Bird Cottage

by Eva Meijer

  “I was in love with him. When I was a girl. But he preferred my cousin. She was a real heartbreaker.”

  “Would you like another cuppa?” Because that always makes things better.

  I shake my head. “How are Mary and the children?”

  “Linda has a cough, and Timmy has too much energy.” He laughs. “I’ll be happy when the winter’s over and I can throw them out of the house again. Mary too.”

  While we’re talking a Sparrow lands on the windowsill, not one I know. He pecks at the dry leaves that are piled by the window frame—perhaps there are little beasties there. I tell him about Olive, that she’s taken over my father’s role in the household.

  “Until last week I didn’t even know you had a sister. It’s odd though, that they’ve stuck together like that, and you completely went your own way.”

  “Olive didn’t dare to leave.” I push the cup away from me. “And she didn’t want me to leave either. My mother used to have my dresses made too small for me, because she adored tiny waists. I always felt that I had to hold my breath.”

  Dusk covers the land. I ask him to say hallo to Mary from me, then put on my coat. The thought of Paul hovers around me, like a ghost, the presence of an absence.

  “Never say die, Gwen,” Theo says, giving me a thumbs up, a nudge in the right direction, helping me on my way.

  The wind carries me further. I walk into the darkness—the hill, the blueness that deepens around me. At home the Great Tits are already seeking out their roosting places. I take up my violin, search for something challenging, Bartok, my fingers slow, my body a rusty machine. All the music is still stored inside it, just a little further off than before.

  Loss is understanding that nothing was ever yours.

  Grief is understanding that hope has vanished, or not quite understanding it yet.

  STAR 12

  On 10th September Star perched on the armrest of the green chair with her head pointing down, a sign that she wanted to tap. I went to the window frame with her, where I tapped four times and she imitated me. The next day Dado came by, just when we wanted to begin. Dado and Star were constantly squabbling about the territory within the trees to the west of the cottage. Dado had a mate, Presto, and therefore, according to bird law, she was higher in the pecking order than Star, who had no mate at all. So Dado had the right to chase her away whenever she wanted. Dado flew at Star on the windowsill, then at me, but I would not let her intimidate me and called for Star, who immediately returned. I gave her a nut, then she flew out of the window. Half an hour later she returned for a tapping session, moving her tail restlessly back and forth, as a signal to the Great Tits in the room next door. She was afraid they would prevent her from doing her work. On the following day Star stayed out of doors. I tapped on the armrest of the garden bench, but that startled her and she flew swiftly away. Great Tits use tapping as a way to drive off other birds and Star was not used to tapping outside with me. She would always raise her head feathers when she tapped for me, to signal that the tapping was part of our experiment and that she did not wish to drive me away.

  In the last week of September the Great Tits began to tear paper again and to tap against the lampshade in the sitting room, something that really distracted Star. Our sessions grew shorter and were often interrupted. Moreover she was still bothered by Dado, as well as by the Nameless Intruder who had returned to the garden again. One afternoon Monocle came to take a look at what we were doing. Star found her presence annoying and tapped four rather than five. I gave Monocle a peanut to encourage her to fly out of the house, which is exactly what happened. Star immediately wanted to continue with the tapping. Previously it had made her jealous if I gave another bird a nut before she received her own, but now the tapping itself had become important for her. That autumn she displayed no interest in the male birds and during the counting was much more concentrated than before. She now wanted to count whenever we saw each other.

  1949

  Silver light, sun through the mist. The field doesn’t end, it becomes soft grey then turns into sky. The birds were late this morning: at half past seven Tessa was still in her roosting box. The chill envelopes my skin. I’m shivering. Yesterday I knew for certain that it would be misty today. Yet only a few months ago the birds could still surprise me—because, for example, they were so intently searching for food, then on the next day rainy weather would set in for three weeks. Or they’d stick close to the house one morning, and later there’d be a storm. Last week, however, I realised it was suddenly going to turn hot. Perhaps I can read the weather better now because I’ve lived longer here, but I think I’ve learned this skill from the birds. Or I can see it in their behaviour, without exactly knowing how.

  At the bird table Star comes and perches on my shoulder. I give her a peanut from my apron pocket. I want her to come inside soon, to be photographed. But all Great Tits are afraid of strangers. I’ve told the photographer that I can’t make any promises.

  I put some more food on the bird table to tempt them—bread, bacon, cheese, raisins.

  “Hallo!” It’s Roger, from the well-known journal British Birds, with his camera tucked beneath his brown herringbone coat. His dark eyebrows are wet with mist.

  “I thought Joseph would be coming too.”

  “He’ll be here later. His train was delayed. And I didn’t want to make you wait.” He smiles his lopsided smile. “And mornings are better for the birdies, right?”

  The birdies. I smile, trying not to let my irritation show. Joseph is quite different, not so false.

  “Would you like tea? Do sit.” I gesture towards the table.

  He wipes the chair with his hand before sitting. “I’ve had a word with the editorial team. We’ve had excellent responses to the piece you sent to us about birdsong. We’d like to make the following proposal: we’ll hold the interview today, and that will appear in next week’s issue; and then you’ll have a series of eight articles to follow. Then, if both sides are satisfied, we could extend the agreement.”

  I put a cup of tea down for him. This is for the birds, I’m doing this for the birds, I mustn’t spoil things by getting irritated.

  “That seems a very good idea.” Another smile, and that’s quite enough.

  We discuss deadlines and my fee, and then Joseph arrives, panting, face flushed, hair damp against his head.

  “Sorry, I got lost, because of the fog. I ended up behind your house, at your neighbour’s, and she brought me to the top of your path as I was so disorientated. Left, right, couldn’t tell the difference any more. Oh good, a cup of tea. Nice to see you, Gwendolen. Excellent article on variation in birdsong. We were all so impressed. Sorry, I’m babbling. But phew am I glad to be here!”

  Bluebeard flies in and straight out again at the sight of my guests.

  The first questions are about the Great Tits. I explain that after a few weeks they realised I wouldn’t harm them, and then they came into the house of their own accord. Joseph is humming, making notes. “But what exactly brought you here?” He brushes a lock of hair from his eyes.

  “Is that important?”

  “Our readers will be curious to know.”

  “I’ve always had an interest in birds. My father used to rescue baby birds that had fallen from their nests, and bring them home with him. We even had a tame Crow once.” Charles. Could he still be alive, perhaps?

  Joseph continues his questions, and brick by brick my answers build a wall around me, all neatly mortared. He has his own camera ready, and when Star lands on my shoulder, snaps a photo.

  “Look, one of the Tits,” Roger cries out, waving his arm around, at which Star swiftly flies away.

  “I think we’re almost done now,” I say.

  Roger stands. He walks across to my bed, examines the roost boxes on the picture rail above it, takes a photo of them. My bedroom, their bedroom. I look at Joseph. He shrugs. Roger proceeds through the whole house like this. Indignation flushes through my body, li
ke a fever.

  “He’s driving them all away.”

  “I’ll come alone some time. He doesn’t realise what he’s doing.” He gives me a pat on the shoulder. “Anyway, we should go now. I have two more interviews today. Roger?” He calls into the passage. “Roger?”

  The passage is empty. He’s at the kitchen sink, camera at the ready like a gun. Bertie is on the curtain rod, stiff with shock.

  “It’s all right, Bertie,” I say. “He’ll soon be gone.” I position myself between Roger and the bird. “He is afraid of you.” Bertie is very attached to me. He’s a timid little bird with a penetrating gaze.

  “Hang on. I’ve almost got him. I just need to get a little closer.”

  “No. That’s enough now.”

  He steps sideways, past me, sticks his camera in the air, stumbles on a chair leg, and falls right over the chair with his clumsy body. Bertie cheeps, recoils even further, steps off the rail, startles, and gets stuck between the curtain rod and the wall.

  “Are you happy now?” I ask quietly, trying not to make things worse. I push him aside and go and fetch the kitchen steps from the hall cupboard. Stay where you are, little one, otherwise you’ll break something. “Get that man out of here,” I tell Joseph.

  I climb up the steps and take hold of Bertie, who fortunately does not resist. “Come on then, little chap.” His wings are folded round his body. I cup it with my left hand, while with my right I feel under the curtain rod to see where he’s caught and then I push him up. The trick is to shape your hands into a little hollow around the bird’s body, but without any force or pressure; if birds know they can’t move they give in, and if they can’t sense any force they don’t resist. Roger is taking photos. I come down from the steps and check Bertie’s feet—nothing seems to be broken—and the wings are whole too. His heart is beating very quickly and he’s making a soft little peeping noise that I’ve never heard him make before. I put him inside a box. He needs time to recover.

  “Off with you,” I tell Roger. “And I want to see the photos before publication.”

  “Right you are, Gwen,” Joseph says. He gives a swallow and fumbles at his jacket.

  Trembling, I open the door for them. This really is the last time, the very last time, that I’ll allow strangers to visit. Theo, Mary, Garth, no one else will ever come inside again.

  The telephone rings. I walk to the sitting room. There are no birds in sight.

  “It’s Garth. How was it, Gwen?”

  “Awful. Joseph is nice enough, but Roger—what a conceited pig.” I tell Garth about him taking Bertie’s photo and about the fall.

  Garth gives a hesitant laugh. “Sorry,” he says. “I realise it’s very unpleasant for you, and particularly for the birds, but I can really picture it.” He laughs louder. “And you just shoving him aside.”

  I laugh too, in spite of myself. That silly fool.

  When I hang up the house is silent—too silent. I call Star, and then Baldhead, but they don’t come. It was a mistake to invite these people here. Vanity. That interest in my personal life, what use is that to the birds? I call Star again. But I do want people to learn about birds, so they can understand them better, treat them better. For years now the number of garden birds has been declining. Some species have almost vanished because people don’t lay out their gardens correctly. And the ideas people have about birds are often wrong. But perhaps I’m deceiving myself. Perhaps the birds really don’t get anything from this at all.

  * * *

  Rosy skies, red skies. I put a plateful of food on the bird table and go indoors to fetch a cardigan—it’s still cold in the mornings. By the time I return they’re already flying back and forth. They’re all here: Bluebeard, Monocle, Baldhead, Star, Tinky, Tipsy, the young birds, Teaser and Peetur from the last brood, and over there Monocle and Tinky’s youngsters, who have only just fledged. I drink my tea sitting on the bench. Tinky perches by me a moment, the fledglings fly right over my head and back, and then do the same again. Tinky sings a few notes to Monocle, who ignores him because she’s busy eating.

  “Hullo!” The plumber, a skinny chap of around fifty, in blue overalls, has arrived early. I take him to the leaking tap in the kitchen. He is calm, doesn’t move more than is necessary; his voice is soft and even—the birds hardly seem to notice him at all.

  When he comes into the sitting room for a cup of tea, the Great Tits are perched by me.

  “They’re so tame! They can’t be wild birds, surely? Perhaps you’ve secretly hatched them yourself!” He lifts up his cap a moment and scratches his bald head.

  “They know that there’s no need to be frightened of me.” Tipsy lands on my shoulder but flies off when the plumber moves his arm.

  “This is really how it should always be.”

  “But it’s a lot of work.” I point at the newspapers protecting the sofa, the curtains that the birds have pecked to shreds, the pock-marks in the piano. “I spend the whole day cleaning.”

  “Perhaps they needn’t live indoors, then, but it’s wonderful to see this harmony.” He gives the table a little pat, good table, and stands up to get on with his job.

  I nod. Still. It’s not only that it’s so time-consuming: it’s impossible not to get attached to individual birds and they don’t live very long, as a rule.

  Through the window I can see Tinky and Monocle on the bird table together. He goes out of his way to please her, using his whole repertoire of dances, glances, gestures and song. She does pay some attention, but eventually turns away from him. When he flies into her field of vision again, she resolutely flies off in the other direction.

  I take the faded red tea towel off the typewriter. Even before I manage to roll the paper into the machine, Baldhead is on the keys. Star comes and perches on my hand. “Come on now, off with you.” I gently shake my hand—I don’t want to really startle her. Star flies up, then keeps an eye on me from the table. Baldhead briefly flies up too, then lands on exactly the same spot. I click my tongue at him to drive him away before he messes the keys. He gives a little jump, lands on the table, looks at me for a moment with his head cocked, then flies out through the window. Star follows his example.

  This latest article tells the story of Baldhead’s first mating, with Jane and with Grey. Jane and Grey fought for weeks over the large nest box on the apple tree in the orchard, till they eventually began to build a nest there together, for reasons that weren’t clear to me at all. I’d never seen that happen before and would never do so again. Jane’s mate had died that winter and Grey had no mate at all. Baldhead, in those days a young and powerful Great Tit, was keen to win Jane and Grey’s territory, and their nest box. He courted both ladies, and Baldhead and Jane became a pair. Jane could sing beautifully, better than many a male—people often think that only males sing well, but that’s a prejudice: females also sing, and there is an enormous variation between them. Perhaps that was why Baldhead chose Jane.

  Grey didn’t forsake the territory, however, and all that summer she followed Jane through the orchard like a shadow. Jane and Baldhead didn’t at first appear to find her presence annoying. But when the first eggs were laid, Jane banished Grey from the nest box. Within a few days Grey had built her own nest, in a box not far from Jane’s, a very lovely nest woven with coloured threads from my carpets. Baldhead came to visit her in her new nest and for a while the three of them lived in harmony. Baldhead visited both nests while the females were brooding, treating them exactly alike. They used the same mannerisms to beg for food: making little cries, like nestlings, and quivering their wings.

  Jane’s eggs hatched at the start of May. Now Baldhead completely lost interest in Grey and her nest. A few days later, when Grey’s own eggs had also hatched, she eagerly flew to Jane’s nest box, where Jane and Baldhead completely ignored her. In the days that followed she increasingly attempted to catch Baldhead’s attention, making longer and longer sobbing notes—it sounded like a baby crying. Halfway through May she came ba
ck for the first time to fetch cheese from me, and in the days that followed I helped her to feed her nestlings. If she caught sight of Jane or Baldhead she’d call to them. They continued to ignore her. Grey fed her babies alone, and with my help she had more than enough food for them. But she herself hardly ate anything.

  A few days later she didn’t come to the bird table in the morning. I found her on the ground by the tree where Jane and Baldhead’s nest box was. Whenever they flew by with food for their youngsters, she tried to attract their attention. Her cry was so plaintive and her movements so panicky that it upset me to watch her. She seemed to have entirely forgotten her nestlings. That afternoon she died, from exhaustion and sorrow. Her children died a few hours later.

  I re-read what I’ve written. Although most of the reactions to my earlier articles were positive, I also received some critical letters. People think that I’ve given the birds human characteristics. They don’t understand that such characteristics really aren’t just human. Birds also quarrel, feel love and experience sorrow. I only write what I see. Perhaps I should take out the words about Grey dying of sorrow and about her panicky movements. Agitated, unusual, extremely intense—there’s not a single word that is as panicky as panicky. Is it panicky? I think of the panic that I myself would feel—is panic perhaps too large a word for such a little creature? Yet it does best describe the behaviour I observed. I stand, take a walk round the table. Baldhead comes and perches on the typewriter. “Come on now. Off with you.” I take the paper out and drape a tea towel over the machine. “What do you think, Baldhead? Are you thinking anything at all?” He flies out of the window, across the hedge and out of the garden, without a backward glance.

  * * *

  The day after the sixth article has been published, I receive a telephone call from Roger. “Gwen, we’d like to propose something.”