Bird Cottage

by Eva Meijer

  Patricia stands, waves at me. “Are you coming?”

  The window closes itself. I only have to step back from it.

  “Are you here on holiday?” I ask.

  “More or less. My parents are fed up of me and Paul has an extra room. They want me to get married after the summer and they’ve even decided who it’ll be.”

  She doesn’t really look like Paul but she has the same expression—eyes screwed up a little, a small frown. “Who, then?”

  “Shall we go to the beach?”

  “It’s rather windy.”

  “Exactly! Want a ciggie?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “You’re only young once.” She takes a cigarette from a tin case.

  “What’s it like in London?” We’re walking down the gravel path towards the pebble beach. There’s a green haze on the white wall behind us, solidified sea breath.

  “Just as boring as here. That is to say: there’s enough to do, but not enough breathing space. Everyone knows everyone else. If ever you do anything you mustn’t do, then everyone knows about it immediately. Certainly if you’re a woman.” She pulls her left shoe off. “Ow.”

  “I’d keep your shoes on a while, if I were you. A little further on it turns to sand.”

  She gives me the shoe, which is warm—the leather soft, someone’s skin—and leans her hand on my shoulder as she brushes fragments of shell from her foot with her other hand.

  “So they want me to get married.” She hesitates. “To someone I had a relationship with. But all he wants is a beautiful wife to match his beautiful house.”

  “I’ll never marry.” As I say it I know that it’s true.

  She laughs. “What will you do then?”

  “I’ll study music. I want to play in an orchestra. What about you?”

  “I’m going to be a writer.” She looks exultant, but also a little earnest.

  “I used to write stories about the birds in the garden. But who’d want to read about birds?”

  “I’d like to read those stories.” She takes my arm. I get goose bumps.

  We’re walking across the narrow ledge, past the boats and towards the sandy beach. Light-blue water shifts into dark blue, into dark-blue sky. I tell her I’m afraid of words sometimes, because they trap things that you’d better not trap—it’s much easier to say what I mean with the violin. She says it can’t be words that frighten me, because words are just husks, carriers of something else.

  Meanwhile the sun breaks the clouds in two above the horizon, a mouth speaking light, smiling at the margins.

  * * *

  One day Dudley is there when I come home from my violin lesson. He is sitting in a chair by the window, gazing at the garden. “Hallo, Duddie. It’s good to see you home again.” My voice sounds strangely polite.

  “I’m pleased to be home too.” He keeps staring out of the window, as if something is happening outside. But only the grass is moving, and the shrubs.

  “How’s your leg now?”

  “No idea.”

  Cook rings the bell. Tea is ready. I go upstairs to put away my violin. Mike is singing in the garden. Ta-da-da, tada.

  Dudley sits opposite me at teatime. His eyes continue to avoid mine and he doesn’t speak to anyone. Mother talks: about the neighbour, whom she suspects of having a love affair, about an argument with her sister, about an evening playing cards with her friend, who was being frightfully peevish. Father comes to sit with us a while, mutters something about a poem he started composing last night, and then leaves again.

  When Cook brings the sandwiches, Mother clasps her forehead. “It’s doing it again. I must go to bed.” Cook fetches Tessa from the kitchen to help my mother up the stairs.

  Dudley takes a sandwich from the plate. He chews with his lips slightly open, so that his mouth acts like a sound box. He eats sluggishly, bite by bite: before humans were able to speak they chewed at each other. Cook pours the tea for us. I can feel Olive looking at me, but I don’t look sideways—the laughter is already bubbling up. Dudley doesn’t seem to notice. He takes a fairy cake. Crumbs linger in his moustache, falling beside his plate at every bite.

  “You’re making a mess,” Olive says, pressing her lips together.

  He takes another little cake, and this time he deliberately brushes the crumbs out of his moustache, dropping them by his plate.

  “Ugh,” I say.

  “Ugh,” he says. “Do you know what’s disgusting? Your sham sympathy. It doesn’t matter two hoots to you whatever happens. You just think about your violin.” He turns to Olive. “And you just want to fit in. Mimicking Mother. That’s what you enjoy.”

  I take a bite from my sandwich and think about the Mozart. I can play it in my head now and usually my hands are swift to follow. Dudley licks a finger, brushes it across the table so that the crumbs stick to it, licks it clean. And again.

  Olive pushes her chair back. The legs give a little hop on the wooden floor. There is a half-eaten sandwich on her plate, a waxing moon.

  Before I stand I look briefly at Dudley. His eyes are calm, as if he has said nothing at all. He helps himself to another cake.

  * * *

  “I’ve come to say goodbye.” Patricia steps out of the shadow of the oak tree. “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “But I jolly well can,” I say.

  She picks up the big suitcase. I take the small one. We walk through the light towards the darkness. Beyond the curve the path by the railway line is roofed with branches. She tells me about her plans for when she is back in London, about her book. I tell her about the new piece I’m studying, a Chopin waltz. Little stones are shifted by our feet, stones that perhaps are seldom shifted. A train passes, and then it’s quiet again—only ducks quacking in the distance and the wind making the grass rustle.

  “You’ll have to take matters into your own hands. Otherwise time will simply slip by. Otherwise you’ll become what they expect you to be. Then you’ll turn into your mother.”

  I shake my head.

  “Chin up.” She taps below my chin. “You should give Stockdale a ring.”

  The train approaches, brakes, stops at the top end of the platform. We run towards it. She buys a ticket from the guard and I embrace her. “It’s a shame you have to leave so soon.”

  “I’ll be back. Or we’ll see each other in London.”

  “You know, I—”

  “Yes?”

  The guard blows his whistle, signals to her to hurry. She steps in.

  “What did you want to say?”

  “Nothing. It’ll be all right.”

  She walks through the carriage, sits by the window, places her hand on the pane. I lay my hand against it till I feel the train moving.

  I wave and wave until the train has completely disappeared. The sun has changed position. I walk back in the light. I’m not wearing a hat and my parting is burning.

  I telephone Stockdale from the post office.

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “It’s Gwen. Gwen Howard.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Gwen. I didn’t hear you properly. Very nice of you to ring me. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to ask you something. I’d like to study at the College of Music, but my parents aren’t all that keen. My father has a very high opinion of you and I think he’d listen to you. So, I was hoping that…”

  “I’d put in a word for you. Of course. But on one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “That you’ll play in my orchestra.”

  My smile glides over the post office counter, lights up the floor and the walls.

  “Oh, yes please.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll set things in motion then.”

  I thank him and leave the post office with red cheeks. I don’t walk home, veer off before I reach our street and follow the shell path beside the railway, past the white hotels, to the harbour, and then carry on towards the s
ea. I steal an apple from an apple tree, keep walking as far as the sandy beach, then sit down in a cleft in the cliff side. The water, the far horizon, the taste of the apple—I really want to sing, but instead I sit here and let the sound of the water wash over me, wave after wave.

  STAR 4

  In March Star began to prepare her nesting box. She flew back and forth for days with bark, moss, strands of fibre and other soft materials. She did this as she did everything: with dedication and passion. These characteristics were apparent not only in her behaviour, her thoroughness: her whole posture was full of concentration, like a musician playing.

  Baldhead regarded the nest as his territory and when Star had finally finished her nest-making, he would turn up every night to sleep there. Star chased him off. Raising a brood is demanding enough as it is, and an extra sleeper means extra cleaning. But Baldhead was persistent and flitted around the nest box each evening, singing and calling until she gave in. Star would sit inside the box, blocking the entrance, holding her head to one side, as if assessing his song. He must have made at least thirty attempts on the first night, but this decreased each day, as if they both knew that Star would eventually give in. So Baldhead slept in the nest box until the nestlings were a few days old. Then of his own accord he looked for another roost.

  Five days after the babies had hatched, Star came to me to fetch food for them. Before that she had given her youngsters only natural food; what she took from me was simply for herself. She was hastier than normal that day and flew back to the nest box a number of times while I was busy in the kitchen. Baldhead arrived an hour after her. He flew straight to me and nestled down on my lap; his little legs were too weak to let him stand. As soon as she saw him Star left the nest box and came to us. She tried to encourage him to go with her, ardently quivering her wings and calling to him. He cheeped a little but otherwise lay still. She returned a few more times that afternoon, the last time simply gazing at him a moment from a distance.

  From that time onwards she played the biggest role in feeding their brood. Baldhead would sometimes take a piece of bread from the bird table to the nest, but would then sleep again for a few more hours. His favourite roost was on my lap, where he would come for a peanut, supposedly. He would then press his little head against my tummy and stay there. Sometimes he would not even eat his nut.

  1914

  “Come with me then.”

  Olive is sitting on my bed, watching me pack. “If Papa also has to enlist at some point, then I’ll have to help Mama with the house and with Dudley.”

  “Mama can take care of Dudley by herself, surely?”

  Olive raises an eyebrow. Since the accident Mother has started drinking in the afternoons again. Father, however, has stopped. He shuts himself in his room all day to work on his poems about the war. Last year his Collected Poems were published, a milestone that has mainly made him feel discontented. “It’s all rubbish. It’s all got to change.” Since then all he ever does is write. He doesn’t even watch the birds now.

  “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself, you know.”

  Olive stares out of the window. “Anyway, I don’t know what else I could do. I’m good for nothing.”

  I sit beside my sister.

  “There isn’t a single man who’d want me, because I’m too ugly. Pure and simple. And too old. And I can’t do anything at all.”

  “You can play the piano. And sew. And you’re really quick.” Olive can run like the wind. She leaves Kingsley far behind.

  “What’s the point of that? I’m twenty-six.” She laughs, but her eyes are still sad.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “No, of course not.” She takes my hand, squeezes it a little, then puts it back where it was before—a used tool.

  Charles is perched on the windowsill. He taps the pane with his beak. I open the window for him.

  “Are you letting that filthy Crow in?”

  Charles perches on the bed, then flies to the desk when Olive moves towards him. He’s quite happy there. He knows that Olive never stays very long.

  “I’m getting older too,” I say.

  “You’re still young. And it’s different in London.” She stands up. “I’ll go and see if Mama is all right. I’ve heard nothing from her all day.”

  Charles comes and joins me. He acquired a mate last year, a very clever Crow. She’s a little smaller than the others but twice as sharp. I stroke his head and then carry on with my packing. I’ve already put my clothes in the suitcase, the other half of it is for my sheet music. I have to take the famous pieces, at any rate, and a few personal favourites as well. I put them in, take them out, put them back again. Charles hops onto the bookcase. I’d really like to pack all the bird books I’ve collected over the years, but that would be at the cost of my music. I can fetch them at Christmas. And in London I can always use a library.

  My notebooks are on the top shelf. I leaf through them—stories about Charles, about Bennie the Magpie, who lived in my father’s study for a whole year; botched attempts at notating birdsong; lists of the birds who visited our garden last summer. At the summer’s end our neighbour came to tea and asked what always kept me busy in the garden. “She writes down which birds come to visit,” my mother said, and then they both started giggling. I set the notebooks down beside my suitcase. It would be better to throw them away.

  Kingsley knocks on the open door. “Are you nearly ready? We have to leave at a quarter past six tomorrow morning. Papa and Olive are coming to the station too, to help with the cases.” He’s letting his beard grow, and looks even more like Father now.

  “Exciting, isn’t it?” I was going to leave home last year, but suddenly my parents decided I was too young for it. I’m twenty-one now and they can’t stop me any more.

  He laughs at my enthusiasm; the air of dissatisfaction he always carries with him vanishes a while. “I’m going to miss the chaps, though.” He has a large group of friends, young men from the village he meets for sports and drinking.

  “Perhaps it’s different for a boy.”

  He gives me a wink. “I’ve promised them I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  A half-smile, and then I turn back to my suitcase. He probably won’t be in London for long. Most of the soldiers are sent to the Continent, to Belgium and France.

  The sun suddenly breaks through. The birch tree opposite my window throws its shadow across the bed, across my suitcase. Cook rings the bell for teatime, swift shrill stabs. I run downstairs.

  The table is lavishly spread: pots of jam and butter and cream; plates filled with cake, scones, muffins, sandwiches and pancakes. And there’s tea and cocoa.

  “What a feast!” I sit beside my father.

  “Two of my little ones are flying the nest. That calls for a celebration.”

  I help myself to a muffin. “Olive, pass the strawberry jam, please. And the clotted cream.”

  She pushes them towards me, stony-faced.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Why should anything be wrong? Don’t be silly.”

  “You can always come and visit.”

  Dudley wolfs down the pancakes as if his life depended on it. He spreads them thickly with butter and jam, or puts cheese and ham on them, rolling them up and cutting them into big chunks. They vanish into his mouth bite by bite. At pancake number five I see Mother stare at him. At number six she says his name. At number seven she gestures to Cook to take the pancakes away. “Hang on,” Kingsley says, “I’d like another one.”

  “Just one, then,” Mother says. She takes one from the dish, and puts it on Kingsley’s plate, stretching her arm across the table.

  “I’m awfully hungry, Mama. I’d like two,” he says.

  She picks up another one. Her lips form a straight line. Cook asks if anyone else would like a pancake.

  “I’d like another,” Dudley says.

  “Should you really?” Mother asks him.

  Father taps her hand with his fing
ers, then taps his fork on the table top. “Don’t grudge the lad his pleasures.”

  “He’s eaten six already.”

  Seven.

  My father turns his attention back to his own plate. “Delicious,” he tells Cook. “You’ve excelled yourself again. What a sumptuous feast! Splendid.”

  Dudley belches. He swiftly places a napkin in front of his mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Ugh,” Olive says.

  Cook coughs. She’s still standing there, dish in hand.

  “All right then,” says Mother.

  Dudley treats this pancake exactly like the previous one, but the butter is spread thicker and the jam too.

  I can feel Olive looking at me as I take a bite from my scone. I don’t return her glance.

  The following morning I knock at my mother’s door before we leave. She doesn’t open it. “Perhaps she isn’t well,” Olive says.

  I push the door handle down. “It’s locked.”

  “Len,” my father calls up from the bottom of the stairs. “We really must leave.”

  I knock one more time.

  “Come on,” Olive says. I follow her downstairs. My suitcase is heavy, but I want to carry it myself.

  * * *

  The first thing I see when I wake up is my violin, in an open case across two chairs at the foot of the bed. The room is narrow and dark and perfect. Somewhere in the distance a clock is striking. I count along, to seven. I get out of bed and open the window, then sit on the sill with my violin, softly plucking the strings. Trams, voices, wind, the sound of an engine. On the opposite side of the street someone has hung a washing line in front of their window. Underclothes are pegged to it. The rehearsal won’t take place till two. I have plenty of time to explore. Someone knocks at the door and I hurriedly put on my dressing gown.

  “Miss Howard? Good morning. My name is Sylvia. Mrs Sewell asked me to wake you. Breakfast will be ready at half past seven.” Sylvia is shorter than me by a head. She’s wearing a white cap perched on flaxen hair. She can’t be more than sixteen.