Listening for Lions

by Gloria Whelan

  He gave me a sidewise glance. “It is.”

  I settled at the place that had been set for me, and as I began to eat my breakfast, Arthur disappeared. I saw that the grandfather had ordered that I should eat in peace, though just then, as I sat alone at the table in the great dining room, Arthur would have been almost welcome.

  After breakfast Mrs. Bittery led me to the grandfather’s room. “He’s waiting for you, Miss Valerie.”

  The grandfather was sitting up in bed watching the door. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, which had been weak the day before, was imperious, truly Masai-like. “I hope you slept well, Valerie, for I have a task for you today if you are willing.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. I thought perhaps I was to sweep the stairs or make the beds, but I should have known better than to think I was to do something useful.

  “I want you to be my eyes. It’s the last day of February. The spring birds are due any day. I’ve made a list of three birds, what they look like, and where you might find them. You are to report any sightings back to me.”

  He handed me a list in a scrawly handwriting. Words had been crossed off and rewritten and letters retraced as though the grandfather had taken a great deal of time over the list and the writing of it had cost him much effort.

  Examine the beechwood tree at the entrance to the woods to see if the raven has made its nest there.

  Look for a robin building its nest among the branches of the big oak tree by the fountain.

  Keep an eye out for Hylocichla guttata pritchardi.

  When he saw the bewildered look on my face, he indicated a pile of books of various sizes, some as small as a folded handkerchief and some as large as a sofa pillow.

  “The third book on the second pile, my dear. Page twenty-three, I believe. You will find a very good picture of a raven. Let me show you how it differs from a rook. The robin will be on page seventy-two, though this time of year the breast will be more sorrel than orange. Now for the Hylocichla guttata pritchardi. The Latin is quite simple. Hylo in a word means wood, and this little thrush is to be found near trees. Gutta refers to drops, or in this case the spots on the bird’s chest. I’m afraid pritchardi is the result of my own vanity. When a new bird is found, it is often named after the person who discovers it, but the Royal Bird Society has refused to accept my bird as a new subspecies, and so they will not give it my name. They insist that I am mistaken in saying that it does not have the white eye ring, but I do not make mistakes where birds are concerned.”

  For a moment he looked almost ferocious, and then his voice softened and he said, “Little Hylocichla guttata pritchardi has a distinctive song. It sounds something like this….”

  Then came such a melodious whistle, I looked about thinking that a bird had flown into the room.

  “Now you must try it so that you have it firmly in your head.”

  Over and over I copied as best I could the thrush’s song.

  “Off you go, my dear, and dress warmly. Ellie will find you some Wellingtons for your feet so you can tramp about and not worry about snow and mud.”

  Ellie slipped my feet into great rubber boots. Scarves and gloves were applied until I was so wrapped up, I could scarcely move. Still, as soon as I walked out into the cold English day, I found myself shivering again. With no idea where the beech tree might be, I approached a gentleman muttering to himself as he dug up a flower bed.

  “You can’t tell me the Lord made this clay—it’s the work of the devil.” When he noticed me, he said, “You’ll be Mr. Pritchard’s granddaughter, I suppose. From Africa I hear. That’s the bottom of the world and hot. Too hot for proper flowers, no doubt.”

  I longed to tell him how my mother had tried for years to grow proper English flowers and could not for the very reason he gave. Instead I could only ask, “Please, Sir, could you tell me where the beech trees are?”

  “No need to call me ‘sir’—name’s Duggen, diggen Duggen. Ha ha. The beech trees are over there, just where the woods start. Don’t wander too far into them woods. I have no time to go looking for young ladies as gets lost.”

  I thanked him and headed for the beech trees, great high things with smooth gray trunks like the legs of elephants. A flock of rooks started up from one of the trees, but they hadn’t the ravens’ chin feathers the grandfather had described. I stood looking up into the bare branches. The wind crept up my sleeves and down my neck. I thought English birds foolish for coming into such cold country. Then I saw it, at first gliding overhead and then settling onto an arrangement of twigs that had been cobbled together and lay untidily on one of the branches. It was surely the raven.

  With no help from Mr. Duggen I found the great oak tree by the fountain but no robin’s nest. The walking about had warmed me, and the sun had melted the snow, and here and there I saw bits of green poking through the black earth. Though the fields were very different from the African bush, the feeling of space was the same. In all that open country I saw how small I was and how small my problems. I found enough room to begin to let go of my worries and fears. I would be the grandfather’s eyes and ears, but somehow I would find a way to tell the truth as well.

  It was nearly noon when Mr. Duggen discovered me listening to the thrush’s song. Though I heard the song, I hadn’t been able to see the bird. The song was so like the grandfather’s imitation that I didn’t know whether the bird was an enchanted man or the man was an enchanted bird.

  “They’ve sent me to fetch you for your lunch,” Mr. Duggen said. “They say you’ll be frozen from head to toe. I told them fresh air never hurt a soul, but you best go in.”

  As soon as I had gulped down my meal of hot soup and a mutton chop, I ran up the stairs and hurried into the grandfather’s room to make my report. The moment I opened the door, the words were out of my mouth. “I saw the raven, and it’s started a nest, no robin, but I heard the thrush’s song, only I couldn’t see him.”

  “Well done. That is good news. To hear the excitement in your voice is almost as satisfying as being out there myself. Now come and sit next to me and tell me more about your Africa. You will be my living storybook.”

  After having to keep my secret for all those weeks on the boat, I longed to say aloud the names of the people and places I loved. “I could tell you about my friend Rachel,” I said.

  “And why this Rachel?” the grandfather asked. “Why not stories about yourself?”

  “My life wasn’t very interesting.”

  He gave me a quizzical smile. “Then by all means, let’s hear about Rachel.”

  “She had an African friend, Kanoro, who taught her about the birds like you are teaching me. He taught her where to see the nightjars just as the sun went down and how to whistle like the mousebird.”

  “And can you whistle like a mousebird?” the grandfather asked.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, and began to purse my lips, for Kanoro had said he could not tell my whistle from a real mousebird. I stopped myself. Surely the real Valerie would not know how to make that whistle. I flushed. “That is, I think I once heard a mousebird but I don’t remember now just what it sounded like.”

  The grandfather gave me a long look. “What did Rachel’s missionary parents do?” he asked.

  Here I thought I was on safe ground, for I was no longer talking about me but only my parents. “They had a hospital for sick Africans. It was too far for the Africans in the bush to go all the way into Nairobi. It was a mission hospital, but because of the war there was no minister available, so Rachel’s father, who was the doctor, did the preaching. Rachel used to help in the hospital.”

  “And doesn’t she help there anymore?”

  “Her father and mother died from the influenza.” I took a deep breath and, sure I would be struck down by a thunderbolt, added, “Rachel died as well.”

  “You must have been very close to Rachel and her parents,” the grandfather said. “There are tears in your eyes.”

  I clenched my fists unt
il my nails bit into the palms of my hands. I blinked the tears away. “They were very good to me,” I said.

  The grandfather sank back upon his pillows and closed his eyes. “Thank you for the story,” he said. “Now I must rest for a bit.”

  The grandfather’s face was pale. His eyes fluttered shut. I tiptoed out of the room wondering if I had said something to worry the grandfather. I decided that I had better not talk of Rachel or her parents. It was too hard to keep my feelings from spilling over into the words.

  After that I spoke only of the animals and the birds. Each day I was out on the grounds of the estate, and each evening I reported back to the grandfather a description of the birds I had seen. I had been at Stagsway a month when Burker, finding me on the stairway, handed me a letter. “This came for you, Miss Valerie.”

  At first I was startled, wondering who could know I was here, but a glance at the return address on the envelope sent me to my room, where I could open the letter by myself.

  Dear Valerie,

  We have had a cable from Mr. Grumbloch telling us that you have arrived at Stagsway safely. By the time you receive this letter, you will have become acquainted with your grandfather, and we hope you are in his good graces. The old gentleman has, I am sure, grown fond of you and will understand that it is difficult for you to be separated from your dear parents.

  We are writing to him that we are so lonesome for you that we plan to visit England the end of the summer. Surely he must understand that it is natural for parents to wish to be with their only child. For your part you must do all you can to influence him in that direction.

  Valerie, I am sure you realize that now that your grandfather has begun to care for you, it is more important than ever that you say or do nothing that might bring him sorrow, or hasten the end of his days.

  With love,

  Mother and Father

  I had fallen into the Pritchards’ trap. I had agreed to come to England for the sake of the old grandfather. That was what I had told myself. In my heart I knew that I had also hoped to escape the orphanage. Now the Pritchards planned to use me to help them to return to England. Once here, who knows what mischief they would do. I would tell the grandfather the first thing in the morning.

  All night long I rehearsed my confession. I was resolved not to blame the Pritchards, for if I were honest with myself, I had to admit that I could have told the truth at any time. I could have confessed to Miss Limplinger on the boat. I could have told Mr. Grumbloch. It was my fault, and I would admit it. I believed that the grandfather was a kind man—hadn’t Ellie said that he was a generous landlord? Yet I did not see how he could forgive me. My lie weighed so heavily on me, I could not wait until I told the truth.

  At breakfast all the silver dishes were on display. Arthur was there to hand me a plate and take the covers off, but I was too upset to eat more than a bite of toast.

  “Are you sick, then?” Arthur asked, and then blushed. “Sorry, Miss, I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

  “That’s all right, Arthur. I do feel a little funny today. I think I’ll just go up to see my grandfather.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but Mrs. Bittery left word that your grandfather was not well and wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  I was alarmed to hear that the grandfather was ill and upset that I had lost my chance finally to tell the truth. I did not see how I was to survive another minute with my secret. I put on my coat and went outdoors, for the great, dark, silent house was too much for me. Mr. Duggen had a wheelbarrow full of small, brightly colored flowers with large faces. When I asked what they were, he said, “Pansies, Miss. They don’t mind the cold weather. I’ve seen them with snow on and none the worse for it. You might tell your grandfather I saw a willow wren this morning.”

  I was glad to have someone to talk with so that the time would pass. “Was Grandfather always interested in birds?” I asked.

  “If you ask me, it started after his wife died and your father made all the trouble, if you’ll forgive me. The old gentleman gave up on people and turned to birds. You can’t go wrong there. They come and go just when they are supposed to. A bird won’t disappoint you. I think one more disappointment would be the end of the old gentleman.”

  After that I wandered over toward the fountain. “One more disappointment would be the end of the old gentleman.” The words were very terrible to me. How could I tell him the truth? I settled down on the fountain’s ledge. With the water turned off the fountain looked forsaken. A bird flew out of the nearby oak tree with a bit of straw in its beak. I knew at once from its rusty breast that it was the robin. I hurried into the house, hoping that Grandfather was better and that the news of the robin’s return would cheer him. Mrs. Bittery stopped me in the hallway outside Grandfather’s room.

  “You can’t go in there now, Miss Valerie. Your grandfather sent for Mr. Grumbloch, and he’s with your grandfather right now.”

  A moment later Mr. Grumbloch himself appeared, a scowl on his face, and swept by me, giving no return to my greeting.

  I crept down the stairs and huddled in the library, too miserable to pick up a book. There on the desk was paper and pen. I wrote a note:

  Dear Grandfather,

  Mr. Duggen saw a willow wren and I saw a robin. I hope you are feeling better.

  Valerie

  I slipped it under the door of Grandfather’s bedroom. The next days were torture. Grandfather was too sick to see me. I imagined the terrible Pritchards on their way. I ate so little that the cook, Mrs. Nessel, came into the dining room in her apron with a smudge of flour and a stern look on her face.

  “I am sure, Miss Valerie, that I am doing all I can to give you tasty food. I suppose you are used to cooking elephants and such, but I can assure you there are no elephants to be had at Butcher Brogan’s.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ve never had such good food. It’s just that I don’t feel very well.”

  Her look softened. “I suppose you miss your parents. That’s only natural.”

  “Yes,” I said, glad to tell the truth for once. “I miss my parents.”

  Mr. Grumbloch returned, but the moment I saw him, I disappeared into my room, afraid of another of his angry looks. At supper I stuffed some of the food into my handkerchief and hid it in my pocket so that Mrs. Nessel should think I had eaten it and not be upset. I was so miserable, I was ready to leave Stagsway and walk wherever the road would take me. I had gone so far as to gather the few things that belonged to me and not Valerie and make a little bundle when Ellie appeared.

  “Your grandfather wants you, Miss.”

  I knocked softly on his door and heard him summon me.

  “Come and sit beside the bed, child; my voice is weak this evening.” He looked at me for a long while. I thought, Now is the chance to tell the truth, but then I remembered Mr. Duggen saying, “One more disappointment would be the end of the old gentleman,” and I swallowed my words.

  “I have had a letter from my son,” he said. “He and his wife wish to come to England. It seems they are lonesome for you and they wish for a reconciliation with me.” He straightened up in bed, and I could imagine how he had once been an impressive and a stern man. “My son’s reckless behavior sent his mother to the grave. I can never forgive him for that. However, I have found that he has had his own disappointments. At any rate he has sent you. For that I can forgive him a great deal.”

  He paused to catch his breath. “It will be several months before they come, so we will have some time to welcome the spring and enjoy the summer. I had your note about the robin and the willow wren.” He handed me a paper. “I have a new list. You can begin in the morning. Now I must rest.”

  I took the list to my room and read the names of the birds: swallow, turtledove, redstart. A description followed the name of each bird. I tried to sort everything out. Grandfather was not angry with me. The Pritchards would not arrive for several months. I did not dare risk Grandfather’s life by revealing that the real Valerie was
dead. I resolved I would spend the next months making Grandfather as happy as I could. As I made my resolution, I realized I no longer called him “the grandfather.” Now, as if I were truly his grandchild, I called him Grandfather.

  EIGHT

  As spring came on and the days warmed, I spent more and more time out of doors with Grandfather’s lists. The fountain was turned on, and birds came to drink from it and bathe in its pool. The wagtails and whitethroats arrived, and the goldfinches turned yellow like bits of sun. Grandfather checked off a list he kept by his bedside and taught me the songs of the cuckoo and the nightingale.

  “Bird by bird you have brought me the spring,” he said.

  Grandfather was able to leave his bed and sit in a chair by the window. When I was outside, I could look up and wave to him. He was eager to hear any news. I told him what flowers Duggen was planting and brought him bouquets of wildflowers, a little wilted and droopy from being crushed in my fist. Grandfather would name the flowers for me: cowslips, cuckooflower, and lords-and-ladies. With the summer came foxgloves and forget-me-nots and cranesbill.

  The English names made me remember Mother saying them over and how disappointed she was not to be able to grow English flowers in Africa. In the fields around Stagsway there were flowers everywhere you looked. Once I asked Duggen, “Why do you plant flowers when there are so many wildflowers?”

  He answered impatiently, “They don’t grow in neat rows, Miss Valerie, only ragged clumps here and there. What kind of garden would that be?”

  Mr. Duggen carried on a battle with the ferrets and moles that dug up his garden, but he was fond of hedgehogs. “They’re useful little things,” he said. “They nibble the weeds.” One day he showed me a baby hedgehog. It looked like a pincushion and was so tiny it fit into my hand. Its prickles were soft and its eyes still closed. “Will I make a cage for it?” Mr. Duggen asked.

  I did not like animals in cages. I remembered a lion that a planter in Africa had kept caged as a kind of amusement. I shook my head. “Please put it back in its nest,” I said.