Jane’s eggs hatched at the start of May. Now Baldhead completely lost interest in Grey and her nest. A few days later, when Grey’s own eggs had also hatched, she eagerly flew to Jane’s nest box, where Jane and Baldhead completely ignored her. In the days that followed she increasingly attempted to catch Baldhead’s attention, making longer and longer sobbing notes—it sounded like a baby crying. Halfway through May she came back for the first time to fetch cheese from me, and in the days that followed I helped her to feed her nestlings. If she caught sight of Jane or Baldhead she’d call to them. They continued to ignore her. Grey fed her babies alone, and with my help she had more than enough food for them. But she herself hardly ate anything.
A few days later she didn’t come to the bird table in the morning. I found her on the ground by the tree where Jane and Baldhead’s nest box was. Whenever they flew by with food for their youngsters, she tried to attract their attention. Her cry was so plaintive and her movements so panicky that it upset me to watch her. She seemed to have entirely forgotten her nestlings. That afternoon she died, from exhaustion and sorrow. Her children died a few hours later.
I re-read what I’ve written. Although most of the reactions to my earlier articles were positive, I also received some critical letters. People think that I’ve given the birds human characteristics. They don’t understand that such characteristics really aren’t just human. Birds also quarrel, feel love and experience sorrow. I only write what I see. Perhaps I should take out the words about Grey dying of sorrow and about her panicky movements. Agitated, unusual, extremely intense—there’s not a single word that is as panicky as panicky. Is it panicky? I think of the panic that I myself would feel—is panic perhaps too large a word for such a little creature? Yet it does best describe the behaviour I observed. I stand, take a walk round the table. Baldhead comes and perches on the typewriter. “Come on now. Off with you.” I take the paper out and drape a tea towel over the machine. “What do you think, Baldhead? Are you thinking anything at all?” He flies out of the window, across the hedge and out of the garden, without a backward glance.
The day after the sixth article has been published, I receive a telephone call from Roger. “Gwen, we’d like to propose something.”
Peetur pecks at my sock. I try to shake him off my foot. “Yes?”
“How would you feel about writing a book?” His voice sounds solemn. I twiddle my toes, but that has no effect, so I lift up my foot and give little kicks at the air.
“I don’t believe I have the time for that.” Teaser lands next to Peetur and hops onto my other foot. Now both of them are pecking—perhaps it’s the wool that attracts them. I push them off with my hand. Tomorrow I’ll go and buy them some mealworms.
“We’ll give you an advance.”
I rub one foot against the other—they fly up, then land again. “Off,” I say sternly.
“This is your chance to make your research known. It would present birds in a completely different light. And you yourself can choose what to write about.”
I push the Great Tits off my foot. This time Teaser stays away, but Peetur is very persistent. “I’ll give it some thought.” Writing already costs so much time. I really can’t see how I could make a whole book about this. On the other hand, I could then go more deeply into their life stories and describe all their relationships. I hang up, push Peetur off my foot. “Come on. Off with you.” He startles and I immediately feel guilty. And really there’s nothing wrong with him pecking a few threads of wool from that sock. “Come on then,” I say to him. He lingers at the window a while. When I sit down at the table with my sketchbook he perches on my foot again, with a very satisfied expression on his face. He picks a thread loose and takes it into his roosting box. He immediately comes back for another one.
And so he contentedly continues. I get hold of my notebook to jot down a few thoughts. Peetur has now set his heart on a red thread at the top of my sock. Birds think by doing, but perhaps that’s what we all do.
I re-read the fragments I’ve written. Not everything is suitable for a book. But the birds’ biographies must definitely be included. And the descriptions of their play, their song, their relationships and encounters. I find my notebooks and all the things I’ve noted. I don’t know how interested people will be in knowing who likes cheese and who doesn’t, or how many times a day Star flies in and out. Teaser perches on my hand, then flutters up to my head. It doesn’t matter what people want. I have to do justice to their lives and their world.
A soft tap. “Hallo, Gwen.” Theo puts his head round the door, then slowly opens it.
“Good morning.”
“Have you discovered anything else of interest?” He comes and stands by the table.
“They’ve asked me to write a book.” I point at the chair, but he doesn’t sit down.
“Well, that’s wonderful!”
“What’s the matter?” I try not to sound irritated, even though this is the second time I’ve been disturbed today.
“Have you seen it?” He’s never usually as tentative as this.
“Seen what?”
He puts a newspaper down in front of me. “Bird Woman Lands in Ditchling.” Next to the headline there’s a cartoon of a witch-like creature with a huge beaky nose, embellished with a couple of warts.
“Is that meant to be me?”
He nods, but daren’t look me in the eye. I laugh. “And what do they say about me?”
He laughs too, clearly relieved. “That you’re carrying out so-called research but that you have no scientific background and the stories you write are simply invented.”
“The first charge is true. I’ll never deny that. The second is false and anyone can check the facts.” A few weeks ago I was interviewed by a reporter from a bird magazine. I bought cake for him at Theo’s. He stayed a long time and bombarded me with questions. I thought he was genuinely interested in my way of life, until I read the article. He wrote that I thought I could converse with birds. I hadn’t said that at all. I just said that they often understand my meaning from the tone of my voice, and that they can also learn to recognise words.
“They’re attacking that journal too.” His voice sounds a little hoarse. Perhaps he hasn’t slept well.
“I know where these ideas come from and I believe Roger will put paid to them.” I pick up the newspaper and take another look at the drawing. “Quite a good likeness, really.” Tinky perches on the piano.
“Do you ever play now?”
I follow his gaze. “Sometimes. The piano oftener than the violin, strangely. They never wanted me to play the piano when I was young, because I wasn’t truly proficient. They didn’t want to listen to the scales. I could practise the violin in my bedroom, upstairs, and that bothered them less. My sister was a very good piano player.” I’ve heard nothing from Olive for some time now. I keep meaning to write to her. There are always things that take precedence.
“Why did you actually come here?”
Tinky flies up. He always hesitates a moment before taking off.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, then of course you don’t have to.”