I’m sitting with my note pad in the shade of the oak tree. The Great Tit in the hedge keeps repeating the same little tune. The postman swings the gate open. “Morning, Miss Howard,” he says at the top of his voice, to bridge the distance between us. “I’ve got a parcel for you.”
The Great Tit is long gone.
“In future, could you please put all parcels in the post-box, at the top of the path?”
He looks offended. “Mr McIver used to be ever so pleased with my services. You see, if I put them in the post-box, they can get stolen or damaged by young rascals. I wouldn’t advise it, but if you don’t want the personal touch, that’s up to you. The customer is always right.”
“I’m sorry. It’s because of the birds. I’m trying to win their trust.” I show him my little book of notes and drawings, and try to explain what the plan is. He doesn’t think much of this, but does seem to appreciate my taking the trouble to explain.
“So the post-box it is then. But wouldn’t you like me to show when I’ve called? I can make very subtle signals.” He wiggles his fingers a little, a subtle signal.
“No, thanks. But thank you for your understanding. And I’ll put a sign on the post-box and by the path.”
When he has left I make the signboards—paint on wood—two for the garden gates, one for the post-box and one for the path. That should be sufficient. When they’re dry I hang them up with wire, the last one at the top of the path.
“So you’re not in the mood for visitors any more?” Theo gives me a brown paper bag. “Mary has been baking bread, far too much for us.” He is panting a little because of the uphill climb.
“I do like visitors, but the birds aren’t so keen.”
“Ah, they’re henpecking you already.”
“You’re an exception, of course. You’re always welcome. But maybe you could be a little quieter. Walk quietly. Don’t call out. Perhaps they’ll get used to you then.”
He laughs. “Oh dear, I mustn’t laugh either, of course.” He laughs even louder as he walks away and I have to laugh too, in spite of myself.
I put the bread on the kitchen table and fill the kettle. Outside there is a piercing cheeping sound. One of the Blue Tits is perched in front of the window, looking at me. She’s cheeping so loudly I can hear her through the glass. I go out and find her waiting by the door. She flies to the hedge by the old oak tree, then back to me, to the oak and again to me. I quicken my pace. At the oak I see her mate. He also seems distressed, flying swiftly back and forth over the hedge. The female swoops down. I kneel, see fragments of the nest, with its twelve eggs, spread across the ground beneath the nest box. The box is still intact, so I imagine that a cat has clawed the nest out—that means that I’ll have to ensure that the boxes are more than six inches deep. I open the little box and put the nesting material back inside—first the shredded carton, then the moss and the horsehair. I carefully replace all the eggs, putting them against the back of the box so they’re firmly positioned. When I’ve finished, the female immediately flies into the box and shifts the eggs to the centre. The male flies off, but quickly returns with an earwig in its beak. I stay watching them a moment, but the birds now ignore me. My fingers are tingling. They asked for help. I can hardly believe this happened.
Mown grass, low light, late summer; after some weeks of heat and no wind, a breeze is blowing. The air smells of autumn. I make a list of all the nests in the garden and write down who used which nest over the past year—the Blackbirds in the ivy, the Sparrows in the hedge (two pairs), the Great Tits in various trees. I walk along, checking everything, to make sure that nothing has been forgotten. I’ve given the regular birds their own names—I often mix them up still, but if they stay in one place for long enough, I can tell who is who. Their markings and colours are all a little different and each has its own way of moving, of reacting. Some birds are strident, and brisk in their movements, others almost merge into the background. I’m also beginning to recognise them by their song, both from their tunes and their voices. In London I perceived them as a group—there was an old Great Tit in the park whom I did recognise, and in the tree by Thomas’s boat there was a pair we kept an eye on, but I had no idea that they differed so much from each other. Seeing requires time. In London there were too many distractions.
Theo has made a bird table for me, and every morning around half past six, when the day is still wet with dew, I put out a plate of food for them. Billy, a somewhat older male Great Tit, always comes first. He’s quite bold, almost eating out of my hand already. He flies right up to my hand, takes a quick peck, then is off again, flying elsewhere. His wife is far shyer; I’ve called her Greenie, because the feathers on her back are much greener than those of the other birds. She does come to me, but only if Billy is there, and she flies off the moment I move. Birds are filled with air. They have various air sacs in their bodies and their bones are hollow. Air and light and swiftness.
I walk up the hill, past the hedge, to look for the nests there. Four brownish-grey rabbits are in the grassy field behind the house. They are quite still until they see me. Joan is getting married too. It’s as if they all kept it at bay for so many years, and now they’re grabbing their last chance. The green of the hedge, a few brown leaves, the green of the meadows. There is no end to this land; it simply merges into other land, another hill, and then into sea, always into the sea. I walk all the way to the end of the hedge, where the Henderson’s gate cuts off the path. I take the long pathway back down the other side of the hill. In the graveyard behind the house I stumble over a tree root and fall hard onto my side. My notebook slides into a puddle of water. I immediately fish it out, but the notes have all run together. I remain sitting there for a moment. Perhaps it’s a foolish idea, to study birds like this. Those scientists have studied for years, have read far more than me—perhaps I’ll miss important details, make myself a laughing stock. If I write that the Blue Tit asked me for help, they’ll accuse me of anthropomorphism, though I know for sure that it happened.
I stand up and brush the earth off my dark-red skirt. A grey squirrel with a silvery, almost translucent tail comes out of the hedge in front of my house. He looks at me for a moment, then bobs down to the ground, scampering swiftly back into the dark branches when I move my arm. If I don’t make the attempt, I’ll never know.
On the shortest day of the year, at the end of the afternoon, I find two Christmas cards in the red post-box, one from my sister, sending greetings from Mother and Dudley, and one from Thea in Canada. I put them on the table. I forgot to send cards myself—I’ve been much too busy. The Great Tits have started to enter the house, something that has required many practical adjustments. I have to clean the house daily and I’ve put all my precious possessions out of their way. I’ve put blankets on the sofa, and wash them every week. But perhaps I shouldn’t use the sofa at all—I could replace it with a wooden bench with loose cushions. And the cold is getting harder to bear. During the day I leave the kitchen window and the top light in the sitting room open, so the birds can fly in and out. This afternoon I sat on the wooden chair by the window to study the types of natural food the birds choose in the winter, but even with an extra pullover and a rug across my knees I couldn’t stand it for more than two hours. In the autumn it rained into the house for weeks on end; covering the windowsill with a plastic sheet was the only way to prevent it from going rotten.