Darky, the old male Blackbird who always sings long before sunrise, perches on the windowsill.
“I found the city oppressive. The people.” I whistle at Darky. He tilts his head to one side, but then something startles him and he flies out. I also startle a little—I often see what they see.
Theo looks questioningly at me.
I smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?” I walk to the kitchen, where Peetur is perched on the tap. He likes to put his beak in the running water—I don’t know if he’s drinking or playing, something of both, it seems. I turn on the tap for him.
STAR 13
The Intruder finally left the garden at the end of October, and Monocle lost her interest in tapping—her mate Tinky occupied most of her attention. The greatest nuisance at that time was Drummer, whom I’d so named for good reasons—he hammered away all day long, much to Star’s displeasure: she found it too distracting. Perhaps Drummer thought that Star’s tapping was her way of communicating with him. He always came when we were busy and would tap on the wood, like Star, but without any kind of structure in his tapping. Once or twice I tried to encourage him to imitate my taps, but he never grasped the intention. One morning Drummer chased Star away, and then Joker took her place. I tapped three times for her, saying “Tap three”. I repeated this four times, and then she did give three taps. That was the only time she copied me like that. The following time I tried to tap with her, she swiftly flew into another room.
The next day I called Star, who came to the windowsill. I gave her three taps and then Drummer appeared. He immediately started tapping. Star flew at him and chased him out of the window. Then Drummer came back and drove Star away. It had nothing to do with the peanuts, but was all to do with the tapping and my attention. An hour later Star returned, with Drummer in her wake. Joker also came to the windowsill and started tapping. Drummer chased Joker off, who then went after Star. Then the other Tits grew restless and Drummer flew into the room next door to drive them away.
In the following days Star would arrive very early, so we could tap together before the others appeared. In the course of the morning Drummer would turn up, then Joker would come in the afternoon. But Star watched out for moments when the others were out of sight, keeping a careful lookout for any opportunity.
1952
“Ta-da!” Joseph is holding a package aloft.
“Come in.” I put down the bucket of soapy water and wipe my hand on my skirt.
He follows me into the sitting room. “The second impression. After one week.” He hands me the parcel, then delves into his bag. First a book emerges, then a pair of socks, and then a bottle of champagne. He puts the bottle on the table and pushes the rest back into the bag.
“Don’t you think it’s a little early for this?”
“It’s never too early for a celebration. Come on, Gwendolen, or may I say Len now?”
He presses the bottle into my hands and comes into the kitchen with me. “I’ve had another three translation requests: from Germany, the Netherlands and Spain.”
“Really?”
He helps himself to a glass and gives me a triumphant look. “Cheers!” He clinks his glass against mine.
“Sshh. Not so loud.”
“Well, the birds will gain from this too. Your book is certainly going to make people think. How’s the sequel going?” He puts his glass back down on the table. Another rap.
It took me years to write the first book. “Steadily. I’m making notes for it, but the birds demand a lot of time.”
“There’s no rush. It’s just that you’ve caught people’s attention at the moment, so it would be marvellous if you could have your first draft ready by the end of this year.”
“I’ll do my best.” I don’t know if I want to write another book. I have enough material, enough ideas. But it’s so difficult to explain properly what I mean. People are so picky, they think the research is pointless, say I’m imagining things. Konrad Lorenz’s book, in which he describes how he lives with all kinds of animals, is treated far more seriously than mine, probably because he has proper qualifications, writes scientific articles, is a man. Yet his observations are less original than mine. Moreover, the birds have freely chosen to live with me, whereas Lorenz rears his and so influences their behaviour. The basic principles are utterly different.
Broomstick flies in. He is the only Robin who regularly comes inside the house: last year a pair came twice to take a look; and the second summer I lived here there was a Robin who would often perch on the windowsill. Robins are far more self-sufficient than Great Tits. Perhaps my critics are right—I could simply be making it all up and I don’t know for sure whether I’m interpreting everything correctly. I never know for sure. But I also think that other scientists don’t know for sure either. In a controlled environment you still have to interpret the facts; you always start out with specific hypotheses. Moreover, even with regard to people, you can’t ever really be sure. For example, I don’t know what Joseph is thinking now. I think he thinks I’m attractive, but he’ll never dare to tell me.
I take a sip of champagne, follow Broomstick with my eyes. Joseph sits down at the table. “Aren’t you ever lonely?”
“No. Are you?”
He laughs. “You’ve got the birds. But don’t you ever long for company?”
“Well, you’re here now.” Birds are excellent housemates. Demanding, but they give a great deal as well.
“You know what I mean.”
“That’s Broomstick.” Broomstick has perched on the handle of my broom. “Robins hardly ever come indoors. He’s an exception.”
“I can see how he acquired his name.” Joseph sits down at the piano and plays a folk song, driving Broomstick off the broom handle again. I sit still and drink. Busby, the cheeky male Blackbird, comes to take a look. Star flies onto the windowsill, then away again.
“I’m very grateful to all of you,” I say when he stands. “Especially you. For all your dedication.”
“Len, we’re awfully pleased with you. And I’ve got something else here.” He puts a bag on the table. “Letters from your readers.” He shakes them out of the bag.
“Do I have to read all of those?” I pick up a letter from the pile and open the envelope. It’s quite a story, three pages long. “Dear Miss Howard, your marvellous book describes something so familiar to me. I have the sensation that we know each other well, that we’re old acquaintances.” I return it to its envelope.
“That’s up to you.”
Tipsy perches on the table, his head cocked, and starts to peck at the envelope. “He’s already shredded two letters from the taxman this week.”
He laughs. “You’re quite something, Len. Listen. There’s a way we could attract even more attention to the book. Interviews. Readings. Could you do something like that?”
“Roger told you to ask me, didn’t he?”
“But it is a good idea, Len. We only want the best for you. For you and your work.” He looks at me pleadingly, crinkling his brown puppy-dog eyes.
“Sorry. That’s not something I could do.”
“Think it over.” He gestures towards the pile of letters, where four Great Tits are now busily pecking. “It could help the birds.”
When he leaves I walk part of the way with him. There’s a Guinea Fowl in one of the gardens, a living statue. Three of the neighbouring farmhouses have stood empty since the war. They’re rebuilding the world now, but not here. Joseph is shivering, in spite of the heat. “Goodness, Gwen, how can you stand it here?”