I learned from the birds themselves that individual intelligence plays a much greater role in their behaviour and choices than biologically determined tendencies, or “instinct”, as scientists call it. In order to study the birds like this, it was important to keep other human beings away from the cottage as much as possible. Birds react to the tiniest change in vocal inflection and to the smallest disturbance in their environment. Even visitors who did their best to make no noise often behaved in such a way that the birds would simply wish to escape as swiftly as possible. Once birds have had a shock it takes a long time for them to return—at least half a day, for the most part.
In my interactions with the Great Tits I have often felt myself to be slow and clumsy. Great Tits have better hearing than humans and a wider field of vision. Their eyes are on the sides of their heads and their vision is partly monocular (seeing differently with each eye) and partly binocular (with two eyes at the same time). This gives them a very wide range indeed. Their powers of observation are far sharper than those of humans. They are much more sensitive, not only to disturbances in their environment, but also to changes in the weather, to the colour of fruit and especially of berries, and to the movements of other creatures. There are, of course, many similarities too. Just like people, they are creatures of habit. Like us they have fixed rituals, when eating or going to sleep, for example. There are always around six or seven Great Tits sleeping in roosting boxes inside the house. Some birds only come indoors when it is really cold, but others will sleep in a box fixed to the picture rail below the bedroom ceiling for most of the year.
Like us, birds have countless ways of communicating with each other: through calls and songs, posture, the sound their wings make, eye contact, touching, movements, little dances. My interactions with the Great Tits soon became just as rich and varied. I regularly spoke to them. They would intuitively know from the tone of my voice what I intended, and in the course of time they learned the meaning of the words I used. They understood my gestures and we would make eye contact with each other. Some of the birds even enjoyed perching near me or on me.
Birds always see me quicker than I see them. When I turn my face towards them, they have already turned to me. And it is not only that they see me quicker because their eyes are set on the sides of their heads; it is also because they move more swiftly. At first I had the feeling that they understood me better than I understood them, but later I could read them just as well as they could read me. I understood some individuals better than others, of course, just as is the case with people. A few birds were really speciaclass="underline" Baldhead, for example, the male Great Tit, who in the last days of his life was so tame that he lay in my lap all day long. And there was Twist, a brave and very intelligent female, who was my first guide in the language of Great Tits. And Star, of course, the cleverest Great Tit I have been privileged to know, and the one with whom I developed the closest ties.
1911
It feels as if someone has opened a door into my heart so the warmth can stream in. A little door, or a window perhaps. I run towards Olive, at the bottom of the garden, through the summer grass, the soft grass. Everything is so green.
“Is Father there yet?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Have you smelled the roses? Look, they’re in full bloom now.” I clasp hold of a rose in the hedge behind her and bend it down to her.
She nods, then stretches her back. “Would you be a darling and fetch me a drink? I’ve been on my feet all day.” She had to spend the day with Mother, shopping for dresses.
I walk back to the house, more slowly now, step by step by step. Mother stops me in the conservatory. “Gwen, are you ready for the performance? Your father will be down in less than half an hour. He’ll recite some of his latest poems, then Paul will read one of his sequences, and then you perhaps could play that Bach suite for us.”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Gwendolen.” She gives me a stern look.
“Yes, Mother.” I carry on to the kitchen, where I ask Tessa if I may have a glass of champagne, “For my sister.”
“And how are the birdies, miss?”
“The baby Great Tit didn’t survive. But yesterday I let the Magpie fly away. That seems to be going well.”
“You’re a real angel, miss. I was just saying that to Cook.”
I wave goodbye and take the champagne out. Paul is leaning against the doorpost, his curls making little circles on the wall, his face turned to the low evening sun. As I pass him, he turns towards me. I jump, blush, pretend I haven’t seen him.
“Gwendolen?”
I look back.
“Is that really wise, before your performance?”
“It’s for Olive.” My fingers firmly clasp the glass. I mustn’t grasp it too tightly, otherwise it will shatter. And I mustn’t let go.
“I know. I was just teasing.”
I blush even more now.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”
I nod and swiftly walk on. The champagne is splashing over the brim of the glass and onto my fingers. I should have said something about his poems, that my father let me read them, and that they’re alive, they fly, they move me.
“Thanks.” Olive has put the parasol up, even though she is sitting in the shade. “Are you about to start?”
“Papa will be there soon. In half an hour.”
From the corner of my eye I can see Paul diminishing, a doll in evening dress, a little man on a bridal cake. My cousin Margie speaks of marriage as if it were a form of imprisonment.
“Will you play the Bach Cello Suite?”
I nod in agreement, running through the notes in my head.
“Is Stockdale here?”
“He’s supposed to be coming.” I hope he does. Stockdale conducts a London orchestra and it’s a while since he last heard me play. I’ve improved. I’ve studied very hard these past few months.
Charles, the Crow that Papa raised, flies into the ivy. He hops onto my outstretched hand, then back onto a branch. He doesn’t like all this commotion. He flies off and as he does so poops on the rim of Mr Wayne’s glass, who only spots it as he takes a sip of his champagne. Wayne teaches music in Towyn.
“That vile man.” Olive pulls a face.
Last time Stockdale was here he made eyes at Margie, rather conspicuously, I thought. She’s twenty-two years old and is studying at the Slade School of Art. She’s staying with us this summer because her parents are travelling. Margie flirts with everyone and they all put up with it because she seems so innocent. Stockdale clearly thought he’d hooked her, until at the end of the evening Margie began to yawn terribly and excused herself, giving a little wave at us from the staircase before vanishing.
Olive takes the bowl of nuts from the table and puts it on the edge of her chair. She picks out the tastiest, popping them into her mouth, one after another.
Tessa comes to fetch us. It’s warm inside, a throng of people, bodies that leave hardly any space, words that barely or don’t reach their targets. Words that simply express habit, that hardly mean anything else at all.
People travel far for these soirées. My father is the only one in this part of Wales to organise such evenings on a regular basis. Stockdale presses my hand. A little too long. He breathes out so heavily that the carnation in his buttonhole trembles.