“You’re still young.”
I brush the comment aside with a wave of my hand. We both know I’m no longer young.
Mary places a strong cup of tea in front of me and a small jug of milk. She turns the radio down.
I take a lump of sugar from the bowl. “Are things going well with your business?”
“So-so. People are short of money, because of the slump. That’s why we need to sell the house quickly.” He asks if I can tell him my decision this week, so that he’ll know if he has to opt for the other buyer. I promise to contact him swiftly. They wave goodbye to me, hand in hand, like children.
The next morning I go to the bank. I wait behind a man in dirty trousers. He pours coins onto the counter out of a paper bag and speaks in a dialect I don’t recognise. He winks at me as he leaves.
“How may I help you?” The man behind the counter has a beaky nose and greasy hair.
“I’d like to withdraw the money from my savings account.” I place the savings book on the counter.
He picks it up, gives it a brief glance, then lays it down again. “I will need Mr Howard’s signature.”
“There is no Mr Howard.” I smile.
He turns the book towards me. “The account was opened by Newman Howard. So I need his signature.”
“My father passed away last year.”
“You will have to prove that. You need to ask for a death certificate, fill in these forms, and then return them to us. The process will take about six weeks.”
“I don’t have that much time.” I tap my fingers on the counter.
He shrugs.
“Please.” The man doesn’t answer. I clench my fists, release them. “May I speak to the manager?”
“He is not available.”
“Then I’ll wait.” I sit down on a hard wooden chair by the window. The man walks away, then returns and serves the old man who was in the queue behind me.
I think about the house, which is exactly right, and then about my father.
After half an hour a small man fetches me. He takes me to his office, which is blue with smoke. The desk is piled high with papers. I explain the problem.
“Why do you wish to buy this house so much?” He lights a cigar.
I tell him that I plan to study birds. “The house is perfect for that. I already saw so many birds there. It’s an excellent location. I could start my research immediately.”
“I was a keen bird-watcher too, when I was young. But my wife won’t allow it now. Theatre-going, that’s what she likes. And you’ll understand the importance of compromise.”
“Can you help me?”
“I won’t make any promises. But if you return tomorrow with the certificate, I’ll see what I can do.”
“That would be wonderful.” I thank him effusively.
As I leave I smile at the man at the counter, who pretends not to see me.
Theo and one of his friends carry the sofa indoors and plump themselves down on it. “Phew,” Theo says. “Now for a cup of tea.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I search in a packing box for tea, sugar and then cups. The house is cleaner than I remembered. But it’s musty, dusty, a little too warm.
“I don’t have any milk,” I call into the room. It feels good, using my voice.
“Doesn’t matter,” they call back in chorus. I put the kettle on, and in the meantime empty one of the boxes. I realise I’m humming.
It’s only when they’ve left that I notice the smell of the wooden floor—the dust sticks to my fingers. I take the clothes out of my suitcase, and then unpack the boxes with all the kitchen things. On the table that belonged to Theo’s father I place my drawing paper, my books. I put the music stand in a corner by the window, where the light enters. I can keep an eye on the back garden from there: the small apple tree, the medlar, the large apple tree, the hedge.
I take my notebook out of doors to map my surroundings. First I make a sketch of the back garden, then the pear tree, its trunk entwined with ivy, the hazel tree and the oak that grows on the east side. To the west there is an apple tree, a currant bush, an elder and a bird cherry. In front of the house, on the side that faces the road, there’s a little terrace, in an open space with two lawns, a may tree and a pergola. That’s the best place for the bird table and the bird bath. By the hedge—overgrown with ivy—is the last of the apple trees, beside a plum and a small pear tree. There’s enough fruit, at any rate, for a variety of birds. Around the garden are all kinds of hedges. It’s the end of February. The experiment has begun.
The wind is still cold. I go inside to put on my coat and come back with a chair. I set it down on the terrace—it wobbles a little as I sit, the legs slipping on the round cobbles. There’s a Great Tit in the hedge to my left, and a little later I see another one, or the same one, I’m not really sure—both have a broad stripe on their chests, so both are males. In the apple tree on the east side of the garden there are Magpies, in the plum tree a Wood Pigeon. There’s rustling in the hedge, and a rainbow in the spider’s web below the windowsill.
“Gwen?” Theo is at the gate. He grins and holds up a shopping bag. “Mary’s sent me with some supplies. Because the shops are shut. We can’t have you drinking tea without milk.”
“How kind.” I walk to the gate, avoiding the boggy patch, and take the bag.
He looks at my notebook. “What are you doing?”
I show him my sketch. “I’m going to study the birds who live here.” He looks at the uneven circles that represent the trees. “My father was a bird lover too. In the spring we always took in a few baby Tits and Blackbirds who’d fallen from their nests or had been caught by cats.”
He whistles. “That’s a good idea. There are plenty of birds here and they’re as bold as brass. There was a Great Tit, when Dad lived here, who’d fly right into the kitchen. But how will you research them?”
“I’m not sure yet. At any rate I want to win their trust. There’s been a lot of research recently on bird intelligence, but in laboratories, and birds behave differently in captivity. It makes them nervous.” A Pigeon lands in the apple tree. “I want to find out how they behave when they’re free. And make a proper record of their song.” I hope I can succeed—my ear is better trained now, but they sing so swiftly. And I have no idea if there’ll be enough birds here for a serious study.
“Trust comes through the belly, for most animals.” He pats his own belly, perhaps to show that he’s an animal too, or simply to illustrate his point.
I ask him to thank Mary for me. In the kitchen I examine the contents of the bag: milk, bread, cheese, apples, potatoes, butter. I crumble a crust of bread onto a plate and add a few knobs of butter. I put the plate on the broad windowsill at the front of the house and sit down by the other side of the window. A Great Tit arrives almost immediately, and then another—so there were two of them. Then the Magpies come, screeching loudly, driving off the Great Tits. I wave my arm, but that startles all the birds. I’ll have to think up a solution. And I need nesting boxes. Perhaps I can build some myself, or make them from old boxes and containers. One of the Great Tits returns. He scours the plate for the last crumbs, staying perched on the windowsill when he has finished. He’s looking at me with his bright little eyes. “Hallo,” I say.
A small black head, a mask that comes over the eyes, even blacker gleaming bead-eyes. White cheeks, black again beneath them, a little bib that turns into a stripe on the chest, running all the way down. A small yellow body, blackish-grey feet, wings that are black and blue, or greenish, or yellowish, depending on the light that falls on them—Thomas paints this kind of thing so well. A blue-white-black tail. In flight the underside of the wings is light grey, bluish grey, the tail edged with a white streak. The upper part of the back is yellowy green; the wings beneath are blue with white flashes; sometimes the yellow of the body is visible.