“The war does strange things to people.” He shrugs. A fact of life. These things happen. Even to the best of us.
“I was in love with him. When I was a girl. But he preferred my cousin. She was a real heartbreaker.”
“Would you like another cuppa?” Because that always makes things better.
I shake my head. “How are Mary and the children?”
“Linda has a cough, and Timmy has too much energy.” He laughs. “I’ll be happy when the winter’s over and I can throw them out of the house again. Mary too.”
While we’re talking a Sparrow lands on the windowsill, not one I know. He pecks at the dry leaves that are piled by the window frame—perhaps there are little beasties there. I tell him about Olive, that she’s taken over my father’s role in the household.
“Until last week I didn’t even know you had a sister. It’s odd though, that they’ve stuck together like that, and you completely went your own way.”
“Olive didn’t dare to leave.” I push the cup away from me. “And she didn’t want me to leave either. My mother used to have my dresses made too small for me, because she adored tiny waists. I always felt that I had to hold my breath.”
Dusk covers the land. I ask him to say hallo to Mary from me, then put on my coat. The thought of Paul hovers around me, like a ghost, the presence of an absence.
“Never say die, Gwen,” Theo says, giving me a thumbs up, a nudge in the right direction, helping me on my way.
The wind carries me further. I walk into the darkness—the hill, the blueness that deepens around me. At home the Great Tits are already seeking out their roosting places. I take up my violin, search for something challenging, Bartok, my fingers slow, my body a rusty machine. All the music is still stored inside it, just a little further off than before.
Loss is understanding that nothing was ever yours.
Grief is understanding that hope has vanished, or not quite understanding it yet.
STAR 12
On 10th September Star perched on the armrest of the green chair with her head pointing down, a sign that she wanted to tap. I went to the window frame with her, where I tapped four times and she imitated me. The next day Dado came by, just when we wanted to begin. Dado and Star were constantly squabbling about the territory within the trees to the west of the cottage. Dado had a mate, Presto, and therefore, according to bird law, she was higher in the pecking order than Star, who had no mate at all. So Dado had the right to chase her away whenever she wanted. Dado flew at Star on the windowsill, then at me, but I would not let her intimidate me and called for Star, who immediately returned. I gave her a nut, then she flew out of the window. Half an hour later she returned for a tapping session, moving her tail restlessly back and forth, as a signal to the Great Tits in the room next door. She was afraid they would prevent her from doing her work. On the following day Star stayed out of doors. I tapped on the armrest of the garden bench, but that startled her and she flew swiftly away. Great Tits use tapping as a way to drive off other birds and Star was not used to tapping outside with me. She would always raise her head feathers when she tapped for me, to signal that the tapping was part of our experiment and that she did not wish to drive me away.
In the last week of September the Great Tits began to tear paper again and to tap against the lampshade in the sitting room, something that really distracted Star. Our sessions grew shorter and were often interrupted. Moreover she was still bothered by Dado, as well as by the Nameless Intruder who had returned to the garden again. One afternoon Monocle came to take a look at what we were doing. Star found her presence annoying and tapped four rather than five. I gave Monocle a peanut to encourage her to fly out of the house, which is exactly what happened. Star immediately wanted to continue with the tapping. Previously it had made her jealous if I gave another bird a nut before she received her own, but now the tapping itself had become important for her. That autumn she displayed no interest in the male birds and during the counting was much more concentrated than before. She now wanted to count whenever we saw each other.
1949
Silver light, sun through the mist. The field doesn’t end, it becomes soft grey then turns into sky. The birds were late this morning: at half past seven Tessa was still in her roosting box. The chill envelopes my skin. I’m shivering. Yesterday I knew for certain that it would be misty today. Yet only a few months ago the birds could still surprise me—because, for example, they were so intently searching for food, then on the next day rainy weather would set in for three weeks. Or they’d stick close to the house one morning, and later there’d be a storm. Last week, however, I realised it was suddenly going to turn hot. Perhaps I can read the weather better now because I’ve lived longer here, but I think I’ve learned this skill from the birds. Or I can see it in their behaviour, without exactly knowing how.
At the bird table Star comes and perches on my shoulder. I give her a peanut from my apron pocket. I want her to come inside soon, to be photographed. But all Great Tits are afraid of strangers. I’ve told the photographer that I can’t make any promises.
I put some more food on the bird table to tempt them—bread, bacon, cheese, raisins.
“Hallo!” It’s Roger, from the well-known journal British Birds, with his camera tucked beneath his brown herringbone coat. His dark eyebrows are wet with mist.
“I thought Joseph would be coming too.”
“He’ll be here later. His train was delayed. And I didn’t want to make you wait.” He smiles his lopsided smile. “And mornings are better for the birdies, right?”
The birdies. I smile, trying not to let my irritation show. Joseph is quite different, not so false.
“Would you like tea? Do sit.” I gesture towards the table.
He wipes the chair with his hand before sitting. “I’ve had a word with the editorial team. We’ve had excellent responses to the piece you sent to us about birdsong. We’d like to make the following proposaclass="underline" we’ll hold the interview today, and that will appear in next week’s issue; and then you’ll have a series of eight articles to follow. Then, if both sides are satisfied, we could extend the agreement.”
I put a cup of tea down for him. This is for the birds, I’m doing this for the birds, I mustn’t spoil things by getting irritated.
“That seems a very good idea.” Another smile, and that’s quite enough.
We discuss deadlines and my fee, and then Joseph arrives, panting, face flushed, hair damp against his head.
“Sorry, I got lost, because of the fog. I ended up behind your house, at your neighbour’s, and she brought me to the top of your path as I was so disorientated. Left, right, couldn’t tell the difference any more. Oh good, a cup of tea. Nice to see you, Gwendolen. Excellent article on variation in birdsong. We were all so impressed. Sorry, I’m babbling. But phew am I glad to be here!”
Bluebeard flies in and straight out again at the sight of my guests.
The first questions are about the Great Tits. I explain that after a few weeks they realised I wouldn’t harm them, and then they came into the house of their own accord. Joseph is humming, making notes. “But what exactly brought you here?” He brushes a lock of hair from his eyes.
“Is that important?”
“Our readers will be curious to know.”
“I’ve always had an interest in birds. My father used to rescue baby birds that had fallen from their nests, and bring them home with him. We even had a tame Crow once.” Charles. Could he still be alive, perhaps?