Bird Cottage

by Eva Meijer

  “No, I won’t let you face the weekend like this. Anyway, won’t it be nice when you can see properly through them again?” A little laugh, her head vanishes.

  I clench my fists a moment—release them. There’s no point in getting angry. On the table in front of me there’s a drawing of Dark Brown and Light Brown. I pick up my eraser. Dark Brown’s wing is too long. I’m not sure I can get it right now. An old people’s home. Indecent really to start talking about it.

  There’s a ring at the door again. Miranda opens it before I can protest. It’s William Gill of the Sussex Naturalists’ Trust, a man with a voice like a tree stump. “Miss Howard.”

  “Quiet, please,” I say. “You’ve driven them all away.”

  “We were going to talk again about your estate. So that everything’s properly sorted out. Those plots of land you have free lease of too. I’ve just been to the solicitor’s in Lewes and he’s proposed this.” He winks at Miranda and places a folder of papers on the table. I search for my spectacles.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” Miranda smiles at him.

  “No thanks, I’ve just come for the signature.”

  Perhaps my spectacles are in the kitchen. I can hear them chattering in the sitting room. It’s wonderful that they want to take on Bird Cottage after my death, to create a bird sanctuary. But I simply don’t understand why he keeps bringing new contracts for me to sign. The price of land has risen enormously, perhaps that’s the reason. My spectacles aren’t on the worktop, or on the windowsill. Suddenly the house feels overfull, with all these people. He’ll have to return later.

  * * *

  “Miss Howard? This is Josephine Wolch, Dr Stuart’s assistant. We have received the results of your tests.”

  I sweep the crumbs on the table into a little heap with the side of my hand.

  “Are you still there?” She speaks too emphatically, as if I’m not quite right in the head.

  “Hmm.” I brush the pile onto the plate on my lap, then put it on the table.

  “Your coagulation factor is too high. But there are excellent medicines for this. We would just like to make an appointment for some follow-ups.” I don’t recognise her voice.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Josephine. Wolch. I’m Dr Stuart’s new assistant. Sandra is on maternity leave.”

  I thought so. Sandra has a much lower voice, an alto inclining towards a bass, very low for a woman. But beautiful. She also speaks beautifully slowly. This one doesn’t. This one prattles.

  “I’d like to make an appointment with you for a heart check-up.”

  Tuesday is a good day. I’m expecting no one then and I can leave the birds alone with a clear conscience.

  “How is your wrist now?”

  “My wrist is fine, thank you.” They kept a tight hold on me, as if I was a child, first the nurse and then the doctor. They shifted my arm around, asked if it hurt—well, of course it hurt, that was why I’d gone there. I knew it needed some rest, I just didn’t know if it had to be in plaster. The steps in the kitchen toppled over. An accident. That can happen to anyone. I held on to a kitchen cupboard with my hand and then twisted it. I still can’t play the violin. It doesn’t matter. I can take it up again in a few weeks.

  When she hangs up, I first put the receiver back, and then find a piece of paper. Tuesday, half past nine, Dr Stuart. I cradle my wrist in my other hand. I can feel that it’s hurting now, but I mustn’t dwell on that. The plate is on the edge of the table. I stand up and throw the crumbs out through the open window onto the little terrace—Sparrows, a Robin. I can take the bus. That would be best. But then I’ll have to leave in good time, because they often come earlier than it says on the timetable. I should go and take a look at what the times actually are. Perhaps I can still cancel it. Yes, it would be better to cancel it. There’s no need for a check-up. I feel perfectly well. Sometimes I’m a little short of breath, but that’s normal at my age. I’ll just have to practise a little with that wrist of mine. Otherwise it’ll stiffen up. I don’t have to ring immediately. After all, it’s next week. Dark Brown and Light Brown skim past me. I should clean the bird table. There was something in the local newspaper last week from the Sussex Ornithological Society saying that many diseases are spread via the feeding places. My birds haven’t been ill for years. When I started there were two outbreaks of some disease or other, two consecutive summers. I lost seven Great Tits then. But I don’t think it was anything to do with hygiene. It seemed to be some kind of virus, paratyphoid fever, I believe. They didn’t all die of it—some of them were just very weak for some time. They had diarrhoea too. And years later there was a whole brood of nestlings that didn’t survive. Joker’s babies. Perhaps they had pox or a fungal infection. Or mites—the youngsters die of those too.

  I go to the kitchen and fill a bucket. White vinegar. I don’t know where Miranda has put the sponges.

  * * *

  The blue hour, winter dusk.

  The late light gives shape to the leaves, for a little while longer. I gaze until they fade away—their edges seem to be moving. On the windowpane, next to the frame, a drop of water makes a trail, a straight line downwards.

  The Great Tits have gone to bed already. I don’t put the lights on, stay where I’m seated. My chair was reupholstered last week, I can permit myself that luxury occasionally, and there’s a blanket over it now, to keep it in good condition—I might just as well not have had it reupholstered. Someone is moving in the distance, moving the grass—a mouse, perhaps, or a hedgehog. The mice are back. I saw them yesterday.

  Theo says I need an assistant, to put my notes in order and send my unpublished stories to that new journal, come on, what was its name again? I showed him my archive of stories, photos and cuttings. He was going to ask the Museum of Art and Craft if they might be interested in them. Theo fell last week, he had to go to casualty. Esther took him.

  The garden is dark now—just the window frame catches the light. My face only appears when I stand close to the window and look for openings in the black sky.

  I sink back into my chair, close my eyes. Tomorrow I mustn’t forget to buy some cheese. They could certainly do with some extra fat for the winter.

  STAR 0

  The first sun of the year falls through a chink in the curtains. January started seven days ago, and it was grey and dark until now: a new year, but you could not really see it was new. The sun brings colour with it and hope. I go to the kitchen and fill a plate with food for the bird table. The birds have been awake for hours; they rustle, flutter, chatter to each other. Timmy, the little Blackbird, is on the other side of the window, on the sill, his head cocked expectantly. He calls to me, two notes, the same two notes he uses to call his mate. I open the window and put out a piece of apple for him. Baldhead is sitting on the arm of the bench near the bird table, a new little female beside him. I put the pieces of bacon, the cheese and brown bread on the table, then return for some butter, peanuts and fruit. Baldhead comes to take a look. The female flies behind him, takes care to stay out of my way. There is a white patch on her forehead—Star. I suddenly remember that she previously nested in the nest box by the path. Her mate is not with her, perhaps he is dead. She is clearly interested in Baldhead, who neither encourages nor discourages her. Monocle was his mate last year, but I have not caught sight of her for some days now. Baldhead eats placidly, then flies to my shoulder. We both look at Star, who seems hungry and takes a little of everything. But she leaves the cheese alone. After each beakful she looks at us a moment. She is very beautiful. Her feathers gleam and the colours seem deeper than those of other birds. She looks so brightly out of her little eyes. At first she just looks at Baldhead, but then her eyes search for mine. Hallo, I say to her with my eyes. Good to see you. She holds my gaze a moment, then flies off. Baldhead follows her and there they go, higher and higher into the air, ever higher, ever swifter.

  LEN HOWARD

  © J.M. Simpson

&nbs
p; ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I first came across Len Howard’s work when I was writing my dissertation for my MA in Philosophy. One of my mother’s friends—strangely enough, neither of us can exactly remember who it was; if you’re reading this: many thanks!—advised me to read Birds as Individuals; shortly afterwards I also read Living with Birds. Both books were once bestsellers, but can now only be bought second-hand. Howard’s work has largely been forgotten, which is a pity, as her research was well ahead of its time, and her books are still interesting and relevant. Very little is known about her life. In this novel I mix stories from her writings and biographical fact with fiction. Certain passages, such as the sections about Star and a number of the other stories about the birds, have their origin in Howard’s own anecdotes in Birds as Individuals and Living with Birds. The scene at the pond is based on an unpublished story I discovered in her archive in Ditchling, a pale-blue folder containing about twenty different documents and a photo of Olive. Many of the other anecdotes are based on the memories of people living in Ditchling.

  I would like to thank the following people for their help while I was writing this novel. John Saunders, the present occupant of Bird Cottage, allowed me to examine Howard’s archive and scanned her unpublished stories for me. He told me that Howard left Bird Cottage to the Sussex Naturalists’ Trust, which had promised to make it into a bird sanctuary. The bird sanctuary never materialised, however. Instead the trust sold the house and land for a good price to someone who immediately felled most of the trees in the back garden (only the ancient oak tree is still standing). He also told me that Howard is buried in an unnamed grave, in the graveyard behind her house. Ralph Levy was extremely helpful and hospitable during my stay in his hut in Ditchling. Michael Alford knew Howard and used to see her walking across the fields with birds perched on her head and arms. Eline van den Ende helped me think about the violin music of the period and wrote to me about what it is like to play in an orchestra. Irwan Droog carefully read all the drafts and the final version of this story. Lucette walked into my life while the book was being written and brought light with her. Putih and Olli, as always, have helped the writing process by being with me and enabling me to learn what it is like to share one’s life with others.

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  THE SPECTRE OF ALEXANDER WOLF

  GAITO GAZDANOV

  ‘A mesmerising work of literature’ Antony Beevor

  SUMMER BEFORE THE DARK

  VOLKER WEIDERMANN

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  MESSAGES FROM A LOST WORLD

  STEFAN ZWEIG

  ‘At a time of monetary crisis and political disorder… Zweig’s celebration of the brotherhood of peoples reminds us that there is another way’ The Nation

  THE EVENINGS

  GERARD REVE

  ‘Not only a masterpiece but a cornerstone manqué of modern European literature’ Tim Parks, Guardian

  BINOCULAR VISION

  EDITH PEARLMAN

  ‘A genius of the short story’ Mark Lawson, Guardian

  IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE SEA

  TOMÁS GONZÁLEZ

  ‘Smoothly intriguing narrative, with its touches of sinister, Patricia Highsmith-like menace’ Irish Times

  BEWARE OF PITY

  STEFAN ZWEIG

  ‘Zweig’s fictional masterpiece’ Guardian

  THE ENCOUNTER

  PETRU POPESCU

  ‘A book that suggests new ways of looking at the world and our place within it’ Sunday Telegraph

  WAKE UP, SIR!

  JONATHAN AMES

  ‘The novel is extremely funny but it is also sad and poignant, and almost incredibly clever’ Guardian

  THE WORLD OF YESTERDAY

  STEFAN ZWEIG

  ‘The World of Yesterday is one of the greatest memoirs of the twentieth century, as perfect in its evocation of the world Zweig loved, as it is in its portrayal of how that world was destroyed’ David Hare

  WAKING LIONS

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  ‘A literary thriller that is used as a vehicle to explore big moral issues. I loved everything about it’ Daily Mail

  FOR A LITTLE WHILE

  RICK BASS

  ‘Bass is, hands down, a master of the short form, creating in a few pages a natural world of mythic proportions’ New York Times Book Review

  JOURNEY BY MOONLIGHT

  ANTAL SZERB

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  BEFORE THE FEAST

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  ‘Exceptional… cleverly done, and so mesmerising from the off… thought-provoking and energetic’ Big Issue

  A SIMPLE STORY

  LEILA GUERRIERO

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  FORTUNES OF FRANCE

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  TRAVELLER OF THE CENTURY

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  THE BEAUTIFUL BUREAUCRAT

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  THE RABBIT BACK LITERATURE SOCIETY

  PASI ILMARI JÄÄSKELÄINEN

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  BEAUTY IS A WOUND

  EKA KURNIAWAN

  ‘An unforgettable all-encompassing epic’ Publishers Weekly

  BARCELONA SHADOWS

  MARC PASTOR

  ‘As gruesome as it is gripping… the writing is extraordinarily vivid… Highly recommended’ Independent

  MEMORIES—FROM MOSCOW TO THE BLACK SEA

  TEFFI

  ‘Wonderfully idiosyncratic, coolly heartfelt and memorable’ William Boyd, Sunday Times

  WHILE THE GODS WERE SLEEPING

  ERWIN MORTIER

  ‘A monumental, phenomenal book’ De Morgen

  BUTTERFLIES IN NOVEMBER

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  ‘A funny, moving and occasionally bizarre exploration of life’s upheavals and reversals’ Financial Times

  BY BLOOD

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  ‘Delicious and intriguing’ Daily Telegraph

  THE LAST DAYS

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  COPYRIGHT

  Pushkin Press

  71–75 Shelton Street

  London, WC2H 9JQ

  Original text © Eva Meijer 2016

  English translation © Antoinette Fawcett 2018

  Bird Cottage was first published as Het Vogelhuis in Amsterdam, 2016

  First published by Pushkin Press in 2018

  This publication has been made possible with financial support from the Dutch Foundation for Literature

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  ISBN 13: 978 1 78227 396 7

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