She shakes her head. “We have two little girls living with us now, six and eight years old. Evacuees, from London. They’re sweet kids, but very poor. Their cardies were in absolute tatters when they came to us. But we got them new outfits, of course. They adore the garden, with the hens and all the birds. And when there’s no school, which is often, I take them for little walks. When they first came they couldn’t tell the difference between a Sparrow and a Great Tit! And they love the beach. They can spend hours looking for clams and cockles and razor shells.”
We’re walking past the meadow where the White-fronted Geese graze. They fly up when we come too near. They’re growing increasingly timid because each year more of them are shot.
When we reach the church she wishes to climb up to it—it’s on a hill, and there’s an old graveyard with a view over Lewes Road and South Street, all the way to the Downs.
“Swallows nest here in the summer. Baby Swallows are my favourite birds—they’re so playful!” Knowing the world through flight, mapping the land below, being light enough for that.
“Oh, you can see so far from up here.” She’s gasping for breath.
I point to the Anne of Cleves House on the other side of the street, which Henry VIII granted her when they divorced. We go down the steep steps back to the road and then walk across it. I take the suitcase from her. Her hand is cold, bony. She really is very thin. She holds herself like an old woman. I’m old too. Since Paul left, I haven’t had my monthly period. We walk the last section in silence. The air smells of fire—perhaps they’re burning rubbish somewhere. In the pine tree opposite the cottage something or someone is rustling. Last week I spotted a Buzzard here.
When we’re inside I make up the fire—it’s evening now, and winter. I give her the slice of cake that Mary gave me. She wolfs it down. “There’ll be bread and soup later. I know it’s not much.”
“It’s more than we have.” She takes a last large bite. “All these bird boxes in your bedroom. Papa would have liked that.” In the past Olive would have called them filthy. She closes her eyes, turns her face to the warmth of the fire.
“Paul was here, you know. For a few days. At the end of last year. He’d had problems in the Air Force. He went north, afterwards, to a friend. He was going to let me know when he arrived. But I never heard anything else from him at all.”
Olive opens her eyes, a little wider than usual, sweeping her gaze like a searchlight across my face. “Haven’t you heard, then?”
“Heard what?”
“He was a traitor. They caught him in January, put him in prison in London, then executed him.”
I take a deep breath.
“It was in all the papers.”
Everyone knows that innocence is hard to prove. My face is burning. All sensation has left the rest of my body. Olive touches my arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that you two were still in touch. Otherwise I’d have let you know.” Hop swoops in and then immediately out again when he sees that the lamp is lit. They don’t like artificial light.
He could have chopped wood. No one needed to know anything about it. I shake my head. The light is still crumbling in fragments in front of me; in the fire a piece of wood breaks apart.
The Alfords had no milk, or butter, or cheese. We walk silently along Spatham Road to the next farmhouse. The trees at the side of the road are bare, hard lines against the grey sky. No birds in sight.
Olive walks with her shoulders hunched forward, head down, a weary donkey. Trees become bushes, then fields, then trees again. The clouds in the distance are almost black.
“It’s not going to rain, is it?” Her voice sounds croaky.
“I couldn’t say.”
“You knew I was coming to visit, didn’t you? Why couldn’t you sort this out before?”
“What do you mean?”
She gestures towards the farms in the distance. “There’s enough to eat here, surely?”
I tell her there’s barely enough, and that I’m always having to hunt out food for the birds too. She gives me a fierce look, like the vixen whom I accidentally disturbed in her den last summer.
“Olive, are you happy, living with Mother and Dudley?”
“What kind of a question is that?” She stands still. “It’s easy enough for you, apparently, to abandon people. That’s not how I am.”
I start walking again and she follows. “It’s normal for children to lead their own lives.”
“Easily said, for you.”
“I haven’t abandoned anyone.”
That look again. “You never visit. It was really difficult for Mother, that you went away. And someone has to look after Dudley.”
The sky grows darker. I quicken my pace. Olive lags behind. I take her arm. “We have to hurry now. The next farm is still quite far away.”
The morning has made the grass wet. Dewdrops slide across my toecaps. I wave at the train until it’s out of sight. Olive has taken two bags of food away with her. We spent all yesterday trekking to farms and orchards. She’s wearing my best shoes. I do hope that Olive’s visit hasn’t disturbed the birds too much. The coming months won’t be easy for them. A truck drives past, soldiers, hooting. I raise my hand and wave them away.
A traitor. I raise my coat collar. He lied, about that friend in Scotland, and I knew he was lying and that’s why I didn’t want him to stay. Because he’d lied to me before. If he’d been straight with me, he could have stayed. Perhaps I should go and visit the girl he was talking about, work out what really happened. And I should write to Patricia too.
There are two boys by the pond—schoolboys, no older than ten. They’re hurling stones.
“Stop that at once!” I stride firmly towards them.
The smaller one pulls his cap over his forehead. “Why, miss?”
“You should be ashamed of yourselves. Throwing stones at the Moorhens.”
“We’re just skimming stones,” the bigger one stammers.
“If you two don’t stop, and quickly, I’ll let your parents know and then you’ll be for it!”
“But we’re not throwing stones at the birds.”
The Moorhens are on the other side of the pond, hiding among the reeds, keeping a careful eye on us.
At the end of the street I turn around to check. The boys are still by the pond. It does indeed look as if they’re skimming stones.
I tap at the shop window and give a wave. Theo beckons me to come in. “Cup of tea, Gwen? It’s so cold. Has your sister gone home now?” He listens to the radio a little longer before switching it off.
“I’ve just brought her to the train.”
“Sit down.” The shop feels empty. Theo’s stock has dwindled by at least half. He gave Olive soap, tea and flour to take home with her. Too much, really. She’d have protested if she hadn’t needed it so badly.
I pick at a hangnail. Old skin by an old fingernail, dead matter.
“They’re saying that the Germans have lost half their troops already. That it’s just a question of time.”
“That would be good. I can hardly get enough butter for the birds. And without that, my research can go to blazes.” I’m writing an article about bird intelligence for Out of Doors and Countrygoer.
“Gwen, millions have died on the Continent. Ordinary people. Children. I don’t want to deny the importance of your research, but what’s happening there is of an entirely different order.” He pours the tea, adds sugar, and a drop of milk. He looks up at me. “And birds have survived cold winters before now. They’ll cope.”
I lift the cup from the saucer, blow on the tea.
“Is something the matter?”
“Olive told me that a friend of mine has been executed. A good friend. From long ago. A poet. He was a traitor, or so they say. I just can’t imagine it.”