Bird Cottage Page 2

  “Good day, Mr Howard. Good day, young lady. What can I do for you both?”

  “Some birdseed, please. For a little Blue Tit.”

  “Certainly, sir. Our Universal Blend. How much would you like?” He takes down a canister from the topmost shelf, and picks up a paper bag.

  “Just enough till the little one can fly again,” Papa says.

  The whole shop is full of canisters and storage bins and in the corner there’s a skeleton. I walk towards it, finger the bones, and then shrink back when the skeleton starts moving.

  “Oh, dearie me,” says Mr Volt. “Be careful now. Sometimes the spirit suddenly moves him.”

  “How much do I owe you?” Papa asks.

  “Oh, it’s hardly worth adding to your account, sir. Now then, young lady.”

  I go to the counter.

  “A bull’s eye or a humbug?”

  “A humming bug, please!”

  From one of the glass jars that are kept behind the counter, he takes out a sweetie. It’s green and red and looks like a stripy beetle.

  “Thank you!” I curtsey to him, just like I’ve practised with Olive.

  “What lovely manners!”

  Peter races home ahead of us. The humbug melts in my mouth and it’s very sweet. I take it out to see if it still looks like a beetle. But the bug has become a flat patch. Paddy the Patch Bug.

  Tessa opens the door for us, at the precise moment that we arrive. I run past her through the high-ceilinged entrance hall and into the parlour, where the box with the Blue Tit is still on the table.

  “He’s still alive!”

  “That’s good. So now we can get to work. What’s the time?”

  I go and take a look at the clock on the windowsill. “It’s three o’clock.”

  “Exactly three o’clock?”

  “Almost exactly. One minute past, no, two minutes past three.”

  “Yes, that’s almost exactly. Now listen. We must feed the birdie once an hour.” He forms some of the minced meat into a tiny ball and pushes it into the bird’s throat with his little finger. The bird swallows, and I give a very soft cheer.

  “Soon I’ll mix the birdseed and the minced meat together, with a little water. And then it’s just a question of feeding him. If the birdie lives till tomorrow, you can feed him too.” He gives the Blue Tit another little ball of food, and then another, till the birdie doesn’t want any more. My father’s fingers are long and clever. I watch everything he does very closely, so that tomorrow I can do it too.

  “Go and ask Cook if she has a foot stove. I have the impression that this little chap is cold.”

  “Can’t I hold him?”

  My father shakes his head. I run to the kitchen.

  “Cook, Cook, we’ve got a little Blue Tit! And he’s cold! Do you perhaps have a foot stove for him?”

  I hop from my left foot to my right foot, from my right foot to my left.

  “Goodness gracious, child, calm down!”

  Cook slowly gets out of her chair and stands up, groaning.

  “Come on then, but no more shouting. Your mother isn’t well.”

  I follow her down the steep, narrow staircase into the cellar. Small footsteps, my hand against the clammy wall.

  “If he’s still alive tomorrow, then I’m allowed to feed him.”

  Cook hums a little, then finds a foot stove in the open cupboard by the back wall. I take it from her.

  “Tread carefully,” she calls after me, but I’m nearly upstairs already.

  STAR 2

  Countless numbers of Tits, Blackbirds, Sparrows and Robins lived in and around the garden of Bird Cottage. And there were also regular visitors, such as Jackdaws, Crows, Jays, Blue Tits, Finches and Woodpeckers. Some birds, such as the Swallows, returned every year; others visited now and then. There were birds who should have been summer visitors, but who stayed in the neighbourhood for their whole lives; others came for a season, or a number of years. Nearly every kind of bird has taken a peek inside the cottage at some point, but I have always tried to keep birds of the Crow family outside, as much as possible. They upset the smaller birds and rob their nests. The birds with whom I have developed the closest bond are the Great Tits. Great Tits are perhaps the cleverest birds of all, and full of curiosity. They are ideal research partners.

  During their first visits Billy and Greenie were clearly quite nervous still, but very soon they began to stay inside, especially when the autumn gave way to a winter with several weeks of snow. Other Great Tits soon followed their example, and that December the first ones began to search for roosts in the house. Their choices were not always happy—they would roost between the curtain rods and the ceiling, or in the frame of a sliding door, which meant that it could no longer be closed—and so I began to hang boxes on the walls, or old food cartons, or small wooden cases. Each time they swiftly understood their purpose and it was not long before several diff erent Great Tits had taken possession of a roosting box of their own. They squabbled less about their roosts when they were inside than they did out of doors, perhaps because they viewed the cottage as my territory. In the breeding season, however, they always looked for an outdoor spot where they could nest. Up to now, not one Tit has nested inside the house. Perhaps, after all, there is insufficient privacy here.

  The Great Tits soon grew to know me, and although my presence sometimes influenced their behaviour (they would startle, for example, if I suddenly stood up; and when I was coming in I had to sing out “Peanut!” from behind the door, to tell them I was entering), most of the time they carried on as usual. Not only did that give me the opportunity to study their behaviour, I was also able to record their interrelationships from close at hand. In this way I became acquainted with around forty different Great Tits, all of whom had their own particular inclinations and wishes.

  I learned from the birds themselves that individual intelligence plays a much greater role in their behaviour and choices than biologically determined tendencies, or “instinct”, as scientists call it. In order to study the birds like this, it was important to keep other human beings away from the cottage as much as possible. Birds react to the tiniest change in vocal inflection and to the smallest disturbance in their environment. Even visitors who did their best to make no noise often behaved in such a way that the birds would simply wish to escape as swiftly as possible. Once birds have had a shock it takes a long time for them to return—at least half a day, for the most part.

  In my interactions with the Great Tits I have often felt myself to be slow and clumsy. Great Tits have better hearing than humans and a wider field of vision. Their eyes are on the sides of their heads and their vision is partly monocular (seeing differently with each eye) and partly binocular (with two eyes at the same time). This gives them a very wide range indeed. Their powers of observation are far sharper than those of humans. They are much more sensitive, not only to disturbances in their environment, but also to changes in the weather, to the colour of fruit and especially of berries, and to the movements of other creatures. There are, of course, many similarities too. Just like people, they are creatures of habit. Like us they have fixed rituals, when eating or going to sleep, for example. There are always around six or seven Great Tits sleeping in roosting boxes inside the house. Some birds only come indoors when it is really cold, but others will sleep in a box fixed to the picture rail below the bedroom ceiling for most of the year.

  Like us, birds have countless ways of communicating with each other: through calls and songs, posture, the sound their wings make, eye contact, touching, movements, little dances. My interactions with the Great Tits soon became just as rich and varied. I regularly spoke to them. They would intuitively know from the tone of my voice what I intended, and in the course of time they learned the meaning of the words I used. They understood my gestures and we would make eye contact with each other. Some of the birds even enjoyed perching near me or on me.

  Birds always see me quicker than I see them. When I
turn my face towards them, they have already turned to me. And it is not only that they see me quicker because their eyes are set on the sides of their heads; it is also because they move more swiftly. At first I had the feeling that they understood me better than I understood them, but later I could read them just as well as they could read me. I understood some individuals better than others, of course, just as is the case with people. A few birds were really special: Baldhead, for example, the male Great Tit, who in the last days of his life was so tame that he lay in my lap all day long. And there was Twist, a brave and very intelligent female, who was my first guide in the language of Great Tits. And Star, of course, the cleverest Great Tit I have been privileged to know, and the one with whom I developed the closest ties.

  1911

  It feels as if someone has opened a door into my heart so the warmth can stream in. A little door, or a window perhaps. I run towards Olive, at the bottom of the garden, through the summer grass, the soft grass. Everything is so green.

  “Is Father there yet?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Have you smelled the roses? Look, they’re in full bloom now.” I clasp hold of a rose in the hedge behind her and bend it down to her.

  She nods, then stretches her back. “Would you be a darling and fetch me a drink? I’ve been on my feet all day.” She had to spend the day with Mother, shopping for dresses.

  I walk back to the house, more slowly now, step by step by step. Mother stops me in the conservatory. “Gwen, are you ready for the performance? Your father will be down in less than half an hour. He’ll recite some of his latest poems, then Paul will read one of his sequences, and then you perhaps could play that Bach suite for us.”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Gwendolen.” She gives me a stern look.

  “Yes, Mother.” I carry on to the kitchen, where I ask Tessa if I may have a glass of champagne, “For my sister.”

  “And how are the birdies, miss?”

  “The baby Great Tit didn’t survive. But yesterday I let the Magpie fly away. That seems to be going well.”

  “You’re a real angel, miss. I was just saying that to Cook.”

  I wave goodbye and take the champagne out. Paul is leaning against the doorpost, his curls making little circles on the wall, his face turned to the low evening sun. As I pass him, he turns towards me. I jump, blush, pretend I haven’t seen him.

  “Gwendolen?”

  I look back.

  “Is that really wise, before your performance?”

  “It’s for Olive.” My fingers firmly clasp the glass. I mustn’t grasp it too tightly, otherwise it will shatter. And I mustn’t let go.

  “I know. I was just teasing.”

  I blush even more now.

  “I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”

  I nod and swiftly walk on. The champagne is splashing over the brim of the glass and onto my fingers. I should have said something about his poems, that my father let me read them, and that they’re alive, they fly, they move me.

  “Thanks.” Olive has put the parasol up, even though she is sitting in the shade. “Are you about to start?”

  “Papa will be there soon. In half an hour.”

  From the corner of my eye I can see Paul diminishing, a doll in evening dress, a little man on a bridal cake. My cousin Margie speaks of marriage as if it were a form of imprisonment.

  “Will you play the Bach Cello Suite?”

  I nod in agreement, running through the notes in my head.

  “Is Stockdale here?”

  “He’s supposed to be coming.” I hope he does. Stockdale conducts a London orchestra and it’s a while since he last heard me play. I’ve improved. I’ve studied very hard these past few months.

  Charles, the Crow that Papa raised, flies into the ivy. He hops onto my outstretched hand, then back onto a branch. He doesn’t like all this commotion. He flies off and as he does so poops on the rim of Mr Wayne’s glass, who only spots it as he takes a sip of his champagne. Wayne teaches music in Towyn.

  “That vile man.” Olive pulls a face.

  Last time Stockdale was here he made eyes at Margie, rather conspicuously, I thought. She’s twenty-two years old and is studying at the Slade School of Art. She’s staying with us this summer because her parents are travelling. Margie flirts with everyone and they all put up with it because she seems so innocent. Stockdale clearly thought he’d hooked her, until at the end of the evening Margie began to yawn terribly and excused herself, giving a little wave at us from the staircase before vanishing.

  Olive takes the bowl of nuts from the table and puts it on the edge of her chair. She picks out the tastiest, popping them into her mouth, one after another.

  Tessa comes to fetch us. It’s warm inside, a throng of people, bodies that leave hardly any space, words that barely or don’t reach their targets. Words that simply express habit, that hardly mean anything else at all.

  People travel far for these soirées. My father is the only one in this part of Wales to organise such evenings on a regular basis. Stockdale presses my hand. A little too long. He breathes out so heavily that the carnation in his buttonhole trembles.

  My mother is standing by the grand piano. “I’d like to welcome all of you.” She speaks differently on these evenings, more affectedly.

  I can see the broad, blond head of my brother Dudley on the other side of the room, and I move towards him, as inconspicuously as possible.

  “I can wait.” My mother lifts an eyebrow. People are laughing. Dudley shifts along to make room for me.

  Paul is sitting almost behind me. I become aware of how my back looks in this rose-coloured gown, chosen for me by Mother: too womanly, too close-fitting. My mother announces his name first and then mine, as if we belong together, as if our names follow each other’s by force of logic.

  Newman, my father, starts with the second poem from his book Footsteps of Proserpine. It’s all about love and Blackbirds. Many of the poems in this collection were written for Mother. I suppress a yawn and move my fingers a little to warm them up. Ta-dada-da-dadada. He recites two more poems from his first collection, then declaims a long one about a city, which time has so much altered, and then another about the Trojan War, from his Greek cycle. His poems, without exception, are far too long and contain too many adjectives. Before Papa became a poet he was an accountant.

  Kingsley, my oldest brother, rushes in panting and drops down so hard onto a chair in the back row that everyone turns around. He is still wearing flannels and I can smell him even from where I am seated. When I look at him, he pulls a funny face.

  My father’s voice goes up a tone. He lets one more pause fall, then ends on a note of triumph. Paul walks to the front during the applause and I look at his feet, then briefly at his face, with the sun in it. My eyes fleetingly meet his. He is already speaking. I hardly hear what he says, but I know the words. And then it’s over.

  My mother introduces me. I tune up. My fingers are tingling. And then I play: a question, an answer, a question.

  * * *

  When everyone has left, I come downstairs again. I go to where he stood, six feet away from where I was sitting, perhaps eight feet or so. I can see myself perched there, glancing sideways, turning my head. My cheeks are on fire again. Through the window I see my father pouring champagne into a glass. He gives it to my mother. The house is clearly breathing once again, through the open windows, while the last light of day dies away.

  When I’d finished playing, Paul came to talk to me. He asked if I intended to take my musical ambitions further. I shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “Then you must move to London.”

  “I realise that.”

  “I have acquaintances there. I could help you find lodgings.”

  I nodded, thanked him, then said: “Sorry, but my mother wants to talk to me.” My mother! I’m almost eighteen.

  “Of course.” He gave a nod and walked away. I took a deep breath, breathed in, breathed
out. Outside the air smelled of grass and fire, of perfume. I thought he’d follow me, otherwise I’d still be speaking to him now. Expectations adhere to each other, forming even greater expectations. Something insignificant is added to the heap, and then something else, until it’s hard to see over the top, and then it’s difficult not to perceive yourself as hemmed in, and then it’s difficult to tell the difference between what is and what might be. Until he has gone, that is. Perhaps it will be weeks until I see him again. I should have said something smart or witty. The sun inside my breast departs, leaving a question mark in its place, an imprint of yearning. I could simply have talked to him a while. He wouldn’t have said what he did without a reason, those things about lodgings and acquaintances and so on. And he recited his poem about the woman who is always searching.

  My father beckons me. I go outside.

  “You played beautifully, my darling.” He hiccups, puts his arm around me, draws me towards him. The wind brings the smell of the sea with it, not the salt.

  My mother drains her glass in one swift draught.

  I wriggle free. “I want to study at the College of Music.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re much too young still.” My father smiles apologetically at me.

  “And then you’d have to move to London,” my mother says. “My little girl. I’m not sure you could cope.” She touches my cheek, gives it a little pinch.

  “Of course I’ll cope.”

  She is silent. My father stares into the dark garden.

  “Of course I’ll cope,” I repeat, more loudly. “I’m not a child any more.”

  My father puts his hand on my shoulder. I shake it off. Inside the house my shoes leave earth behind them, and grass. I meet my sister on the staircase, holding a plate with a sandwich in her hand. “Weren’t they charming?” she says. “Paul’s poems, I mean.”