Bird Cottage

by Eva Meijer

  “No. Someone could choose to live somewhere remote, like me. They could get to know the birds, build bonds of trust. But the birds would be different. And that’s what I was trying to say just now about individual intelligence. I can’t generalise, for example, about whether it’s the female of a pair who initiates contact or the male, because it depends precisely on who encounters whom and in what kinds of circumstances. It’s the same for the nesting place and all the other choices they make. And whether they’re introverts or extroverts. There are some universals. Sparrows are bossy creatures. Magpies and Crows prey on the young of smaller birds. But that’s more or less it. As far as Great Tits are concerned, I certainly see an enormous amount of individual variation.” The young man makes careful notes on everything I say. My attention is drawn to a Magpie in the apple tree, not far from Dusty’s nest box—an old petrol can. I stand up. If he comes too close, I’ll have to drive him away.

  “I’m sorry, would you like us to leave?” Huxley tries to catch my eye.

  “No. I’m just keeping an eye on that Magpie.” Huxley exchanges a glance with the boy. I don’t care. This is my research. My house.

  The Magpie flies off. We can go inside again. Someone has pooped on the piano. I go to the kitchen to fetch a dishcloth.

  The young man looks at me when I return. I frown.

  Huxley leafs through his notes. “Do you think you can actually understand these birds?”

  “You don’t have to be the same as someone to understand them, although perhaps you do have to resemble one another. But I know what you’re driving at: the idea that I’m anthropomorphising the birds. Listen, the fact that Great Tits are members of a different species doesn’t mean that we don’t have things in common. Darwin wrote long ago that the difference between man and other animals is a question of degree.”

  “But we can talk with our own species,” he counters. The boy gives a nod of agreement from above his notebook.

  “They can talk quite as well as we do. With their voices, bodies, movements. Moreover, human language is no guarantee of understanding.” Words can gloss things over, cover things up, and long after you’ve spoken them they suddenly start to lead their own life. “Are you almost done?”

  “Last question. Do you still intend to write an academic article about that Great Tit, what was his name again, the one from the counting experiment?”

  “Her name is Star. Yes, possibly. Garth asked if I’d like to write an article with him.” And there are others who are interested in my work. But opinions always differ about the exact methods to use in order to understand what is going on with birds. They want to measure it. As if feelings were numbers.

  “Good idea. It would be a shame to lose all this.”

  Later I think about that sentence. A shame to lose all this. It won’t be lost. It exists between me and the birds, for as long as it lasts, and for some birds that is for the whole of their lives.

  * * *

  “We regret to inform you that we cannot accept your article. Your investigation is extremely original and your writing demonstrates a deep understanding of the Great Tits you have studied. Unfortunately, it is simply too unscientific to be published in Nature. If you could replicate the experiment, or better still, enable someone else to replicate it, we would gladly consider such a report.”

  For a while I remain seated with the letter (no more than ink on paper, pigment on a dead tree). Garth had already said that it probably would not be accepted, even though they’ve accepted other people’s work on Jackdaws and Pigeons. “That’s the danger of swimming against the stream,” he’d added. “Perhaps, in time, the scientific world will have second thoughts about this.”

  I had been explaining to him precisely why my way of investigating the Great Tits casts new light on them—because they have to trust you, because they’re all individuals with their own preferences and desires, just like us—till he interrupted me.

  “Gwen, you know I’m very interested in your work. I think it gives an insight into aspects of bird life that no one else has previously considered. But I can’t help you. We could set up a research project together, but it would have to be in a laboratory. Otherwise I’d lose all credibility, and we wouldn’t convince the scientific world. You could bring Star with you. We could set up a replica of your house. And there’d be enough time to adapt.”

  Star would hate it. I’ve told him that dozens of times. She’d fly off and never return. I can’t catch her and put her in a cage. All the trust I’ve built up with her would vanish in an instant. He did understand that. He understood everything. Nature understands it too. Except they don’t understand that they don’t have the most basic understanding of the matter. You wouldn’t put people in a cage, with no company, day after day or week after week, in a strange and sterile environment with shiny walls, smelling of bleach and unknown birds, and then test how intelligent they are. In fact, birds do pretty well in such experiments. It’s a wonder they cooperate at all with the petty little tasks they’re given, that they don’t deliberately dash themselves against the bars, or sit in a corner, refusing to move.

  Obviously, I can’t make it clear enough to them. I wipe my eyes. How ridiculous to get upset about it. I’m doing this for birds, not for the world of science.

  STAR 14

  November and December passed in the same way: Star came to the window ledge whenever she could, and she tapped all the numbers from three to eight in response to my spoken instructions. But the number nine still did not work. I tried to practise it with her, but I could not tap it quickly enough.

  At the end of January Star began to look for a suitable nest box with Tinky. Tinky had been Monocle’s mate, but Monocle had disappeared that spring. She was very old already and I think she died of old age. Tinky was a good choice, at least from the human point of view: he was a much friendlier bird than Inkey or the Intruder, and very beautiful in appearance. As in previous years, Star lost all interest in mathematics: she did come to visit, but her nest and the preparations for her coming brood totally absorbed her. In February she visited only five times.

  At the end of March it began to rain. Star came inside more frequently, and that week she correctly tapped out, at first attempt, all the numbers I gave her in words. On 5th April I asked for five, which she tapped in the following rhythm: one-three-one. For that last one, she looked at me a moment, as if in doubt. For the rest of the day she and Tinky were busy with their nest box. The weather was dry, and time was pressing. They had made their nest in one of the new nest boxes on the apple tree. Star immediately permitted Tinky to sleep in the nest box at night. Perhaps she expected this outcome anyway, because of her previous experience with Baldhead and Peetur. Because their nest box was situated behind the house and their territory went beyond my garden, while she was nest-building I sometimes would not see them for half a day. So every afternoon at five o’clock I would go into the garden and call them for a peanut. Star always came immediately, with Tinky in her wake. That afternoon, however, only Tinky flew to me.

  1960

  “Gwen, there’s something I should tell you.”

  It’s still early; snails are slithering across the little terrace in front of the house. Their trails form letters from an unknown language. Theo hands me a newspaper, then takes it back and opens it up. “Here.” He points to an article on page three.

  “Work on Ditchling Holiday Park Starts This Autumn”. I read it again, then examine the diagram that goes with the article. They’ve bought the land that belonged to the Hendersons and want to use all of it for the holiday park, from the woods up to the boundary of my garden. Where it directly borders my land, there’ll be a playground.

  “We can’t allow this.” I hand back the newspaper.

  “I’m afraid they’ve already got permission.” He stares at the ground, where a few woollen threads from a sock are scattered.

  I fetch my bag. “First we’ll visit the District Council. Then we’ll talk to
those people.” I pick up the paper. “Thompson and Co. I’ll phone Roger a little later. And Joseph and Garth.”

  Before we leave, I put food on the bird table: crumbled crusts from the brown bread, butter, some birdseed that needs finishing, three bruised apples cut into pieces. The birds come immediately. Joker flies to my hand first, to say hallo, and only then to the table. I feel a pain grip my belly, then I straighten my back.

  We go in Theo’s car. At half past eight we’re at the District Council offices, in Lewes, but they don’t open till nine. It’s not worth driving back, so we perch on a new brick wall with trees behind us. Seagulls cry in the distance. We take it in turns to talk away the minutes, till the church clock strikes the hour.

  The revolving door jams. I explain the problem at the reception desk. The young woman who serves us—brown lipstick, a white shift dress with green stripes, kohl-lined fish eyes—tells us that we can make an appointment for Thursday. That’s in three days’ time. “That’s too late. I shall stay here until I can speak to someone.”

  She goes upstairs. Theo drums his fingers on the counter till he sees my raised eyebrows. “Sorry.”

  The tap of high heels. “Mr Waters will see you at ten o’clock. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  I shake my head. “Could I use your telephone?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says.

  “It’s very important.” I don’t wait for her answer but pick up the green phone behind the counter. I dial Roger’s number.

  “Hallo?” More sleepiness than voice.

  “Roger, I’m sorry to ring you so early, but there’s a problem. They want to construct a holiday park next to my house. That will mean the end of my research.”

  He mutters something.

  “The playground will be right beside my garden. I’d like you to draw attention to this in your journal, and I wondered if you know any journalists who could publicise the problem. I’d be grateful for any help.”

  He promises to make some phone calls and says he’ll ring me back in the afternoon. I then phone Joseph, tell him what’s going on and ask him what I asked Roger. The young woman looks on with a frown. Joseph has less fighting spirit than Roger and fewer connections, but he knows my research well and will do his utmost. When I phone Garth’s home number, I don’t get an answer, so I phone him at work. His secretary doesn’t wish to put me through, until I say that if she doesn’t, I’ll see that she gets the sack. He also promises to do his best.

  “Miss Howard?” A lean man wearing a light-blue suit with slightly flared trousers comes towards us, his hand held out. “I’m Peter Waters. Come this way, please.”

  We follow him upstairs.

  In his office—white walls, wooden table, brown curtains, a tall shelving unit filled with ring binders—I show him the newspaper and point to where I live. “My books have been sold worldwide, in the tens of thousands. Perhaps a hundred thousand copies by now. My first book will soon have its thirtieth reprint. If that holiday park goes ahead, it will mean the end of my research.”

  “A wonderful book,” Mr Waters says. “I’d like to mention that immediately. My wife read it first, then I followed. Our neighbours had recommended it; they thought it was fantastic too. And my mother also enjoyed reading it. I have so much respect for your work, Miss Howard. Perhaps you could give me your autograph? For my wife? I know she’d really appreciate that. We must get round to ordering your second book. I wanted to give it to my wife for our tenth anniversary, but it wasn’t in the shops then.”

  I look at him, expectantly.

  “I’m sorry, I’m forgetting why you’re here. Holiday park. Yes. I’ve just checked and all the permissions are in order. The best solution would be to talk things over with the construction firm, perhaps they could leave a strip of land free from development. Or something. I’m afraid there’s very little we can do: the land was lawfully acquired and the owner is free to do as he wishes.”

  “Can I lodge an appeal against the permissions?”

  “That’s possible. But you won’t have much of a chance. It’s all perfectly legal.” He breaks off his sentence when he sees the expression on my face. “I’ll fetch the papers.”

  When he’s out of the room, I look at Theo.

  “You should play on his feelings,” Theo says. “Give him the autograph he wants, ask him to help you. Play the woman with him.”

  “Play the woman.” I sigh.

  Mr Waters enters the room, bearing the forms.

  “Mr Waters. I’ll happily give you my autograph, and I’m so pleased that you and your wife enjoyed the book. And I’d love to present you with a copy of Living with Birds, if you are still unable to order it. But it would be so marvellous if I could continue my research. I’m awfully afraid that all the birds will leave if they start building there.” I give him a sorrowful look. “Then it will all have been for nothing.”

  “That must not happen,” says Mr Waters. He draws his shoulders back a little and takes a deep breath. “We’ll have to nip it in the bud. At any rate, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that your objections reach the right people.”

  He helps me fill the form in and adds a note at the bottom of the last page saying that my research is of national importance. He gives me the telephone number of the person who will deal with the case. “This should work.” He rubs his hands together.

  “Well done,” Theo says once we’re outside. “I had no idea that such a charming lady was concealed inside you.” I give him a dig in the ribs.

  At the offices of Thompson and Co. in Burgess Hill we have less success. The secretary makes us wait on a hard purple couch for two hours, then tells us that Mr Thompson won’t be free until Friday. I am too tired to quarrel and, as pleasantly as possible, make an appointment for that day.

  I am at Theo’s place for the rest of the day, making as many posters as I can: “Help Ditchling’s Birds—Say No to Thompson’s Holiday Park!” Mary offers to help distribute them.

  At home I sit down, in the chair by the window overlooking the garden. My feet are sore. I pull off my shoes and massage my toes. Two Great Tits fly to the hedge. My eyesight is too bad now to tell who they are at this distance. Perhaps I’ve done enough. Perhaps I should finally give in.

  Drummer flies to the window, taps his beak twice against the wood of the windowsill and flies swiftly off. I burst out laughing, and then tears fill my eyes. The holiday park can’t go ahead, it mustn’t. I would have to find another spot and I don’t want to leave. I belong here. And anyway, I must protect the birds.

  * * *

  After a number of articles in the local papers, the news is picked up by the Daily Mail. The Guardian follows with a long interview and photographs of the birds. This leads to me being invited for an interview on the radio. Meanwhile, Garth and some of his colleagues have sent a letter to the Minister, describing my work as unique and emphasising that the disturbance caused by the construction noise would mean the end of many years of work. In the meantime Roger is busy composing an article about Thompson and Co.’s shady practices, and has discovered that they’ve also met resistance in other locations. He’s convinced that their building methods damage the environment.

  On Friday Theo comes with me to the appointment with Thompson. We wait on the same purple couch. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, no choice but to wait. After half an hour the secretary brings us to a room that smells of cabbage. Thompson is at his desk, a squat little man with a thin moustache and hands like coal shovels. His shirt collar comes up to his chin. He hardly has a neck at all.

  “Miss Howard.” He simply nods, does not shake hands. “I understand that you’ve started a smear campaign against us. I shall therefore be brief. The park will go ahead, and if you create any problems for us, we shall prosecute.”

  “A smear campaign? I’m simply trying to protect the birds.” I cough, attempting to lower the high notes in my voice; deeper voices are always taken more seriously and carry more weight. Take a d
eep breath.

  “We never hurt a fly.” He laughs. “Not a fly, not a bird, not a soul. You haven’t a leg to stand on. Poor soul.”

  “Then I’ll take it to court.” I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see my fury.

  “I wish you every success.”

  He sits down, writes something in his notebook. Theo stands and opens the door. “Come on,” he says softly. “We’re going.”

  “Do you really think we’ll have to take it to court?” I ask as we walk across the square. Pigeons fly up, then land a few feet away.

  “I’d wait and see, if I were you. But if we must, we must.”

  At the shop a familiar figure is waiting. “I just wanted to tell you in person that they’re taking your objections very seriously.” Mr Waters gives me a smile.

  “Would you like to come in?” Theo opens the door.

  He looks nervously around him. “Better not. That Thompson is, how should I put it, rather influential.”

  Theo nods.

  “They’re going to look again at the permissions. I don’t want to create false hopes, it doesn’t mean they’ll be rescinded. However, they’re certainly looking at it.” His eyebrows shoot up.

  Then he shakes my hand and is off before I can even thank him. “He was acting rather strangely,” I say to Theo.

  “A nervous chap.”

  I borrow Theo’s bicycle and take a new stack of posters with me. All the nearby villages have been taken care of—now it’s Brighton’s turn: its public places, cafés, theatres and cinemas.

  That night I wake to the sound of a dull, loud bang that makes the house tremble—it must be thunder, but I can’t hear any rain. I get out of bed, walk through the darkness to the sitting room, the wooden floor cold and uneven under my bare feet. No storm, no footsteps of a possible burglar, just a gust of wind and two Great Tits who have flown from their roost box in shock and have landed on the edge of the bed. Perhaps the front door has blown open; it’s not so robust any more.