“I met her by chance and we had a drink together and then danced. You were the one who said to take things slowly.”
“I’m only asking.” I smile to show him I’m not cross, but I don’t manage to make my smile quite cheerful or friendly enough.
“Gwen, you know what I’m like.”
I don’t really know, but I’m pleased he says so. As if he isn’t hiding anything from me. Honesty is important. And I don’t want to marry. I want to play the violin and travel. I want to move. He understands what it means to move, and perhaps this is what movement costs. I don’t know why my throat is tight, why swallowing doesn’t help.
He takes a step towards me, folds his wet fingers over mine. “Come on then, we’ll go to the museum.”
My coat feels rough and familiar, my black hat too. We walk beside the water to the bus stop. There’s a Heron in the reeds, grey as the water. In the oak by the corner there are two Crows. Thomas talks and laughs and shows me the colours of things, the words people use, the half-trampled bouquet of flowers in the gutter, the shadow that a policeman casts over the street, the long body.
His long body. I can hear his voice in my head, its sound, its timbre, its intonation. His body is still always new. This morning he started out, knowing precisely how and where (my shoulder, innocently, my arm, my hand, my shoulder again, my neck, a kiss, skin, gentle brushing, lips, opening). So precisely that I sometimes ask myself if he’s touching me, or just a woman.
In the museum he walks like a slow skater, his hands on his back: part child, part philosopher. He makes me see the paintings afresh. Paint, mood, colour, colour, colour. When we reach Turner, he takes my hand. We stand still and look, and I can see what has touched him. He was right—I do know what he’s like.
STAR 7
Star always devoted a great deal of time to rearing her young. She brought them food far longer than most Tits do and taught them various useful skills. One of the things she taught her children each year was that there was no need to be afraid of me. They passed this on to their own children, and so I was the friend not only of particular individuals, but of specific families too.
One of the sons from Star and Baldhead’s first brood was an unusually fine-looking bird. Everyone who saw him said: “What a beauty!” And so I called him Beauty. Beauty was the first to follow his mother from the nest to the bird table, and he kept visiting it long after he had fledged. He always carefully considered which nuts to choose. Most Great Tits take several titbits from the table and only decide if they will eat something after they have already taken it; Beauty always considered it in advance and never chose something he would not then eat. He remained in the garden until he was four months old, and then left with three other young birds. I did not see them for a long time afterwards and was afraid that something had happened, but after three months I suddenly saw him on the windowsill, the other three in his wake.
The following spring he nested in my garden with a scraggy female called Dolly. His territory bordered on his mother’s. Dolly and Beauty had a large brood and worked hard to give all their chicks sufficient food. The last one to fly the nest, a little female, had a lame leg. I called her Naomi. He brought her to me when she was ten days old; she trusted me immediately because he did. Naomi was slower than the others and I fed her until she had gained the skill to search out food for herself. After a few months she was able to use her leg a little better, and after a year you could barely see that it had previously troubled her so greatly. She no longer needed my help and was just as independent as the other Great Tits.
1937
The sun is already hot, one Tuesday morning in May, as I’m on my way to Mr Taylor the solicitor’s office. Blackbirds are nesting in the high hedge at the corner of the street. They’re flying back and forth with food for their young, but the spot that they’ve chosen is really not appropriate. It’s far too exposed, an easy target for cats and Magpies. I unbutton my jacket—I’m wearing a dark-blue woollen suit and am already starting to perspire. I’ve brought my violin with me because I have to rehearse immediately after this appointment. The handle of the case slips in my damp hand at each step, forwards, backwards. I strengthen my grip and suck my tongue to help me swallow.
I’m five minutes early but I knock three times on the door with the heavy knocker. I follow the maid through a large marble hallway into an office. Mother would certainly adore this house. “Mr Taylor will be with you soon,” the maid says. I put my violin case down beside my chair, where it immediately falls over. I really should have asked for a glass of water.
“Miss Howard.” A stocky little man with a moustache and small round spectacles approaches me, his hand thrust out. “Good to see you.” He sits down at his desk and opens a folder of papers. “First, of course, my condolences for your loss. I met your father once or twice, we had friends in common. He was a most amiable man with a vast knowledge of poetry.”
“Yes, indeed.” I try to swallow.
“Would you like some water?” He stands up and calls the maid, who then brings me a glass. “I can imagine that it came as a shock to you, even though he was ill.”
I nod. I didn’t know he was ill; I hadn’t been home for years. I sent my parents postcards when I was on holiday, and cards at Christmas, and sometimes I’d write a letter to Olive. I have no idea why Olive only wrote about it after the funeral, in November last year—she said she’d been busy, and that Mother hadn’t wanted me to come. I sent them a stone bird, to put on his grave.
“Mr Howard has left all his assets and property to his four children.” My heart is thudding. My share is much greater than I expected—I could buy a small house with it. Mother will be furious.
I sign the paper to accept my inheritance and within ten minutes I’m outside again, where the light is so intense that I can’t see anything for a moment.
“Joan, start again.”
“Sorry, why do I have to start again?” The muscle by her mouth is twitching worse than ever. Her face is only calm when she’s playing.
“You’re the one who has to set the tempo for the others. Guide. Lead. But instead you first follow the violins, and then the bass.”
She nods, without looking up from her violin.
“Again.” Joan begins and we follow, three bars later. Through the window, high up behind her, I can see a Crow flying.
“Utter rubbish. Stop. We’ll start the second part.”
Suddenly he’s there in front of me, making me jump. “Gwendolen. Are you with us?”
A few days ago I saw a Crow drop a twig while flying. Another Crow caught it, flew up, also dropped it, and the first one swooped down, just in time to catch the twig again. It looked like playing. I don’t know of any study on the phenomenon of play in birds.
“Gwen!”
I have to make an effort to stay with the piece we’re playing. I keep thinking about the Crow, about the tops of the pine trees.
“That’s better. Next, Elgar’s ‘Enigma Variations’. Just the strings this afternoon. The rest of you can go home. Now, a ten-minute break. And it’s ‘Nimrod’, for those who wish to get themselves ready.”
He comes and stands beside me. “I do understand that you’re going through a lot at the moment. Your father’s death, your family’s reaction.”
“Swifts.”
“Pardon?” He twirls his moustache, keeping his eyes fixed on the door.
“That piece by Elgar, it makes me think of Swifts. They only settle on the earth to breed. They sleep in the air, eat in the air.”