As soon as the men start moving, the birds fly up, into the chestnut tree, into the hedge, across the field—to understand the world like this, from a tree, from within a hedge. I can hear the men talking a little longer, laughing, their leader explaining something to them with his deep voice.
The next afternoon I see that the signboard at the top of the path has vanished. I thought I heard soldiers this morning—and now they have a souvenir, something tangible to back up their tall stories. Now there’s no signboard there, and perhaps that’s better. A sign attracts people’s attention, and what the birds most need is peace and quiet.
Black Geese form a V against the white sky. Barbed wire, light mist. I knock, nudge open the back door of the farmhouse, explain the situation, ask as politely as I can.
The woman at the table shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” She drops a potato into the pan of water and takes another from the sack in front of her on the table.
I thank her and leave. There’s no butter anywhere now. Not in Keymer, nor in Westmeston, and probably not in Clayton either. I’ve called at all the farmhouses, but everything has already been taken for the soldiers and quantities are checked. I would be able to manage with the set ration, but it’s not enough for the birds. They say it’s going to be a cold winter and I lost too many Tits last year already.
I walk south along Brighton Road, to Clayton Hill. I would really like to call at one last farmhouse, but my feet are on fire. Moreover, if I walk back via Keymer, I won’t manage to get home before ten. The long, empty fields seem blue; the hedges that divide them are bare. Sheep stand with their backs towards me. They’ve forecast rain, says Theo. He has the radio on all day. Yesterday he said that he thought he should enlist, even though he’s exempt.
A jeep approaches me from behind. I keep close to the hedge. As it passes I see there are four soldiers inside. The driver brakes and then reverses, the sound of the engine higher and louder than just now.
When he reaches me, he leans out. I don’t stop. He drives beside me at walking pace. “Can we give you a lift?”
“No, thanks. And besides, I wouldn’t fit.”
The men at the back whoop. No, not men, they’re boys, spotty, pimply, barely out of school.
“They’ll budge up for you, miss. Aw, come on. We’ll do you a fry-up, at the camp.” A wink, laughter, elbow prods.
“Sorry, chaps.”
The man at the wheel shrugs. “Okay. Up to you.” His voice is raw and smoky, growling above the engine.
All four of them wave at me, children on an outing. I wave back and grin, in spite of myself. On the other side of the road I spot a large bird and hold my breath—a Goshawk.
The path up the hill is muddy. A little stream runs down its centre, over the gravel. I choose the water rather than the clods of mud, hoping that the soles of my boots are high enough. A brown horse looks over the fence at me. I say hallo, then hear a Spotted Woodpecker to my left. A Robin rustles in the hawthorn. A Wagtail flies up as I walk past. The wood begins a few yards further up—I can hear an Owl—last week I saw a Barn Owl in the garden. It wasn’t a warm year, there won’t be enough mice for them.
Dusk settles down among the trees. Blue turns to bluey-grey, ten minutes, dark bluey-grey, twenty, I walk downhill, dark grey against black. I only see my boots because they’re walking, I only walk because there is a rhythm, I follow the rhythm of my feet and move automatically.
At the gate I look for the key to my post-box, the little flag has been raised. The keys are under my purse, at the bottom of my shopping basket. I find them by touch. The lock of the post-box is rusty. I jiggle at it; it takes a while to get it open. Two letters.
“Gwen?”
A tall, bearded man is standing by the oak tree. I haven’t seen him for more than twenty years, but I recognise Paul immediately.
I walk ahead of him, on the path up to the house. My heart is beating so loudly—if he walked closer, he’d hear it. He stays behind me, step by step. “Are you all right?”
He clears his throat. “Yes. But it’s cold.” Foxes are yipping in the distance.
I open the door—the key trembles in my hand—and turn on the light inside. “Sit down.” I indicate the armchair by the hearth. “I’ll make a pot of tea. And would you like something to eat?” He’s shivering. I take his coat, heavy and stiff with dirt. Once he’s sitting in the chair, covered with a blanket, I light the fire.
He gives a faint smile and gazes at the flames. I sort out the bed in the guest room. I mustn’t forget to give him a hotwater bottle. Peetur comes to take a look and flies with me from my shoulder to the linen cupboard.
“You must think it’s strange,” he says. I hand him a cup of tea with plenty of sugar and a slice of cake on the saucer. “Me standing at your door, without warning.” His eyes are dull.
“I’m sorry, there’s no milk. I swop milk for butter, for the Tits and Robins and occasional Sparrow. Milk’s no good for them.”
“I’ve walked all the way.” He dips the cake into his tea. “You’re still busy with birds, are you?” He finishes the cake in three mouthfuls.
“You’ll have to behave yourself, you know. They’re not keen on strangers.”
“And your violin? Come on, play something for the weary traveller.” His shoes are wet.
“Take off your shoes. I’ll fetch some socks.” Socks, bread—and butter, but never mind—another cup of tea. His feet are all red, covered in sores and blisters, craters, hills, all red and white—a miniature landscape of war. He puts the socks on, pulls the blanket up to his armpits.
“Goodness, Gwennie. You’re all grown up now!”
I laugh. “You too.”
He shuts his eyes as I tune my violin. Something light—I play Satie for him, making it sound like an evening: blue, but clear, and not too melancholic.
Meanwhile the fog wraps itself around the house, thicker and thicker, till you can’t see beyond your own hand; the arm simply stops at the elbow and the trees recede gently, tree by tree by tree. The Great Tits have gone to their roosts already, not at all disturbed by the man in the blanket who is simply breathing now, not thinking any more, drifting in and out of sleep as I play—in, out, in, out—till the day turns to night. Till it’s completely silent outside, and the sky is dark grey and heavy.
The next morning he’s already up when I get out of bed. I can hear footsteps move into the kitchen, hear him open the window—someone must be on the windowsill. He comes into the sitting room, starts to make the fire. I can’t have that. We’ll run out of wood soon. I stand. “Paul, I never light the fire during the day. Otherwise we won’t get through the winter.”
“I’ll chop some wood for you.” His voice sounds deeper than before, warmer. Perhaps my memory has distorted its sound. I used to love his voice.
He sits down in the armchair. Hop and Skip watch him from the lamp stand. “Aren’t they tame!”
“I’ve worked at it. They know now that they have nothing to fear from me.” I tell him about my research, that I sometimes write articles on birds for two different magazines about country life: Out of Doors and Countrygoer and Countryman. I’d like to write for a proper scientific journal, but they don’t take my work seriously. “And what about you?”
He tells me that he joined the Forces, the Air Transport Auxiliary. He’d had previous experience of flying and they needed older pilots to ferry the planes, sometimes even to the Continent. He was short of cash, had problems with his lady friend—it seemed the ideal solution. It went well at first, but was hazardous; they were under continual threat of attack from the Germans, even when flying over England. But one dark Tuesday evening he met a girl, big dark eyes, a green frock, a soft laugh. He went back to her parents’ farm with her. It was easy, like clockwork almost. The next morning he woke up in the hay barn. Alone and too late for his flight. One of his friends, Simon, knew about the girl and flew instead of him. The plane was shot down over the Channel. Paul falls silent. Hop swoops down from the lamp to the table, looking for crumbs in the thick chenille. “I couldn’t do a damned thing to stop it. When I got to base, I was immediately hauled before the CO. Someone had apparently said that I’d passed information to the Hun. I denied this at once, of course. They asked for proof. But everyone knows that innocence is hard to prove. I told them about the girl, so they questioned her, but she denied it all. Frightened of her father, I think. Or perhaps it was a trap.”