Bird Cottage

by Eva Meijer

  “You’re allowed to ask. The right moment didn’t come along. Things turned out differently.”

  “You’re still young.”

  I brush the comment aside with a wave of my hand. We both know I’m no longer young.

  Mary places a strong cup of tea in front of me and a small jug of milk. She turns the radio down.

  I take a lump of sugar from the bowl. “Are things going well with your business?”

  “So-so. People are short of money, because of the slump. That’s why we need to sell the house quickly.” He asks if I can tell him my decision this week, so that he’ll know if he has to opt for the other buyer. I promise to contact him swiftly. They wave goodbye to me, hand in hand, like children.

  The next morning I go to the bank. I wait behind a man in dirty trousers. He pours coins onto the counter out of a paper bag and speaks in a dialect I don’t recognise. He winks at me as he leaves.

  “How may I help you?” The man behind the counter has a beaky nose and greasy hair.

  “I’d like to withdraw the money from my savings account.” I place the savings book on the counter.

  He picks it up, gives it a brief glance, then lays it down again. “I will need Mr Howard’s signature.”

  “There is no Mr Howard.” I smile.

  He turns the book towards me. “The account was opened by Newman Howard. So I need his signature.”

  “My father passed away last year.”

  “You will have to prove that. You need to ask for a death certificate, fill in these forms, and then return them to us. The process will take about six weeks.”

  “I don’t have that much time.” I tap my fingers on the counter.

  He shrugs.

  “Please.” The man doesn’t answer. I clench my fists, release them. “May I speak to the manager?”

  “He is not available.”

  “Then I’ll wait.” I sit down on a hard wooden chair by the window. The man walks away, then returns and serves the old man who was in the queue behind me.

  I think about the house, which is exactly right, and then about my father.

  After half an hour a small man fetches me. He takes me to his office, which is blue with smoke. The desk is piled high with papers. I explain the problem.

  “Why do you wish to buy this house so much?” He lights a cigar.

  I tell him that I plan to study birds. “The house is perfect for that. I already saw so many birds there. It’s an excellent location. I could start my research immediately.”

  “I was a keen bird-watcher too, when I was young. But my wife won’t allow it now. Theatre-going, that’s what she likes. And you’ll understand the importance of compromise.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “I won’t make any promises. But if you return tomorrow with the certificate, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That would be wonderful.” I thank him effusively.

  As I leave I smile at the man at the counter, who pretends not to see me.

  * * *

  Theo and one of his friends carry the sofa indoors and plump themselves down on it. “Phew,” Theo says. “Now for a cup of tea.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I search in a packing box for tea, sugar and then cups. The house is cleaner than I remembered. But it’s musty, dusty, a little too warm.

  “I don’t have any milk,” I call into the room. It feels good, using my voice.

  “Doesn’t matter,” they call back in chorus. I put the kettle on, and in the meantime empty one of the boxes. I realise I’m humming.

  It’s only when they’ve left that I notice the smell of the wooden floor—the dust sticks to my fingers. I take the clothes out of my suitcase, and then unpack the boxes with all the kitchen things. On the table that belonged to Theo’s father I place my drawing paper, my books. I put the music stand in a corner by the window, where the light enters. I can keep an eye on the back garden from there: the small apple tree, the medlar, the large apple tree, the hedge.

  I take my notebook out of doors to map my surroundings. First I make a sketch of the back garden, then the pear tree, its trunk entwined with ivy, the hazel tree and the oak that grows on the east side. To the west there is an apple tree, a currant bush, an elder and a bird cherry. In front of the house, on the side that faces the road, there’s a little terrace, in an open space with two lawns, a may tree and a pergola. That’s the best place for the bird table and the bird bath. By the hedge—overgrown with ivy—is the last of the apple trees, beside a plum and a small pear tree. There’s enough fruit, at any rate, for a variety of birds. Around the garden are all kinds of hedges. It’s the end of February. The experiment has begun.

  The wind is still cold. I go inside to put on my coat and come back with a chair. I set it down on the terrace—it wobbles a little as I sit, the legs slipping on the round cobbles. There’s a Great Tit in the hedge to my left, and a little later I see another one, or the same one, I’m not really sure—both have a broad stripe on their chests, so both are males. In the apple tree on the east side of the garden there are Magpies, in the plum tree a Wood Pigeon. There’s rustling in the hedge, and a rainbow in the spider’s web below the windowsill.

  “Gwen?” Theo is at the gate. He grins and holds up a shopping bag. “Mary’s sent me with some supplies. Because the shops are shut. We can’t have you drinking tea without milk.”

  “How kind.” I walk to the gate, avoiding the boggy patch, and take the bag.

  He looks at my notebook. “What are you doing?”

  I show him my sketch. “I’m going to study the birds who live here.” He looks at the uneven circles that represent the trees. “My father was a bird lover too. In the spring we always took in a few baby Tits and Blackbirds who’d fallen from their nests or had been caught by cats.”

  He whistles. “That’s a good idea. There are plenty of birds here and they’re as bold as brass. There was a Great Tit, when Dad lived here, who’d fly right into the kitchen. But how will you research them?”

  “I’m not sure yet. At any rate I want to win their trust. There’s been a lot of research recently on bird intelligence, but in laboratories, and birds behave differently in captivity. It makes them nervous.” A Pigeon lands in the apple tree. “I want to find out how they behave when they’re free. And make a proper record of their song.” I hope I can succeed—my ear is better trained now, but they sing so swiftly. And I have no idea if there’ll be enough birds here for a serious study.

  “Trust comes through the belly, for most animals.” He pats his own belly, perhaps to show that he’s an animal too, or simply to illustrate his point.

  I ask him to thank Mary for me. In the kitchen I examine the contents of the bag: milk, bread, cheese, apples, potatoes, butter. I crumble a crust of bread onto a plate and add a few knobs of butter. I put the plate on the broad windowsill at the front of the house and sit down by the other side of the window. A Great Tit arrives almost immediately, and then another—so there were two of them. Then the Magpies come, screeching loudly, driving off the Great Tits. I wave my arm, but that startles all the birds. I’ll have to think up a solution. And I need nesting boxes. Perhaps I can build some myself, or make them from old boxes and containers. One of the Great Tits returns. He scours the plate for the last crumbs, staying perched on the windowsill when he has finished. He’s looking at me with his bright little eyes. “Hallo,” I say.

  * * *

  A small black head, a mask that comes over the eyes, even blacker gleaming bead-eyes. White cheeks, black again beneath them, a little bib that turns into a stripe on the chest, running all the way down. A small yellow body, blackish-grey feet, wings that are black and blue, or greenish, or yellowish, depending on the light that falls on them—Thomas paints this kind of thing so well. A blue-white-black tail. In flight the underside of the wings is light grey, bluish grey, the tail edged with a white streak. The upper part of the back is yellowy green; the wings beneath are blue w
ith white flashes; sometimes the yellow of the body is visible.

  I’m sitting with my note pad in the shade of the oak tree. The Great Tit in the hedge keeps repeating the same little tune. The postman swings the gate open. “Morning, Miss Howard,” he says at the top of his voice, to bridge the distance between us. “I’ve got a parcel for you.”

  The Great Tit is long gone.

  “In future, could you please put all parcels in the post-box, at the top of the path?”

  He looks offended. “Mr McIver used to be ever so pleased with my services. You see, if I put them in the post-box, they can get stolen or damaged by young rascals. I wouldn’t advise it, but if you don’t want the personal touch, that’s up to you. The customer is always right.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s because of the birds. I’m trying to win their trust.” I show him my little book of notes and drawings, and try to explain what the plan is. He doesn’t think much of this, but does seem to appreciate my taking the trouble to explain.

  “So the post-box it is then. But wouldn’t you like me to show when I’ve called? I can make very subtle signals.” He wiggles his fingers a little, a subtle signal.

  “No, thanks. But thank you for your understanding. And I’ll put a sign on the post-box and by the path.”

  When he has left I make the signboards—paint on wood—two for the garden gates, one for the post-box and one for the path. That should be sufficient. When they’re dry I hang them up with wire, the last one at the top of the path.

  “So you’re not in the mood for visitors any more?” Theo gives me a brown paper bag. “Mary has been baking bread, far too much for us.” He is panting a little because of the uphill climb.

  “I do like visitors, but the birds aren’t so keen.”

  “Ah, they’re henpecking you already.”

  “You’re an exception, of course. You’re always welcome. But maybe you could be a little quieter. Walk quietly. Don’t call out. Perhaps they’ll get used to you then.”

  He laughs. “Oh dear, I mustn’t laugh either, of course.” He laughs even louder as he walks away and I have to laugh too, in spite of myself.

  I put the bread on the kitchen table and fill the kettle. Outside there is a piercing cheeping sound. One of the Blue Tits is perched in front of the window, looking at me. She’s cheeping so loudly I can hear her through the glass. I go out and find her waiting by the door. She flies to the hedge by the old oak tree, then back to me, to the oak and again to me. I quicken my pace. At the oak I see her mate. He also seems distressed, flying swiftly back and forth over the hedge. The female swoops down. I kneel, see fragments of the nest, with its twelve eggs, spread across the ground beneath the nest box. The box is still intact, so I imagine that a cat has clawed the nest out—that means that I’ll have to ensure that the boxes are more than six inches deep. I open the little box and put the nesting material back inside—first the shredded carton, then the moss and the horsehair. I carefully replace all the eggs, putting them against the back of the box so they’re firmly positioned. When I’ve finished, the female immediately flies into the box and shifts the eggs to the centre. The male flies off, but quickly returns with an earwig in its beak. I stay watching them a moment, but the birds now ignore me. My fingers are tingling. They asked for help. I can hardly believe this happened.

  * * *

  Mown grass, low light, late summer; after some weeks of heat and no wind, a breeze is blowing. The air smells of autumn. I make a list of all the nests in the garden and write down who used which nest over the past year—the Blackbirds in the ivy, the Sparrows in the hedge (two pairs), the Great Tits in various trees. I walk along, checking everything, to make sure that nothing has been forgotten. I’ve given the regular birds their own names—I often mix them up still, but if they stay in one place for long enough, I can tell who is who. Their markings and colours are all a little different and each has its own way of moving, of reacting. Some birds are strident, and brisk in their movements, others almost merge into the background. I’m also beginning to recognise them by their song, both from their tunes and their voices. In London I perceived them as a group—there was an old Great Tit in the park whom I did recognise, and in the tree by Thomas’s boat there was a pair we kept an eye on, but I had no idea that they differed so much from each other. Seeing requires time. In London there were too many distractions.

  Theo has made a bird table for me, and every morning around half past six, when the day is still wet with dew, I put out a plate of food for them. Billy, a somewhat older male Great Tit, always comes first. He’s quite bold, almost eating out of my hand already. He flies right up to my hand, takes a quick peck, then is off again, flying elsewhere. His wife is far shyer; I’ve called her Greenie, because the feathers on her back are much greener than those of the other birds. She does come to me, but only if Billy is there, and she flies off the moment I move. Birds are filled with air. They have various air sacs in their bodies and their bones are hollow. Air and light and swiftness.

  I walk up the hill, past the hedge, to look for the nests there. Four brownish-grey rabbits are in the grassy field behind the house. They are quite still until they see me. Joan is getting married too. It’s as if they all kept it at bay for so many years, and now they’re grabbing their last chance. The green of the hedge, a few brown leaves, the green of the meadows. There is no end to this land; it simply merges into other land, another hill, and then into sea, always into the sea. I walk all the way to the end of the hedge, where the Henderson’s gate cuts off the path. I take the long pathway back down the other side of the hill. In the graveyard behind the house I stumble over a tree root and fall hard onto my side. My notebook slides into a puddle of water. I immediately fish it out, but the notes have all run together. I remain sitting there for a moment. Perhaps it’s a foolish idea, to study birds like this. Those scientists have studied for years, have read far more than me—perhaps I’ll miss important details, make myself a laughing stock. If I write that the Blue Tit asked me for help, they’ll accuse me of anthropomorphism, though I know for sure that it happened.

  I stand up and brush the earth off my dark-red skirt. A grey squirrel with a silvery, almost translucent tail comes out of the hedge in front of my house. He looks at me for a moment, then bobs down to the ground, scampering swiftly back into the dark branches when I move my arm. If I don’t make the attempt, I’ll never know.

  * * *

  On the shortest day of the year, at the end of the afternoon, I find two Christmas cards in the red post-box, one from my sister, sending greetings from Mother and Dudley, and one from Thea in Canada. I put them on the table. I forgot to send cards myself—I’ve been much too busy. The Great Tits have started to enter the house, something that has required many practical adjustments. I have to clean the house daily and I’ve put all my precious possessions out of their way. I’ve put blankets on the sofa, and wash them every week. But perhaps I shouldn’t use the sofa at all—I could replace it with a wooden bench with loose cushions. And the cold is getting harder to bear. During the day I leave the kitchen window and the top light in the sitting room open, so the birds can fly in and out. This afternoon I sat on the wooden chair by the window to study the types of natural food the birds choose in the winter, but even with an extra pullover and a rug across my knees I couldn’t stand it for more than two hours. In the autumn it rained into the house for weeks on end; covering the windowsill with a plastic sheet was the only way to prevent it from going rotten.

  The birds haven’t only adapted to the house, but also to me. At first they would immediately fly outside whenever I moved, but now they keep a careful eye on what my body tells them. If I move gently, they stay where they are—this is how they’ve trained me into adjusting my own movements. They still startle if there are abrupt movements or unexpected noises, such as the telephone or the doorbell. There is a particular group of about eight Great Tits who are always visiting. Such darlings. The Sparrows are bossy, annoying
characters; they drive away the other birds if they get half a chance. The Blue Tits are a little shyer than the Great Tits—they don’t often allow themselves to be seen. Blackbirds sometimes visit, but generally go about their business. Up to now the Robins have only come as far as the windowsill. Last week a large male Great Tit came to the garden. He has a missing claw, as if he caught his foot in something. I call him Tiptoe. He doesn’t ever get flustered, and this morning he came and sat on my hand a moment, while I was writing. His claws tickled. I was unable to hold my hand still for very long, so off he flew, at the first sign of movement.

  I go and sit at the piano and play a few notes. Yesterday I heard one of the Blackbirds repeat a Bach motif. The back door blows open, then slams shut. On the table the top sheets of paper are blown off. The bird music. When I go to lock the door I see a figure by the path.

  “Hallo?” No one answers. It must have been a ghost from the graveyard.

  The wind increases: trees that before were sighing are now creaking. I don’t know where all the creatures are, how they cope with this weather. I know so little. Greenie didn’t come at all yesterday. I was afraid something had happened to her, but today she was here as usual. Sometimes I have the feeling that I’ll never get a grip on it all. That I’ll remain an outsider forever.

  The house lets the wind in; there are gaps under the door, between the walls, in the window frames. We breathe with each other. The door was once a tree. I tap my fingers on the table, decide to make another cup of tea. After all, I won’t be able to sleep in this weather.

  The rose bush sweeps back and forth, from upright to almost flat on the ground. Branches swish. The bird table blows over, and the chair. The wind drowns the clatter.

  Lightning. Silence. Crack.

  I move the green chair to the window. The rain is now a constant stream of grey, blocking out the view. I can only see movement. Time is like movement; the grey gives this evening its shape. The word “evening” makes it seem that an evening is a specific thing, whereas every evening is different. Before was never like now.