The young woman looks at him. “Is there a problem? Should I leave?”
He looks at me.
“No,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
He stays silent as I walk away, and is still silent when I reach the end of the sandy path and turn around to look at him—she’s talking, she raises her hand. The distance. I nod, to myself or to the people walking towards me, and follow the path up the bank.
At home I pick up my violin in the hope that playing it will make me feel better. I tune it, play a couple of scales. But I remain a woman in a room with a piece of wood in her hands. This has happened before and the only thing to do is to keep on playing, so that’s what I do. But the aversion stays, growing out in different directions, like a tree, twigs protruding from my ears and mouth.
I walk to my desk and pick up my notes. The Great Tits have various alarm calls, and I have now identified three—one for people, one for large birds in the sky, and one for creatures down below. There will certainly be more, but the problem is that there is an enormous individual variation in their calls. Moreover, the notes follow each other so swiftly that I always have the feeling that I, with my human ears, have missed something. I should try to become more proficient at this, but I don’t know how I could combine that with playing the violin.
Jenny rings the bell from the bottom of the stairs. It’s time for tea again. I close my notebook. If I don’t leave, then this is all I can expect.
Thea’s uncle owns a holiday cabin near Brighton, where I can stay for a few weeks at very little cost. I can work on my article in peace there. Stockdale thought it was a good idea, and I no longer have any worries about money. Mr Williams said it was real countryside there. The hut is located by a heath, near the Downs and close to the sea. The nearest railway station is half an hour’s walk away.
I’ve seen nothing of Thomas since that encounter by the Thames. But there have been other times in the past when we haven’t been in touch. And now, after all, I do want to let him know where I’m going, before I leave. And I want to know how things stand.
The fog makes me unsure of the route. It’s the third day now that it has shrouded the city, and although things haven’t vanished they’re mostly invisible. I turn left too soon, retrace my steps. It’s the next street, and I don’t understand how I could have gone wrong. The Thames doesn’t think, it just keeps on flowing—I can only see the water’s edge, grey and still, but soft white below, a cloud bed.
The gravel on the path is damp, slippery; I take care on the gangplank. I knock twice.
“Len. Good to see you.” Thomas’s voice is still sleepy. “Like some coffee?”
“Yes please. I won’t stay long.”
There’s a pile of dirty plates in the kitchen. I sit down at the low wooden table. “I’m going away for a while.”
“Marvellous. Where are you off to?”
I feel it, when he looks at me. I swallow. “Nowhere special, just away.”
“Yes, you deserve that occasionally. You always work so hard. Do you know when you’ll be back?” He puts the coffee in front of me.
I shake my head.
“Shall I show you my new series?”
I follow him to the front of the boat. In the first painting two Crows are flying above the houses of London. “They’re dancing,” I say. Every colour can be seen in the black of their feathers.
He gives an enthusiastic nod. “And this one.” A young Crow is sitting on the lowest branch of an elm tree, watching the ground intently, ready to hunt. His concentration is tangible. And there are more: an old Crow with her eyes tightly shut in the rain; a flock of Crows mobbing an intruder.
“They’re wonderful.” Two Crows on a nest, both of them looking at something in the distance.
“Stay.”
I turn towards him. “I don’t want it any more. It’s so loud here, so filthy. Mrs Willows from across the road died last week, of pneumonia. And the orchestra stifles me—always the same old gossip, who’s having an affair with whom, all that hullabaloo with Stockdale.”
“Len, you must play. Find a new orchestra.”
“I want to study birds. Seriously, I mean.”
“I don’t think there’s any call for that kind of thing. Not that I don’t find it interesting. I just mean, the times aren’t ripe for it yet. And you haven’t any education in that field.” He falls silent when he sees the look I give him, and takes my arm. I don’t yield. He moves towards me. I move back.
“Sorry, I don’t want coffee after all. I just wanted to say hallo.”
He looks at me, keeps looking while I put on my coat, open the door, vanish into the grey.
STAR 8
At the end of February it became clear that Baldhead was far too weak to raise a new brood. He would come to me for nuts, then close his eyes and nestle on my lap until I stood up again. For days Star tried to encourage Baldhead to help her build a nest, swooping down in exactly the same way that she had seen him doing the previous year—Great Tits often imitate the behaviour of others to encourage them to do something. It was no use, and Star transferred her attentions to Peetur. For a few days she flew back and forth between Baldhead and Peetur, until one day Baldhead made a little rush at her. Then Star decided to choose Peetur instead and Baldhead found a new roosting place, in a nest box on the other side of the garden.
Just as Baldhead had done, Peetur also wanted to sleep in the nest box with Star. Once again Star opposed this. However, Peetur was a more creative singer than Baldhead, and each time he used diff erent notes to express his displeasure. On the first night he was driven away for hours before Star finally let him in; his vocabulary was certainly more extensive at the end of that day! It seemed that Star enjoyed listening to his newly discovered language; when he sang she would often pop her head out to look at him. Peetur also seemed to derive much pleasure from singing: after that first evening he knew that she would eventually give in.
Baldhead stayed in the house a great deal. In March he still had a good appetite, and Monocle enticed him into making a nest with her. He did make a half-hearted attempt to furnish the nest, but he no longer had the strength to defend it and to bring up the nestlings. So Monocle had to care for her brood alone, although now and again he would take a look at them. The swelling above his bill, which he had suffered from years before, had now returned, and he often had a listless look in his eyes. I knew he would not live long now.
As always, Star took great pains in building her nest. She had discovered that the threads from the Persian rug in the sitting room were perfect for this, and she flew back and forth with beakfuls. I rolled up the rug and put it in the passage, but she swiftly realised what I had done, so I put the rug back; it was better for her to pluck from the whole carpet than to make bald patches at its edges.
At the beginning of April Star tried to chase another pair of Great Tits, Dusty and Cross, away from her part of the garden. Dusty and Cross were an older pair; they had built a nest near the path the previous year, but that had now been taken by others. There was enough room in the garden and I did not understand why Star wanted to expel them. She was extremely determined, but so was Dusty, and when she drove Dusty off even after she had laid her eggs, I decided to intervene—Dusty had as much right to the garden as Star. I kept chasing Star away if she came anywhere near Dusty’s nest. Star could not be stopped; she avoided me but was twice as fierce with Dusty when I was not around. She succeeded so well in making Dusty lose heart that she deserted her nest and found a new place in the neighbouring garden. It was really strange to see Star act so obsessively; in the past she was well able to share space with others.