Bird Cottage

by Eva Meijer

  Peetur pecks at my sock. I try to shake him off my foot. “Yes?”

  “How would you feel about writing a book?” His voice sounds solemn. I twiddle my toes, but that has no effect, so I lift up my foot and give little kicks at the air.

  “I don’t believe I have the time for that.” Teaser lands next to Peetur and hops onto my other foot. Now both of them are pecking—perhaps it’s the wool that attracts them. I push them off with my hand. Tomorrow I’ll go and buy them some mealworms.

  “We’ll give you an advance.”

  I rub one foot against the other—they fly up, then land again. “Off,” I say sternly.

  “This is your chance to make your research known. It would present birds in a completely different light. And you yourself can choose what to write about.”

  I push the Great Tits off my foot. This time Teaser stays away, but Peetur is very persistent. “I’ll give it some thought.” Writing already costs so much time. I really can’t see how I could make a whole book about this. On the other hand, I could then go more deeply into their life stories and describe all their relationships. I hang up, push Peetur off my foot. “Come on. Off with you.” He startles and I immediately feel guilty. And really there’s nothing wrong with him pecking a few threads of wool from that sock. “Come on then,” I say to him. He lingers at the window a while. When I sit down at the table with my sketchbook he perches on my foot again, with a very satisfied expression on his face. He picks a thread loose and takes it into his roosting box. He immediately comes back for another one.

  And so he contentedly continues. I get hold of my notebook to jot down a few thoughts. Peetur has now set his heart on a red thread at the top of my sock. Birds think by doing, but perhaps that’s what we all do.

  * * *

  I re-read the fragments I’ve written. Not everything is suitable for a book. But the birds’ biographies must definitely be included. And the descriptions of their play, their song, their relationships and encounters. I find my notebooks and all the things I’ve noted. I don’t know how interested people will be in knowing who likes cheese and who doesn’t, or how many times a day Star flies in and out. Teaser perches on my hand, then flutters up to my head. It doesn’t matter what people want. I have to do justice to their lives and their world.

  A soft tap. “Hallo, Gwen.” Theo puts his head round the door, then slowly opens it.

  “Good morning.”

  “Have you discovered anything else of interest?” He comes and stands by the table.

  “They’ve asked me to write a book.” I point at the chair, but he doesn’t sit down.

  “Well, that’s wonderful!”

  “What’s the matter?” I try not to sound irritated, even though this is the second time I’ve been disturbed today.

  “Have you seen it?” He’s never usually as tentative as this.

  “Seen what?”

  He puts a newspaper down in front of me. “Bird Woman Lands in Ditchling.” Next to the headline there’s a cartoon of a witch-like creature with a huge beaky nose, embellished with a couple of warts.

  “Is that meant to be me?”

  He nods, but daren’t look me in the eye. I laugh. “And what do they say about me?”

  He laughs too, clearly relieved. “That you’re carrying out so-called research but that you have no scientific background and the stories you write are simply invented.”

  “The first charge is true. I’ll never deny that. The second is false and anyone can check the facts.” A few weeks ago I was interviewed by a reporter from a bird magazine. I bought cake for him at Theo’s. He stayed a long time and bombarded me with questions. I thought he was genuinely interested in my way of life, until I read the article. He wrote that I thought I could converse with birds. I hadn’t said that at all. I just said that they often understand my meaning from the tone of my voice, and that they can also learn to recognise words.

  “They’re attacking that journal too.” His voice sounds a little hoarse. Perhaps he hasn’t slept well.

  “I know where these ideas come from and I believe Roger will put paid to them.” I pick up the newspaper and take another look at the drawing. “Quite a good likeness, really.” Tinky perches on the piano.

  “Do you ever play now?”

  I follow his gaze. “Sometimes. The piano oftener than the violin, strangely. They never wanted me to play the piano when I was young, because I wasn’t truly proficient. They didn’t want to listen to the scales. I could practise the violin in my bedroom, upstairs, and that bothered them less. My sister was a very good piano player.” I’ve heard nothing from Olive for some time now. I keep meaning to write to her. There are always things that take precedence.

  “Why did you actually come here?”

  Tinky flies up. He always hesitates a moment before taking off.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, then of course you don’t have to.”

  Darky, the old male Blackbird who always sings long before sunrise, perches on the windowsill.

  “I found the city oppressive. The people.” I whistle at Darky. He tilts his head to one side, but then something startles him and he flies out. I also startle a little—I often see what they see.

  Theo looks questioningly at me.

  I smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?” I walk to the kitchen, where Peetur is perched on the tap. He likes to put his beak in the running water—I don’t know if he’s drinking or playing, something of both, it seems. I turn on the tap for him.

  STAR 13

  The Intruder finally left the garden at the end of October, and Monocle lost her interest in tapping—her mate Tinky occupied most of her attention. The greatest nuisance at that time was Drummer, whom I’d so named for good reasons—he hammered away all day long, much to Star’s displeasure: she found it too distracting. Perhaps Drummer thought that Star’s tapping was her way of communicating with him. He always came when we were busy and would tap on the wood, like Star, but without any kind of structure in his tapping. Once or twice I tried to encourage him to imitate my taps, but he never grasped the intention. One morning Drummer chased Star away, and then Joker took her place. I tapped three times for her, saying “Tap three”. I repeated this four times, and then she did give three taps. That was the only time she copied me like that. The following time I tried to tap with her, she swiftly flew into another room.

  The next day I called Star, who came to the windowsill. I gave her three taps and then Drummer appeared. He immediately started tapping. Star flew at him and chased him out of the window. Then Drummer came back and drove Star away. It had nothing to do with the peanuts, but was all to do with the tapping and my attention. An hour later Star returned, with Drummer in her wake. Joker also came to the windowsill and started tapping. Drummer chased Joker off, who then went after Star. Then the other Tits grew restless and Drummer flew into the room next door to drive them away.

  In the following days Star would arrive very early, so we could tap together before the others appeared. In the course of the morning Drummer would turn up, then Joker would come in the afternoon. But Star watched out for moments when the others were out of sight, keeping a careful lookout for any opportunity.

  1952

  “Ta-da!” Joseph is holding a package aloft.

  “Come in.” I put down the bucket of soapy water and wipe my hand on my skirt.

  He follows me into the sitting room. “The second impression. After one week.” He hands me the parcel, then delves into his bag. First a book emerges, then a pair of socks, and then a bottle of champagne. He puts the bottle on the table and pushes the rest back into the bag.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little early for this?”

  “It’s never too early for a celebration. Come on, Gwendolen, or may I say Len now?”

  He presses the bottle into my hands and comes into the kitchen with me. “I’ve had another three translation requests: from Germany, the Netherlands and Spain.”

 
; “Really?”

  He helps himself to a glass and gives me a triumphant look. “Cheers!” He clinks his glass against mine.

  “Sshh. Not so loud.”

  “Well, the birds will gain from this too. Your book is certainly going to make people think. How’s the sequel going?” He puts his glass back down on the table. Another rap.

  It took me years to write the first book. “Steadily. I’m making notes for it, but the birds demand a lot of time.”

  “There’s no rush. It’s just that you’ve caught people’s attention at the moment, so it would be marvellous if you could have your first draft ready by the end of this year.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I don’t know if I want to write another book. I have enough material, enough ideas. But it’s so difficult to explain properly what I mean. People are so picky, they think the research is pointless, say I’m imagining things. Konrad Lorenz’s book, in which he describes how he lives with all kinds of animals, is treated far more seriously than mine, probably because he has proper qualifications, writes scientific articles, is a man. Yet his observations are less original than mine. Moreover, the birds have freely chosen to live with me, whereas Lorenz rears his and so influences their behaviour. The basic principles are utterly different.

  Broomstick flies in. He is the only Robin who regularly comes inside the house: last year a pair came twice to take a look; and the second summer I lived here there was a Robin who would often perch on the windowsill. Robins are far more self-sufficient than Great Tits. Perhaps my critics are right—I could simply be making it all up and I don’t know for sure whether I’m interpreting everything correctly. I never know for sure. But I also think that other scientists don’t know for sure either. In a controlled environment you still have to interpret the facts; you always start out with specific hypotheses. Moreover, even with regard to people, you can’t ever really be sure. For example, I don’t know what Joseph is thinking now. I think he thinks I’m attractive, but he’ll never dare to tell me.

  I take a sip of champagne, follow Broomstick with my eyes. Joseph sits down at the table. “Aren’t you ever lonely?”

  “No. Are you?”

  He laughs. “You’ve got the birds. But don’t you ever long for company?”

  “Well, you’re here now.” Birds are excellent housemates. Demanding, but they give a great deal as well.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “That’s Broomstick.” Broomstick has perched on the handle of my broom. “Robins hardly ever come indoors. He’s an exception.”

  “I can see how he acquired his name.” Joseph sits down at the piano and plays a folk song, driving Broomstick off the broom handle again. I sit still and drink. Busby, the cheeky male Blackbird, comes to take a look. Star flies onto the windowsill, then away again.

  “I’m very grateful to all of you,” I say when he stands. “Especially you. For all your dedication.”

  “Len, we’re awfully pleased with you. And I’ve got something else here.” He puts a bag on the table. “Letters from your readers.” He shakes them out of the bag.

  “Do I have to read all of those?” I pick up a letter from the pile and open the envelope. It’s quite a story, three pages long. “Dear Miss Howard, your marvellous book describes something so familiar to me. I have the sensation that we know each other well, that we’re old acquaintances.” I return it to its envelope.

  “That’s up to you.”

  Tipsy perches on the table, his head cocked, and starts to peck at the envelope. “He’s already shredded two letters from the taxman this week.”

  He laughs. “You’re quite something, Len. Listen. There’s a way we could attract even more attention to the book. Interviews. Readings. Could you do something like that?”

  “Roger told you to ask me, didn’t he?”

  “But it is a good idea, Len. We only want the best for you. For you and your work.” He looks at me pleadingly, crinkling his brown puppy-dog eyes.

  “Sorry. That’s not something I could do.”

  “Think it over.” He gestures towards the pile of letters, where four Great Tits are now busily pecking. “It could help the birds.”

  When he leaves I walk part of the way with him. There’s a Guinea Fowl in one of the gardens, a living statue. Three of the neighbouring farmhouses have stood empty since the war. They’re rebuilding the world now, but not here. Joseph is shivering, in spite of the heat. “Goodness, Gwen, how can you stand it here?”

  A field with Greylag Geese. I can smell his jacket beside me, the damp wool, once the coat of another creature. “You’re always welcome,” I tell him.

  On the way back I see our footsteps in the soil, preserved for one night at least.

  I sit in the old brown chair by the window until it is dark. The fabric on the armrests is wearing through; the threads beneath are visible, the veins. I haven’t seen Monocle for a few days—that often happens, but she’s getting older now, and I feel uneasy about it. Birds can simply vanish, in an instant. We always think there’s a goal, a reason, that somehow or another everything is for the best, that there’s some kind of point. But most lives are little more than an accumulation of chance happenings, moments within the great nothingness.

  I walk to the kitchen, past the cardboard boxes where the Great Tits roost—packaging for sugar or grain; people throw such things away when they’re perfect for little birds—and I pour myself a glass of champagne. The windows are propped open. The house hasn’t yet cooled down. Although the birds were restless, the storm hasn’t broken. I wipe the perspiration from my forehead, skin across skin. Slowly the seasons here have lodged inside my body; I move with everything that returns: spider’s webs in the hedge, frost flowers on the windowpanes, snowdrops, light till the evening’s end. Just as once upon a time music also possessed my body. The violin stands in a corner, a relic of a former life. Last year I did go and listen to the orchestra again. Stockdale was as red in the face as ever, but thinner. He seemed smaller. He told me he’d seen my book in a shop somewhere, but didn’t ask how I was. I couldn’t enjoy the music because suddenly I deeply missed performing. Billie was no longer playing in the orchestra. Nobody knew what she was doing now.

  Outside the air feels fresher, driving the heat away. I lay a cushion onto the garden bench. The sky is clear. The newspaper said that there’d be falling stars tonight. I’ve nothing to wish for, yet I still scan the night sky. I take a sip of champagne, but don’t enjoy it.

  Clouds pass across the moon, turning the pale white birches into ghosts. In the distance an Owl cries; perhaps it’s the Tawny Owl I saw a week ago.

  In the morning Star will once again be the first to visit. Her fledglings have flown the nest. She has more free time now and comes to see me more frequently. It’s like this each year, and each year it’s just a little different. I shouldn’t ask myself whether what I’m doing is useful, or whether it’s enough. The birds show me that time is not the straight line that humans make of it. Things don’t come to an end, they just change form. A feeling becomes a thought, a thought an action, an action a thought, a thought a feeling. The first feeling returns, traces lines through the new one. The first thought sleeps a while, then crops up again later. This is how times intermingle; this is how we exist in different moments all at once.

  In bed my heart beats too swiftly. The alcohol traces lines through my body, from my hands to my head to my feet, an unstructured network, nerves. The sheet is cool for only a moment. When sleep comes, I go to the place where memories dwell when we don’t think of them.

  * * *

  In late summer Julian Huxley, the biologist, visits me. He wants to ask some questions about my investigation and is curious about my house. He has brought a student with him, a lanky young man with a thin little moustache above his harelip. He makes notes with his fountain pen in a large notebook and rustles the pages so much that in one fell swoop he drives all the Great Tits away. I ignore him until he topples his teacup over
the table and even Inkey leaves the room. “If you carry on like this, then they won’t come inside again for the next two days,” I snap at him. Huxley laughs. “And what are you laughing at?”

  “You were just telling me how highly strung the birds are and that you know precisely how to deal with them, that your body knows what to do, that you don’t even have to think now about your movements. And here you have a young student who is on his first field trip with me and you don’t at all see that it’s exactly the same for him.”

  The young man hunches himself over his notebook.

  Yes, but he is a human being. I shrug my shoulders a little. “Perhaps we should go outside a while. It’s almost dry. Then I can show you the various nesting places.” Outside the noise can dissipate and the birds know where to hide themselves; this is their own terrain, where they have the advantage.

  Huxley takes a camera with him, discusses with the young man what he should look out for—he points to the birds, describes their postures, their movements, their vocalisations: that’s what they do to strengthen their ties; that’s a warning signal; that’s what it does to let others know where it is. I guide them through the garden, pointing out the places already described in my book. They encounter a number of Great Tits, the Magpies and the Wood Pigeon who has been living in the oak tree for two weeks now. The Blackbirds don’t show themselves.

  They’re so large. I realise they’re unable to move more elegantly, but they could at least try. Huxley has a deep, heavy voice, the young man a shrill one. They talk as if they can’t hear themselves, as if they don’t understand how much space they take up. As if they can’t hear space. We should be able to move noiselessly, like cats; our bodies are soft enough, but we simply don’t use them correctly. Joker flies to the window and then back into the garden when she hears the men.

  “Do you think your experiment is replicable?” Huxley asks.