Bird Cottage
Page 12
“They’re really tame round here. And we always had birds in and around our house, in the past.” Ollie takes the raisin and swoops off with it to the willow, flying swiftly through the drooping branches.
“But don’t they cause diseases? All those bacteria. And lice. I read recently that all birds have lice. And mites too. Disgusting. Oh, hang on, I’ve got something for you.”
She takes a package out of her bag; it contains a women’s magazine, a bar of chocolate, a bottle of Madeira and a pair of stockings. “From Joan and me.”
I thank her, then leaf through the magazine.
“Oh, cripes!” She stands up, takes a step back, rigid, her body bent slightly backwards, the corners of her mouth turned down.
A spider is sauntering across the edge of the table. I let him walk onto my hand, then from my hand onto the grass outside.
Billie sits down again, more straight-backed than necessary.
“Do you think things are improving? Do you feel less stifled now? Does the fresh air help?”
“A bit.” It’s not the air, but the space; not the space, but time; not time, but the light.
Billie tells me that Stockdale now goes everywhere with Deborah, the new violin player.
“Typical! Shall we go for a swim soon?”
“And I think Joan has got something going on with Barry.”
“Who’s Barry?”
“Barry Heaton. You know. The trumpet player.”
I do vaguely remember him, the timbre of his voice, not his face; he played in the orchestra a while, when I was new there. A good player, someone you don’t really notice because he does exactly what he should.
“Do you hear that?” I point outside.
She shakes her head.
“That Great Tit. He comes here a lot. I recognise him by that little motif.” I imitate it. “It’s more complex than it seems, with all those semitones and then the trill at the end.”
She frowns, nods.
“Their song is different here. Not like it is in London.” I get hold of my notebook, let her see the fragments of birdsong I’ve notated.
“So?”
“No one knows exactly what they’re saying. There’ve been a lot of studies of birdsong, but mainly on its structure, not its meaning.”
“I always assumed they sang to win a female and protect their territory. Like most men.” She laughs.
“I think they’re saying much more than that.”
Billie picks up the bottle of Madeira. “Holidays!”
I bring the table outside and while she tells me about her fiancé, I watch the flowers gently swaying. The space between us doubles and doubles, until Billie is miles away. A Goose honks in the distance.
* * *
In the morning I follow the course of the little brook that flows southwards, past the hut. It leads to a pond, cut off from the sea by a dyke studded with seashells. Its water takes on the colour of the sky, mirrors the day. Last week there were farm horses here, thick tufts of hair on their fetlocks. Freed from their harness, they raced around and rolled onto their backs, until the first horse trotted into the pond. The second horse watched him, then also trotted in. The rest followed, like foals. When I see them now, pulling the plough, so quietly and strongly, I think about their secret life, the joy behind their serious bearing.
I sit at the edge of the water, in grass so light in colour that it seems grey. Ringed Plovers skitter across the sand on the other side. Just a fortnight more, and then I have to return to London. I don’t even know now where I put my violin. Something is moving in the bush beside me. I keep as still as possible. A hazel dormouse, or some other kind of dormouse, off and away before I can properly see him. A bumble bee lands on my calf, its fat little feet tickling me.
Countless small birds emerge from the scrub, first the Sparrows, then the Goldfinches, a Redbreast, a Wagtail, a Wren—they’re taking a look at me, like villagers who come out to greet a newly arrived guest, and then they carry on with whatever was keeping them busy. This shining land is not ours. Because I keep completely still, the birds behave exactly as they would otherwise do. I’ve learned more about their behaviour in ten days here than during all those years in London. Because people are so full of their own importance, they don’t see other creatures correctly—yet simply to describe their behaviour with precision would place everything in a different light.
A Woodcock lands in the grass. Clouds shift white across the water. My reluctance increases with every step down the dyke.
* * *
The staircase is full of smoke. I let my feet feel their way down the narrow stairs, skid a little, try not to breathe, it’s a question of seconds, not minutes, the last steps, the front door, no key, I pound and pound and call out, cough, someone’s screaming on the other side of the door, pounding, screaming. I take shallow breaths, in, out, in, out, can’t breathe any more.
Wood, a slam, a man’s voice, an opening. Air.
I don’t know if I was making some kind of sound, but the woman opposite me—dark-blue stockings, a little cloche hat in the same colour—glances up from her book and gives me a disapproving look. I’m not as well groomed as I was on the outward journey. And much less concerned about it. I give her a smile. She purses her lips and pretends to carry on with her book. Her husband is looking at the landscape. His white moustache bobs to the rhythm of the train. He’s humming.
I take my little black notebook out of my bag, yawning. The ceremony is at ten o’clock, and it will take me at least an hour to get to the church. To try and shake off my sleepiness, I make sketches of the woman and the man. When we reach Blackfriars, I put the notebook away.
The city greets me with rain. And after three streets I know that I’m wearing the wrong shoes. I stop walking at the first bus stop I can find. My umbrella knocks against someone else’s, a man in a hurry. The streets are shining, showing an upside-down city that is constantly broken by traffic. Machines rumble in the distance, a military band that never comes closer. For the whole bus journey, jammed between damp coats and voices and hair, I play a violin part in my head to drown out the sound. It smells of people, of human bodies.
Joan is standing on the pavement outside the church. She’s smoking and only spots me when I get closer. She embraces me, holding the arm with the cigarette behind her. “Gwennie. So good to see you.” Her eyes look sad.
“Isn’t Barry here?”
She shakes her head, takes a last puff from the cigarette. “He’s on reconnaissance, in France. They’re expecting all sorts to happen. I’ll go in with you.” She stubs the cigarette out, links arms with me; for a moment we truly are friends.
The steps are made of marble and are slippery with rain. Joan loses her footing, but my arm steadies her, prevents a fall. She smiles at the door as if nothing has happened.
“How are things in the hut? Doesn’t the silence send you crazy? It would drive me up the wall. Billie said she wouldn’t be able to stand it.”
“I like peace and quiet.” The stone floor of the church has been worn smooth by thousands, tens of thousands of feet, past and present together, silently supporting all those years.
“Me too, but not isolation.” She looks at herself in her compact mirror, combs her grey hair into shape with her hand.
Stockdale enters, arm in arm with a long-legged girl—a young deer, a hind, that must be Deborah. He waves, but shows no intention of approaching me. Behind him is Joey, the double bass player, as rosy-cheeked as ever; Emile, the bassoonist, is talking to him, his voice over-reedy for his body. People greet each other, always looking across each other’s shoulders to check if another acquaintance is arriving, someone more important.
We sit down in the third row, by the aisle. I greet people on all sides, take off my shoes to massage my feet, under the bench, under the old wood, the rack for the prayer books. I prod through my stocking, making a hole in the blister. It stings. Joan is chatting to the man beside her, one of Billie’s uncles.
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I cough. My fingertips are tingling. At first I try not to notice my breathing, and then do precisely that. The church organ starts playing. People continue to talk for a few moments, and then fall silent and turn around. Billie is led forward by her father. She’s wearing a white dress, simple and elegant, trimmed with lace, and a white cap with a veil. I think of the water, the rain on the roof of the hut, about my article, and about Ollie the Blackbird, who came indoors this morning and perched on the table.
* * *
I can only breathe normally again when I’m in the train. I now understand why my father wanted to live in Wales, although he wasn’t at all suited to country life. It’s quiet in the compartment. I take off my shoes, take out my notebook to write. The sun outside is a red ball.
“Len?”
A dart hurtles from my eyes to my mouth to my heart, my diaphragm, my abdomen. “Thomas.”
He leans down, gives me a kiss on the cheek, sits opposite me. “Crikey, what a coincidence. I was thinking of you today. Where are you off to?”
“To Sussex.” I tell him about the hut, calling it a holiday cottage, and describe the river and the Ducks, the Blackbird in the kitchen, the grass, the light, the long days.
I don’t mention the old desire, which awakens in spite of me.
“So you really did leave.” His curls are a little longer than they were; he is less thin. “Can you manage without performing though? How do you get through the day?”
“How’s Donna?” I don’t look at him as I ask the question. I found out accidentally, from a newspaper announcement.
“Oh, Donna. Yes. Very well. Expecting. Who’d have thought it, hey? Have you seen this sky?” He moves his face into my field of view, catches my eye with his own. “And how are you?”
“None of your business.” I gaze out of the window, at the world waiting there.
“Too late. The story of my life.”
I look at him. “Oh, don’t moan. Your wife’s expecting a baby.” Half angry, half mocking.
He laughs. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. Still. Marriage. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps you are right.”
“I went to Billie’s wedding.”
“She married the Yank, right? How did it go?”
“As it should. In a church, everyone dressed to the nines. Joan had a good weep. Stockdale was there with his new lady friend. But it mainly felt strange and distant.” We’ve passed Haywards Heath now—buildings have switched to trees.
“These things always do.”
“Are you happy?” Words like clumsy boats, running aground long before they reach the shore.
“Contented.” He doesn’t look at me.
We talk until he gets out at Burgess Hill to visit a friend. I see him enter the small white wooden station building. Not so long ago this would have opened it all up again. Now the train simply moves on, past fawn-coloured cattle and fields full of sheep, hedges, bare twisted trees, Wivelsfield, a pond. The red in the sky has turned lilac, then purple, then dark blue, the shadow of the earth silhouetted against the pink, and now it’s become a blanket full of stars, little openings that let the light shine through.
* * *
I tune my violin. We’re playing Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony. Stockdale has made a revised version, to cut down on its length. I wipe rosin onto the bow. They were delighted to see me, as if I’d been away three months instead of three weeks. As if I’m the same person I was three weeks ago. “Maestro?”
He looks up at me, annoyed, holding his finger in the score.
“Could I have a word with you?”
“Can we do that later? When we’re finished?”
He doesn’t see my nod. He’s turned his head already.
Priscilla opens the window. The way she moves it’s as if she’s a much older woman. The odour of the green room mingles with the scents of late summer, the grating strings with distant voices and the noise of the city. I yawn, go in search of a coffee. From the passageway I can see into the foyer: ladies in evening gowns, men in dress suits, barmaids, smoke. I feel nothing at all—no enthusiasm, not even that nervous tension bordering on fear.
I play as well as ever. It feels like a betrayal.
I leave the building with Stockdale. “I want to stop.” Ash-tree leaves spin around on the street in a little whirlwind.
“Yes, you’ve said something like that already. You can’t have it both ways. But you will finish this season, won’t you?”
I glance sideways, can only see irritation in his face, not our shared history.
“If you wish.”
“I wish nothing. You signed a contract.” He quickens his pace, lets two other people come between us, before he catches up with Deborah. I don’t know what I expected.
I run a few steps, till I’m beside him again. “But the contract only finishes next year.”
“Then we’ll have plenty of time to find a good substitute.”
“I want to leave earlier than that.”
He asks Deborah if she’d like to go to the bar.
“Harold, I’m extremely grateful to you for everything. But it’s enough now. You have nothing to gain if I no longer play well.”
“We’ll discuss it some other time.” He takes Deborah’s arm and coaxes her across the street. Joan comes and walks with me. “What was all that about?”
“I want to give it up.”
She’s clearly taken aback. “Completely?”
We cross the road, nipping swiftly past a bus that stirs the air behind my back. More body, less spirit, that’s what I’m becoming.
Joan keeps questioning me, clearly happy about the space I’ll leave when I’m gone: less competition—I’m one of the oldest members, one of the best players.
The wind ruffles coats, freshens my face. I tell her I intend to study birds, explain how I’d set up my research.
“Right,” she says, and frowns a little, then laughs to let me know she means well.
During the night the wind dies down, as if something has yielded, something that the world accepted far sooner than me.
STAR 9
At the end of June I tried to tempt Star back. All the youngsters had flown the nest and summer had really begun. The birds once more had time for other activities. Star ignored me and did not wish to accept any peanuts. I had clearly insulted her by chasing her off when she was treating Dusty so unkindly. Not until August did she become more approachable, and when she had come for a nut a few times, I again attempted to interest her in counting. One morning I tapped three times on the screen near the window. It gave her a shock, because I had used the same noise to drive her away from Dusty. She immediately flew off, scolding me loudly. I decided not to tap any more and enticed her purely with peanuts, which after a little while she accepted again from me. My friendship with her was more important than the experiment, and perhaps we could begin afresh the following year.
One chilly morning in September she tapped, of her own accord, four times on the window frame, and then I rewarded her with a nut. But afterwards, when I tried to give her a number, she gave no reaction. The next morning I tapped five times for her. She swooped towards me, threatening, then scolded me from the window ledge for a long time.
1938
“Bird Cottage,” I say to Theo McIver. “That’s what I’ll call it.”
“There are certainly plenty of birds,” he says. We’re in the sitting room, which is neither too big nor too small—there’s enough space for a table and four chairs, a sofa in front of the fireplace, and a piano. The bookcases can be put against the wall on the kitchen side. Theo has just shown me the bedroom, which looks out onto the orchard. The bathroom has to be retiled, but the bath—with its claw feet—is in good condition. There is a little terrace in front of the kitchen. The garden that surrounds the house is sufficiently large. The hedge has to be trimmed, the grass must be mown, the trees are all in good condition. There is enough space for a vegetable garden, although I don’t
know if that’s a good idea with the birds. “My old man let things get a little run-down over the past twenty years, but that’s reflected in the price. It’ll cost you something to have renovated, but it’ll still come out cheap.” He draws his hand through his blond curls and grins.
“Neighbours?”
“Doris lives over there. She’s an old widow.” He points to the small dwelling to the left of the house. “On the other side of the lane are the Hendersons, in that little house in front of the woods. Fine people. And far enough away not to bother you. This used to be a farm; the land went all the way to that hedge over there, but my father sold that plot after my mother’s death.”
There are dark, heavy clouds above the Downs. “Would you live here?”
“No, I like living close to other people.”
“The village is ten minutes’ walk away.”
“Exactly.” He gives me a triumphant look.
“Well, you’ll never sell a house like that.”
He laughs. “This house doesn’t need my help to sell it. Everyone’s keen to live here and the price of land goes up each year. There was a man here yesterday, looking for a holiday cottage. He’s a serious buyer, but I’d rather sell it to someone who’ll make it their home.”
We walk back with each other along Lewes Road to South Street. Just before we reach the crossroads where he has his grocer’s shop, it begins to pour. He opens the door, the bell tinkles. “Would you like a cuppa?”
“Yes please.” I wipe the drops of rain from my forehead and follow him through the little shop to the space behind the counter.
“Mary, this is Gwendolen. She’s interested in Dad’s house. Gwendolen, this is Mary, my wife.”
A young woman, with exactly the same kind of curls as Theo, gives my hand a gentle shake. “Awful weather, isn’t it? I was hoping you’d make it back in time.” She stands up and I see her belly.
“Your first?”
Theo gives a proud nod. “Wonderful, eh? You’re not married?” He gives me a curious look, then is shocked at his own question. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”