The birds haven’t only adapted to the house, but also to me. At first they would immediately fly outside whenever I moved, but now they keep a careful eye on what my body tells them. If I move gently, they stay where they are—this is how they’ve trained me into adjusting my own movements. They still startle if there are abrupt movements or unexpected noises, such as the telephone or the doorbell. There is a particular group of about eight Great Tits who are always visiting. Such darlings. The Sparrows are bossy, annoying characters; they drive away the other birds if they get half a chance. The Blue Tits are a little shyer than the Great Tits—they don’t often allow themselves to be seen. Blackbirds sometimes visit, but generally go about their business. Up to now the Robins have only come as far as the windowsill. Last week a large male Great Tit came to the garden. He has a missing claw, as if he caught his foot in something. I call him Tiptoe. He doesn’t ever get flustered, and this morning he came and sat on my hand a moment, while I was writing. His claws tickled. I was unable to hold my hand still for very long, so off he flew, at the first sign of movement.
I go and sit at the piano and play a few notes. Yesterday I heard one of the Blackbirds repeat a Bach motif. The back door blows open, then slams shut. On the table the top sheets of paper are blown off. The bird music. When I go to lock the door I see a figure by the path.
“Hallo?” No one answers. It must have been a ghost from the graveyard.
The wind increases: trees that before were sighing are now creaking. I don’t know where all the creatures are, how they cope with this weather. I know so little. Greenie didn’t come at all yesterday. I was afraid something had happened to her, but today she was here as usual. Sometimes I have the feeling that I’ll never get a grip on it all. That I’ll remain an outsider forever.
The house lets the wind in; there are gaps under the door, between the walls, in the window frames. We breathe with each other. The door was once a tree. I tap my fingers on the table, decide to make another cup of tea. After all, I won’t be able to sleep in this weather.
The rose bush sweeps back and forth, from upright to almost flat on the ground. Branches swish. The bird table blows over, and the chair. The wind drowns the clatter.
Lightning. Silence. Crack.
I move the green chair to the window. The rain is now a constant stream of grey, blocking out the view. I can only see movement. Time is like movement; the grey gives this evening its shape. The word “evening” makes it seem that an evening is a specific thing, whereas every evening is different. Before was never like now.
The apple tree bends, cracks. I can’t see whether a branch has broken off.
The rain forms a screen in front of the window. I could simply walk through it, into the garden, into the darkness, towards the future. To be surrounded by something greater than yourself, that is the dream of all mystics.
In the morning I take stock of the damage. The oak to the east of the house has lost a large bough, just like the apple tree by the hedge, but otherwise only twigs have broken off. The birds are calm and quiet, but there are fewer of them than usual. I don’t know if they perhaps fled from the storm; I don’t know where they could flee. I twice put food out on the bird table, for those who are still here—they certainly need an extra source of energy. Two strangers are visiting: a Robin and a Thrush. Perhaps the wind has blown them this way. The Thrush keeps its distance, the Robin copies the other Robins and goes to the bird table. It’s often like that. Birds watch the behaviour of others of their kind to determine whether they’re safe, if they can come closer. I move my hand, the Robin makes a little sideways hop, then immediately returns. He seems to be an oldish chap. The sky is blue; the night’s oppressiveness has made way for feelings of relief. I go into the house. It’s time to knead the dough, otherwise this afternoon’s bread won’t be ready.
STAR 10
In October Star came and perched on the windowsill again, using the pose that showed she wanted to tap. I was talking to Garth on the telephone. “Hang on a minute.” I tapped five times, and held the receiver by the sill. She tapped five times in response. My friend was well able to hear it and reacted with enthusiasm. In the weeks that followed, Star and I continued to practise. The experiment made swift progress. Star never looked at me at all during the tapping and I am certain she reacted only to my voice; I made sure that I gave her no clues with my body.
In November I tried to interest other Great Tits in counting. Beauty, the son of Star and Baldhead, already liked to tap the lampshades. One quiet afternoon I tapped a couple of times against the shade with a pencil. He did not understand, flew away while I was tapping, then swiftly returned to fetch his peanut when I had finished. After that I tried Monocle. She did tap, but never the exact number I requested. She would generally give four taps and then very proudly come to ask for a nut. Star and Monocle had never again quarrelled after Baldhead’s death, but Star became jealous if I was busy with another bird. Then she would sit somewhere close by and swiftly tap out the correct number.
In Nature I read about a study on Pigeons that showed they responded to instructions from the human voice. I decided to try this with Star. “Four,” I said one morning and tapped four times. She tapped four too, and I gave her a nut. “Four,” I said again. She kept looking at me. “Four.” She hesitated, then bent forward and very swiftly tapped four times. We repeated this again later in the day: first by tapping at the same time as saying the word, and then with the word alone; she seemed to grasp the aim very well. In the weeks that followed she learned five, six, seven and eight in the same fashion. The number nine was not successful, because I could not tap it quickly enough. Time passes much more swiftly for birds than for human beings and my slow tapping probably bored Star. She always started to tap when I reached eight, so we never managed a higher number. This was our way of working that winter.
1943
The Canadians loom up from the mist, in the darkness of the coming winter, as if in a dream, something from former times. There are six of them, all heavily wrapped, their helmets an unnecessary ornament. The fellow in front is forcing his way through the hedge.
“Hey, hey, wait.” I run out in my slippers. “You can’t just do that.”
A tall man steps forward. “We’re on exercise, moving through the gardens into the town. We can’t take account of the inhabitants.”
The Great Tits have flown out of the hedge and they perch on me.
The man stares at me with his mouth half open, till I take a step forward. “Wow. I’ve been in England for years now, and I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve never seen any wild birds behave like this. Anywhere.”
I tell him about the birds that live here. That I’m researching them—their language, habits and individual characteristics. That birds are more sensitive to disturbance than people and that it took years to build this trust. Trust precedes friendship, precedes every close relationship, but it grows deeper if it isn’t betrayed.
“So this isn’t an English custom? You just decided to live with these birds?” He takes off his helmet.
“The Great Tits decided to live in the house with me.”
Patch flies towards me, hesitates, but then lands on my head.
“Amazing. Never seen birds so tame before.” He leans towards me to take a better look. Patch flies away. “Listen, we’ll change our plans. A little tricky, but we’ll have to do it. Pay attention, guys.” The men listen less carefully than the Great Tits. He tells them to bypass the garden. The fellow in the hedge is still stuck there. His leader gives him a look, warning him to take care.