“Why do you think so?”
“I don’t know, it just feels wrong. I’d never missed a flight before.” He taps his forefinger on the arm of the chair.
Hop finds something in the tablecloth and flies out of the window with it.
“Two weeks back there was a bit of a scuffle as they were exercising the prisoners, and I was able to escape. I hid in an empty cabin in the woods, and when the food ran out, I went on the tramp. I thought of your father. He was always good to me.”
Father always saw Paul as more of a son than Kingsley or Duds.
“Someone told me that your sister is taking care of your Mother and Dudley. They live in Budleigh Salterton, right?”
I nod. “Newman died in 1936, of pneumonia.” It’s been a long time since I thought about my father. I pinch my thigh.
“And your older brother?”
“Kingsley stayed in France after the First World War. We thought he’d been lost in action, but in 1919 he wrote a letter to say that he’d met someone and that the girl already had his child.”
“In the Forces then, like me.”
My mother visited him in France once. She didn’t say much about it, just that he had a darling wife, and two darling children. “Darling”—a word cast over things to soften them. Hop flies in again, straight to the chenille cloth. He pecks at it as if it’s a lawn.
“And then I heard you were living alone in Ditchling. Closer than Devon, and with the advantage that just one person would know that I’m here.”
“So, you’re not here for me, then.” It’s a joke, not a reproach.
“You haven’t let me finish what I was saying.” He sounds offended. “And that person would be you. I know you found me attractive, in the past—but you were still too young. I shouldn’t have had that fling with Margaret. I know it broke your heart.”
“Don’t overrate yourself.” That day by the water—the heat, the boat, the wet chemise. “Margie has lived in France for years too, with her husband.”
“And didn’t you ever marry?”
I shake my head. Thomas sent me a letter last year, saying he missed me. It’s in the top drawer of my desk. Skip flies out. Hop follows him, tries to overtake him at the top window, veers sharply at the last moment so as not to fly against the pane. A few tiny feathers lie on the table. I pick them up and put them in the drawer, with the other feathers. It’s a shame to throw them away.
“And what are your plans?”
“I’d hoped to stay here a while. To catch breath.” He looks questioningly at me. I bide my time. “And then I’ll go north. I have a friend who lives in Scotland, with his parents.”
There is no plan. “How long is a while?”
“A week?” He searches my face for clues. “A few days?”
“A week is fine. I’m afraid I don’t have enough supplies for any longer.”
He nods, barely. “I’ll sort out my own food.”
“You’re not going to sort out anything at present. Just rest a while. But how’s Patricia?”
“She’s divorced. Living in London and working for a small publishing firm.” He says she’s living with a woman and is much happier now. “I’ll tell her you said hallo.”
I give a whistle as I put food on the bird table and realise that I’m doing this because the birds are avoiding me. “Sorry,” I say to Star, all bright and cheery. She then lands on my shoulder and hops down to my open hand for her peanut.
That afternoon, after cleaning the house, I walk to the Alfords’ farm across the fields behind Bird Cottage. My boots leave prints in the wet grass, carry mud along, then drop it again a little further on. Sink, tug. The Alfords have dairy cows and if Mrs Alford isn’t there, I can perhaps buy some butter or cheese. The Great Tits follow me, flitting around my head. Little Michael is playing in the sandpit in front of the house.
“Is your Daddy at home?”
He nods, runs inside. The birds fly to the hedge.
“Hullo, Gwen.” Michael senior’s face seems more furrowed than normal.
“How are you?” I ask. In the air above the meadow Starlings are dipping and diving in formation together—opening, closing, circling.
He tells me that his wife has been ill all week. The doctor is coming tomorrow.
“Do you have enough food?”
“Food isn’t the problem.” He takes me to the cowshed. “Sit down, won’t you?” The breathing of the cows helps me relax, their warmth briefly embraces me. “We simply don’t earn enough. I can’t pay the doctor with coupons.”
Little Michael comes into the shed with a drawing. “It’s a Great Tit!”
“Very good!” A triangle protrudes from a circle—that must be the beak—and there’s a pair of little twigs for the legs.
As I begin to return the drawing, he tells me I can keep it.
“He’s always watching the birds,” his father says. “And he’s very keen on the Swallows.” They nest in the byre here each summer. Alford is planning to sell his cows, so how much longer will the Swallows come?
He fetches a piece of butter, wraps it in brown paper. “This is all I have.”
I thank him profusely and tuck it into my bag with the drawing. Little Michael comes out with me. When I stretch my arms, the Great Tits fly from the hedge and perch on my arms and head. Michael imitates me and looks very crestfallen when they don’t come to him. Then he pretends to be a bird, flying in front of me to the field with the sheep, over the gate, running ahead with widespread arms till we reach the cemetery. Then he circles a few times. “And now fly away home,” I say.
Night-time, his breath against my cheek, then the brush of his lips. I don’t stop him, but don’t turn my face to him either.
“Len.” He takes my arm.
I step aside, shake his arm off.
“Come on.” He takes my hand, opens the door to the bedroom.
I shake my head and give a light smile. I squeeze his hand a moment, release it, then enter my bedroom.
The birds are already sleeping. The sheets are damp. I really ought to have a fire in the bedroom too. I hear Paul enter the guest room. It’s windy outside, branches lashing. The guest-room door opens again. He goes to the lavatory, urinates. I pull up the blanket that lies at the foot of the bed. His footsteps sound in the passage, then go silent, but the door doesn’t open. It starts to rain. Drops tap softly against the windowpane, then louder. Then I hear the door after all, slow steps, the creaking bed.
The shadow of the tree by the window crosses the curtain, sends an echo across the ceiling, over the blanket. Over me under the blanket. I pinch the sheet. Shadows roam the room. I don’t know how long it takes before I fall asleep.