“You’ll have to take matters into your own hands. Otherwise time will simply slip by. Otherwise you’ll become what they expect you to be. Then you’ll turn into your mother.”
I shake my head.
“Chin up.” She taps below my chin. “You should give Stockdale a ring.”
The train approaches, brakes, stops at the top end of the platform. We run towards it. She buys a ticket from the guard and I embrace her. “It’s a shame you have to leave so soon.”
“I’ll be back. Or we’ll see each other in London.”
“You know, I—”
“Yes?”
The guard blows his whistle, signals to her to hurry. She steps in.
“What did you want to say?”
“Nothing. It’ll be all right.”
She walks through the carriage, sits by the window, places her hand on the pane. I lay my hand against it till I feel the train moving.
I wave and wave until the train has completely disappeared. The sun has changed position. I walk back in the light. I’m not wearing a hat and my parting is burning.
I telephone Stockdale from the post office.
“Who’s speaking?”
“It’s Gwen. Gwen Howard.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Gwen. I didn’t hear you properly. Very nice of you to ring me. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to ask you something. I’d like to study at the College of Music, but my parents aren’t all that keen. My father has a very high opinion of you and I think he’d listen to you. So, I was hoping that…”
“I’d put in a word for you. Of course. But on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“That you’ll play in my orchestra.”
My smile glides over the post office counter, lights up the floor and the walls.
“Oh, yes please.”
“Good. Well, I’ll set things in motion then.”
I thank him and leave the post office with red cheeks. I don’t walk home, veer off before I reach our street and follow the shell path beside the railway, past the white hotels, to the harbour, and then carry on towards the sea. I steal an apple from an apple tree, keep walking as far as the sandy beach, then sit down in a cleft in the cliff side. The water, the far horizon, the taste of the apple—I really want to sing, but instead I sit here and let the sound of the water wash over me, wave after wave.
STAR 4
In March Star began to prepare her nesting box. She flew back and forth for days with bark, moss, strands of fibre and other soft materials. She did this as she did everything: with dedication and passion. These characteristics were apparent not only in her behaviour, her thoroughness: her whole posture was full of concentration, like a musician playing.
Baldhead regarded the nest as his territory and when Star had finally finished her nest-making, he would turn up every night to sleep there. Star chased him off. Raising a brood is demanding enough as it is, and an extra sleeper means extra cleaning. But Baldhead was persistent and flitted around the nest box each evening, singing and calling until she gave in. Star would sit inside the box, blocking the entrance, holding her head to one side, as if assessing his song. He must have made at least thirty attempts on the first night, but this decreased each day, as if they both knew that Star would eventually give in. So Baldhead slept in the nest box until the nestlings were a few days old. Then of his own accord he looked for another roost.
Five days after the babies had hatched, Star came to me to fetch food for them. Before that she had given her youngsters only natural food; what she took from me was simply for herself. She was hastier than normal that day and flew back to the nest box a number of times while I was busy in the kitchen. Baldhead arrived an hour after her. He flew straight to me and nestled down on my lap; his little legs were too weak to let him stand. As soon as she saw him Star left the nest box and came to us. She tried to encourage him to go with her, ardently quivering her wings and calling to him. He cheeped a little but otherwise lay still. She returned a few more times that afternoon, the last time simply gazing at him a moment from a distance.
From that time onwards she played the biggest role in feeding their brood. Baldhead would sometimes take a piece of bread from the bird table to the nest, but would then sleep again for a few more hours. His favourite roost was on my lap, where he would come for a peanut, supposedly. He would then press his little head against my tummy and stay there. Sometimes he would not even eat his nut.
1914
“Come with me then.”
Olive is sitting on my bed, watching me pack. “If Papa also has to enlist at some point, then I’ll have to help Mama with the house and with Dudley.”
“Mama can take care of Dudley by herself, surely?”
Olive raises an eyebrow. Since the accident Mother has started drinking in the afternoons again. Father, however, has stopped. He shuts himself in his room all day to work on his poems about the war. Last year his Collected Poems were published, a milestone that has mainly made him feel discontented. “It’s all rubbish. It’s all got to change.” Since then all he ever does is write. He doesn’t even watch the birds now.
“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself, you know.”
Olive stares out of the window. “Anyway, I don’t know what else I could do. I’m good for nothing.”
I sit beside my sister.
“There isn’t a single man who’d want me, because I’m too ugly. Pure and simple. And too old. And I can’t do anything at all.”
“You can play the piano. And sew. And you’re really quick.” Olive can run like the wind. She leaves Kingsley far behind.
“What’s the point of that? I’m twenty-six.” She laughs, but her eyes are still sad.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“No, of course not.” She takes my hand, squeezes it a little, then puts it back where it was before—a used tool.
Charles is perched on the windowsill. He taps the pane with his beak. I open the window for him.
“Are you letting that filthy Crow in?”
Charles perches on the bed, then flies to the desk when Olive moves towards him. He’s quite happy there. He knows that Olive never stays very long.
“I’m getting older too,” I say.
“You’re still young. And it’s different in London.” She stands up. “I’ll go and see if Mama is all right. I’ve heard nothing from her all day.”
Charles comes and joins me. He acquired a mate last year, a very clever Crow. She’s a little smaller than the others but twice as sharp. I stroke his head and then carry on with my packing. I’ve already put my clothes in the suitcase, the other half of it is for my sheet music. I have to take the famous pieces, at any rate, and a few personal favourites as well. I put them in, take them out, put them back again. Charles hops onto the bookcase. I’d really like to pack all the bird books I’ve collected over the years, but that would be at the cost of my music. I can fetch them at Christmas. And in London I can always use a library.
My notebooks are on the top shelf. I leaf through them—stories about Charles, about Bennie the Magpie, who lived in my father’s study for a whole year; botched attempts at notating birdsong; lists of the birds who visited our garden last summer. At the summer’s end our neighbour came to tea and asked what always kept me busy in the garden. “She writes down which birds come to visit,” my mother said, and then they both started giggling. I set the notebooks down beside my suitcase. It would be better to throw them away.