by Eva Meijer
“I met her by chance and we had a drink together and then danced. You were the one who said to take things slowly.”
“I’m only asking.” I smile to show him I’m not cross, but I don’t manage to make my smile quite cheerful or friendly enough.
“Gwen, you know what I’m like.”
I don’t really know, but I’m pleased he says so. As if he isn’t hiding anything from me. Honesty is important. And I don’t want to marry. I want to play the violin and travel. I want to move. He understands what it means to move, and perhaps this is what movement costs. I don’t know why my throat is tight, why swallowing doesn’t help.
He takes a step towards me, folds his wet fingers over mine. “Come on then, we’ll go to the museum.”
My coat feels rough and familiar, my black hat too. We walk beside the water to the bus stop. There’s a Heron in the reeds, grey as the water. In the oak by the corner there are two Crows. Thomas talks and laughs and shows me the colours of things, the words people use, the half-trampled bouquet of flowers in the gutter, the shadow that a policeman casts over the street, the long body.
His long body. I can hear his voice in my head, its sound, its timbre, its intonation. His body is still always new. This morning he started out, knowing precisely how and where (my shoulder, innocently, my arm, my hand, my shoulder again, my neck, a kiss, skin, gentle brushing, lips, opening). So precisely that I sometimes ask myself if he’s touching me, or just a woman.
In the museum he walks like a slow skater, his hands on his back: part child, part philosopher. He makes me see the paintings afresh. Paint, mood, colour, colour, colour. When we reach Turner, he takes my hand. We stand still and look, and I can see what has touched him. He was right—I do know what he’s like.
STAR 7
Star always devoted a great deal of time to rearing her young. She brought them food far longer than most Tits do and taught them various useful skills. One of the things she taught her children each year was that there was no need to be afraid of me. They passed this on to their own children, and so I was the friend not only of particular individuals, but of specific families too.
One of the sons from Star and Baldhead’s first brood was an unusually fine-looking bird. Everyone who saw him said: “What a beauty!” And so I called him Beauty. Beauty was the first to follow his mother from the nest to the bird table, and he kept visiting it long after he had fledged. He always carefully considered which nuts to choose. Most Great Tits take several titbits from the table and only decide if they will eat something after they have already taken it; Beauty always considered it in advance and never chose something he would not then eat. He remained in the garden until he was four months old, and then left with three other young birds. I did not see them for a long time afterwards and was afraid that something had happened, but after three months I suddenly saw him on the windowsill, the other three in his wake.
The following spring he nested in my garden with a scraggy female called Dolly. His territory bordered on his mother’s. Dolly and Beauty had a large brood and worked hard to give all their chicks sufficient food. The last one to fly the nest, a little female, had a lame leg. I called her Naomi. He brought her to me when she was ten days old; she trusted me immediately because he did. Naomi was slower than the others and I fed her until she had gained the skill to search out food for herself. After a few months she was able to use her leg a little better, and after a year you could barely see that it had previously troubled her so greatly. She no longer needed my help and was just as independent as the other Great Tits.
1937
The sun is already hot, one Tuesday morning in May, as I’m on my way to Mr Taylor the solicitor’s office. Blackbirds are nesting in the high hedge at the corner of the street. They’re flying back and forth with food for their young, but the spot that they’ve chosen is really not appropriate. It’s far too exposed, an easy target for cats and Magpies. I unbutton my jacket—I’m wearing a dark-blue woollen suit and am already starting to perspire. I’ve brought my violin with me because I have to rehearse immediately after this appointment. The handle of the case slips in my damp hand at each step, forwards, backwards. I strengthen my grip and suck my tongue to help me swallow.
I’m five minutes early but I knock three times on the door with the heavy knocker. I follow the maid through a large marble hallway into an office. Mother would certainly adore this house. “Mr Taylor will be with you soon,” the maid says. I put my violin case down beside my chair, where it immediately falls over. I really should have asked for a glass of water.
“Miss Howard.” A stocky little man with a moustache and small round spectacles approaches me, his hand thrust out. “Good to see you.” He sits down at his desk and opens a folder of papers. “First, of course, my condolences for your loss. I met your father once or twice, we had friends in common. He was a most amiable man with a vast knowledge of poetry.”
“Yes, indeed.” I try to swallow.
“Would you like some water?” He stands up and calls the maid, who then brings me a glass. “I can imagine that it came as a shock to you, even though he was ill.”
I nod. I didn’t know he was ill; I hadn’t been home for years. I sent my parents postcards when I was on holiday, and cards at Christmas, and sometimes I’d write a letter to Olive. I have no idea why Olive only wrote about it after the funeral, in November last year—she said she’d been busy, and that Mother hadn’t wanted me to come. I sent them a stone bird, to put on his grave.
“Mr Howard has left all his assets and property to his four children.” My heart is thudding. My share is much greater than I expected—I could buy a small house with it. Mother will be furious.
I sign the paper to accept my inheritance and within ten minutes I’m outside again, where the light is so intense that I can’t see anything for a moment.
* * *
“Joan, start again.”
“Sorry, why do I have to start again?” The muscle by her mouth is twitching worse than ever. Her face is only calm when she’s playing.
“You’re the one who has to set the tempo for the others. Guide. Lead. But instead you first follow the violins, and then the bass.”
She nods, without looking up from her violin.
“Again.” Joan begins and we follow, three bars later. Through the window, high up behind her, I can see a Crow flying.
“Utter rubbish. Stop. We’ll start the second part.”
Suddenly he’s there in front of me, making me jump. “Gwendolen. Are you with us?”
A few days ago I saw a Crow drop a twig while flying. Another Crow caught it, flew up, also dropped it, and the first one swooped down, just in time to catch the twig again. It looked like playing. I don’t know of any study on the phenomenon of play in birds.
“Gwen!”
I have to make an effort to stay with the piece we’re playing. I keep thinking about the Crow, about the tops of the pine trees.
“That’s better. Next, Elgar’s ‘Enigma Variations’. Just the strings this afternoon. The rest of you can go home. Now, a ten-minute break. And it’s ‘Nimrod’, for those who wish to get themselves ready.”
He comes and stands beside me. “I do understand that you’re going through a lot at the moment. Your father’s death, your family’s reaction.”
“Swifts.”
“Pardon?” He twirls his moustache, keeping his eyes fixed on the door.
“That piece by Elgar, it makes me think of Swifts. They only settle on the earth to breed. They sleep in the air, eat in the air.”
He walks off in the rhythm we were just playing, slowing himself down at the door, so that he finishes at exactly the right point.
Joan comes and sits beside me. A Seagull flies past again. I hardly ever see them here. Perhaps they can’t find enough to eat by the coast. “Do you think my tempo isn’t right? In my opinion, it’s his tempo that’s wrong.”
I turn towards her. “Perhaps you should discuss tha
t with Stockdale, not me.”
“He blows his top so fast.” That tic again.
I try not to sound irritated. “It’s always like that. He gets cross, you lose confidence, and then it goes from bad to worse.”
“But do you think I’m playing it right or not?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I think the truth lies somewhere in between.”
Priscilla joins us. “Do you think the weather will hold? Ken and I want to go sailing this weekend.”
Joan thinks it will get colder. I move to the window—always the same kind of chitchat. Priscilla is really nice, with her rosy cheeks—apple cheeks, as Olive would say—and her flaxen hair, and she’s amusing, and I like Joan too, so I don’t know why I’m feeling so annoyed. Two bobbies are walking past outside. I tap my fingers restlessly against my leg: ‘Nimrod’.
I don’t want to go straight home after the rehearsal. The city is too loud today. Late spring is heavy in the elm trees in Battersea Park: song, blossom, chubby little Blackbirds and Sparrows, an empty eggshell here and there. Young people walk past me—laughing, flirting, quarrelling—this is the best season for dreaming. Soon it will be too hot and the thick, grimy air will thrust us further out of the city. An older couple are sitting on a bench, coats closed, in spite of the heat. She takes his hand.
There’s a group of students walking in the gardens. They stop by the Memorial sculpture, some of them sketching the figures in their books. Thomas also loves this monument. I carry on, past the bees in the Old English Garden, past the lake, till I reach the old oak tree where the Great Tits are nesting. There is a little bench opposite, far enough from the nest not to disturb them. It is a while before the parents arrive—I can’t see the nest itself, it’s near the top of the tree, in a little hollow. I take my notebook out of my violin case. I’m writing an article about the song of Great Tits. I’ve read a number of studies on birdsong over the past few years. Its structure has been intensively researched, but very little has been written about its meaning. So whenever I have a few hours to spare I go to this place in the park, and note down the songs and calls of a particular group of birds, at the same time recording their relationships and interactions. By the end of the spring I hope I’ll have gathered enough information to make a really good piece of work.
One of the young Great Tits flies out of a lavender bush a little further on, lands right by my feet and hops towards me. “Hallo, little one,” I say to him. He tilts his head, takes another step forward, but then swiftly flies away again.
* * *
“Lennie?” Thomas is lying on his back, smoking.
“Hmm.” A boat sails past. I can see the old man at the tiller very clearly. He can’t see us.
“Would you like to marry me?”
I move from the window to the bed. Wind shifts the water, the swell making the boat bob. I sit down beside him and place my hand on his wrist. “No.”
“Are you sure?” He sits up. “I could buy a house, a real house. We’d be happy.”
“Have you been talking to your mother?” I close my hand around his wrist, open it again.
“That’s not the reason. We’ve been together so long.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“We’ve known each other so long now.” He takes my hand. “I love you.”
“Well, I love you too. I just don’t want to get married. And certainly not to you.” I caress his red curls.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You too. Why do you want this again, all of a sudden?”
He sighs. “She wants me to get married, to start a family. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise you can whistle for your money.” My tone isn’t indignant—I knew it. He remains silent.
“I’m not going to play along. Sorry. If you really want to get married, do so, but ask one of your other girlfriends.”
“But you’re the only one. The only one I love. We’ve known each other so long now.” A pleading look from someone who really is too old to play the little boy any more.
“Seriously, Thomas. You know just as well as I do that we should never live in a house together.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
I’ve told him about the legacy. “Has she given you an ultimatum?” I ask.
“A year, and then she’ll stop my allowance.”
I laugh. “You’ll have to pull out all the stops, old chap.” He lets go of my hand, turns away from me. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I should have been much clearer from the start. That you were the one, not the others.”
He’s trying hard, harder than last time. I take a cigarette too, light it, and inhale deeply. He’ll look for someone else, a pretty girl, young, pliable. He’ll marry her, have children, and will keep seeing me till it’s no longer possible, or until I no longer wish it.
We smoke in silence. In silence I get dressed.
He follows me to the door.
“Did you really think I’d say yes?”
“I don’t know.” The answer that people give when they don’t want to say something else. He opens the door for me. In his eyes I see the reflection of the road behind me.
On the path along the Thames women are strolling in short-sleeved frocks, men without their overcoats. It’s going to be another hot day. Flowers bow to the sun. In the spinney in front of the station boys in short trousers are playing with little stones, knees brown with dirt, sand on their hands. Children. Scenery. I’m walking here and could just as well be walking somewhere else. People look at me, then forget they’ve ever seen me.
There’s a throng of people at the station entrance—is it eight o’clock? Nine o’clock? The day has begun. It has long been light. I could take a train—I have enough money now—go to a hotel on the coast, for just a night, or two, the violin in its case by the door.
On Friday I’m playing in a premiere. I still have to practise. I quicken my pace. Someone is singing in one of the houses. A bus drives past, but I overtake it when it halts at a bus stop. The water in the river beside me is flowing back to the boat. The plane trees by the path were here when we first walked this way. All those footsteps sealed in the asphalt. The park, the cemetery—and it’s only when I reach the school again that I hear people, not just the cooing of Pigeons.
I knock at the door. Jenny opens, morning miss, a little nod, a curtsey. I go up the stairs two steps at a time. The Great Tit he sketched for me, on a brown paper bag, still hangs by the window. I take up my violin and play to the Great Tit. The music streams through the open window, is drowned by the sounds of the city.
* * *
Dodie opens the door. I crouch down in front of her. “Hallo, cheeky. Is your Mummy at home?” She says nothing in reply, but fixes her eyes on me, her pale little face looking very serious.
Thea calls out from the back room. “Len? Come in. I’m feeding Lila.” Joey comes to take a look at me too. I squeeze past them through the passage, bending my head to avoid the washing.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess. We just don’t have enough space.” She gives me a broad grin as I enter. “Well, what do you know, she’s dropped off now.”
I stroke Lila’s cheek. She’s a person already, although not fully.
“If you want something to drink, you’ll have to see to it yourself.”
“Later. Do you want something?”
She shakes her head, gently rocking Lila back and forth.
“When is Don back?” Don is a soloist now, with the London Symphony Orchestra, in which Thea also used to play. They’re touring Europe.
“Tonight.” She tells me about Lila, who already sleeps the whole night through sometimes. The children’s voices mingle with hers, with the deep, distant drone of machines in the factory on the other side of the street. The city seems to be growing louder and louder.
“Thomas wants to marry me.”
“Again?” Thea gives a little shake of her head as she looks at me.
“I believe he really
means it.”
“I’m sure he does.” She sighs.
“But he isn’t faithful. He isn’t the marrying kind. Me neither.”
“You could do it. And then just carry on as you are.” Her face expresses optimism, her voice sounds dubious.
“I walked home by the river yesterday, and saw how it would be. I could go back. He was busy painting the Thames again, the view from his boat, his fourth one.”
“Mine!” Dodie runs into the room with Joey close behind. He’s trying to snatch a wooden train from her hand—and when that doesn’t work, he tugs at her pinafore, and then Dodie screams. Thea intervenes, puts Dodie in a corner with her train and gives Joey a crust of bread.
“How are things in the orchestra now?”
“Same as ever. We’re playing Tchaikovsky.”
“So you’re in that phase again. What about your research?”
“I’m reading a book at the moment about how they condition Pigeons. Really nasty work.” I tell her about the way the Pigeons are trained, with food and electric shocks. “You know what I think: that it’s not only immoral to study birds in lab conditions, but it’s also bad science. They behave differently then. The birds we had at home when I was young were much cleverer than this kind of research suggests.”
“Joey, leave your sister alone!”
I stand up. “Would you like a cup of tea?” When I’m in the kitchen I put the kettle on and make a start on the washing up. Just enough light falls through the octagonal windowpanes onto the work surface.
