especially the test matches. I can’t get up much enthusiasm, but I do like the white clothes, and it’s sort of a peaceful thing to do, watch cricket, and if I’m angry about something it makes me calm down. Perhaps they should use it in anger management – that’s what some men have when they’ve abused their wives. I read it in the Independent.

  It’s just as well I don’t want to be a footballer or tennis player or a marathon runner. I might be very unhappy if all I was interested in was playing energetic games, because I know I can’t. I am much more interested in reading things and looking at things around me, and learning about animals and birds and insects. So my heart problem isn’t really much of a nuisance. Yet.

  ‘Mum, can we go into town and sit on the beach?’

  ‘No, Gussie, I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘But Mum, why can’t we go? I’m sick to death of being out here in this lonely place. I need to see people. I’m going bonkers, talking to myself.’

  ‘It’s so bloody difficult finding a parking place.’

  ‘Oh Mu–um. We could take a picnic and watch the sun set.’

  ‘Oh, all right, if you really want to go.’

  Cool! She’s finished planting the geraniums in large clay pots on the deck. They look stunning, so vivid, like fresh spilt blood. Such a foreign colour. They smell like cat’s pee.

  Note: There’s a wild flower that grows on the dry-stone walls in St Ives – Valerian – that comes in dark pink, medium pink and white, and when it’s rained they smell absolutely disgusting – like dog shit. And the smell always fools me and I have to look under my shoes.

  This beach we’re having our picnic on – Porthmeor – is sort of big and white with a green hill at one end with a little house on top. It’s called the Island, but it isn’t actually an island. It’s not so busy at this time of day. I think the holidaymakers mostly go back to their hotels and self-catering cottages to wash and dress to go out for the evening. Only the locals are left on the beach to watch the sun go down, and a few surfers, there’s always a few surfers. Mum looks cool in her white baggy linen trousers and black vest and a black linen cap. She always looks good, and I feel proud of her when we’re out together.

  ‘Do you remember being here with Daddy? We sat in the exact same place.’

  ‘Do you miss him Terribly, darling?’

  Mum’s finished the bottle of red wine that she brought with her, so I suppose she’s feeling maudling (look that up when I get back to make sure it’s the right word).

  ‘Not really, Mum, only sometimes.’

  She has started to cry. An ashy tear appears below her sunglasses and runs down the length of her cheek next to her nose. I get up and walk away. Buggering Nora, I should never have asked that question. I wander down to the water and splash about at the edge and look back surreptitiously and see her blowing her nose on her paper napkin. It’s red – her nose. Now I feel my throat getting tight and sore feeling. And I think I’m going to cry too. Oh, bugger everything!

  But I can’t be expected to handle g
rown-ups’ emotions. I am, after all, pubertal. I have troubles enough of my own. I used to think puberty was called pubberty because it meant you were old enough to go to the pub. To be exact, I’m not actually pubertal – but pre-pubertal. No hairy armpits or breasts or anything yet. But I feel my hormones beginning to range, I think.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’M ON THE coast path next to the house when I see this interesting looking woman.

  ‘Hello!’ The woman I speak to has short blonde spiky hair, almost punky, but she is too old to be a punk – twenty, at least. Also she’s wearing sensible walking boots and a black sleeveless padded jacket. She’s got binoculars around her neck. So have I.

  ‘Hi,’ she says.

  ‘Are you a birdwatcher?’ I know I shouldn’t ask questions of strangers, but she looks OK, smiley. And I haven’t seen anyone to talk to for ages. She says she’s keeping an eye on a peregrine falcon’s nest.

  ‘I know they’re protected.’ I put my borrowed bins up to my eyes and try to look as if I know what I’m doing.

  ‘Those look antique,’ Punky says. ‘Here, have a go with these.’

  I can’t believe how light they are. ‘They’re cool,’ I say and hand them back to her.

  ‘Did you see the nest?’

  ‘No.’

  She points at a black bit of cliff with a low shrub growing out of the base of it.

  ‘There’s a narrow ledge there, under that leafless bush. Look again with my binoculars.’

  At that moment the peregrine flies past us and glides in to her nesting place, and I get to see the landing.

  ‘Wow, that is so cool.’

  ‘There’s one chick, did you see it?’

  ‘No, is there?’

  We stand side by side and look at the mother bird’s back. She settles down on top of the chick, presumably – I can’t actually see a chick. After a while my bins get heavy and I leave off looking at the bird.