“Last question. Do you still intend to write an academic article about that Great Tit, what was his name again, the one from the counting experiment?”
“Her name is Star. Yes, possibly. Garth asked if I’d like to write an article with him.” And there are others who are interested in my work. But opinions always differ about the exact methods to use in order to understand what is going on with birds. They want to measure it. As if feelings were numbers.
“Good idea. It would be a shame to lose all this.”
Later I think about that sentence. A shame to lose all this. It won’t be lost. It exists between me and the birds, for as long as it lasts, and for some birds that is for the whole of their lives.
“We regret to inform you that we cannot accept your article. Your investigation is extremely original and your writing demonstrates a deep understanding of the Great Tits you have studied. Unfortunately, it is simply too unscientific to be published in Nature. If you could replicate the experiment, or better still, enable someone else to replicate it, we would gladly consider such a report.”
For a while I remain seated with the letter (no more than ink on paper, pigment on a dead tree). Garth had already said that it probably would not be accepted, even though they’ve accepted other people’s work on Jackdaws and Pigeons. “That’s the danger of swimming against the stream,” he’d added. “Perhaps, in time, the scientific world will have second thoughts about this.”
I had been explaining to him precisely why my way of investigating the Great Tits casts new light on them—because they have to trust you, because they’re all individuals with their own preferences and desires, just like us—till he interrupted me.
“Gwen, you know I’m very interested in your work. I think it gives an insight into aspects of bird life that no one else has previously considered. But I can’t help you. We could set up a research project together, but it would have to be in a laboratory. Otherwise I’d lose all credibility, and we wouldn’t convince the scientific world. You could bring Star with you. We could set up a replica of your house. And there’d be enough time to adapt.”
Star would hate it. I’ve told him that dozens of times. She’d fly off and never return. I can’t catch her and put her in a cage. All the trust I’ve built up with her would vanish in an instant. He did understand that. He understood everything. Nature understands it too. Except they don’t understand that they don’t have the most basic understanding of the matter. You wouldn’t put people in a cage, with no company, day after day or week after week, in a strange and sterile environment with shiny walls, smelling of bleach and unknown birds, and then test how intelligent they are. In fact, birds do pretty well in such experiments. It’s a wonder they cooperate at all with the petty little tasks they’re given, that they don’t deliberately dash themselves against the bars, or sit in a corner, refusing to move.
Obviously, I can’t make it clear enough to them. I wipe my eyes. How ridiculous to get upset about it. I’m doing this for birds, not for the world of science.
STAR 14
November and December passed in the same way: Star came to the window ledge whenever she could, and she tapped all the numbers from three to eight in response to my spoken instructions. But the number nine still did not work. I tried to practise it with her, but I could not tap it quickly enough.
At the end of January Star began to look for a suitable nest box with Tinky. Tinky had been Monocle’s mate, but Monocle had disappeared that spring. She was very old already and I think she died of old age. Tinky was a good choice, at least from the human point of view: he was a much friendlier bird than Inkey or the Intruder, and very beautiful in appearance. As in previous years, Star lost all interest in mathematics: she did come to visit, but her nest and the preparations for her coming brood totally absorbed her. In February she visited only five times.
At the end of March it began to rain. Star came inside more frequently, and that week she correctly tapped out, at first attempt, all the numbers I gave her in words. On 5th April I asked for five, which she tapped in the following rhythm: one-three-one. For that last one, she looked at me a moment, as if in doubt. For the rest of the day she and Tinky were busy with their nest box. The weather was dry, and time was pressing. They had made their nest in one of the new nest boxes on the apple tree. Star immediately permitted Tinky to sleep in the nest box at night. Perhaps she expected this outcome anyway, because of her previous experience with Baldhead and Peetur. Because their nest box was situated behind the house and their territory went beyond my garden, while she was nest-building I sometimes would not see them for half a day. So every afternoon at five o’clock I would go into the garden and call them for a peanut. Star always came immediately, with Tinky in her wake. That afternoon, however, only Tinky flew to me.
1960
“Gwen, there’s something I should tell you.”
It’s still early; snails are slithering across the little terrace in front of the house. Their trails form letters from an unknown language. Theo hands me a newspaper, then takes it back and opens it up. “Here.” He points to an article on page three.
“Work on Ditchling Holiday Park Starts This Autumn”. I read it again, then examine the diagram that goes with the article. They’ve bought the land that belonged to the Hendersons and want to use all of it for the holiday park, from the woods up to the boundary of my garden. Where it directly borders my land, there’ll be a playground.
“We can’t allow this.” I hand back the newspaper.
“I’m afraid they’ve already got permission.” He stares at the ground, where a few woollen threads from a sock are scattered.
I fetch my bag. “First we’ll visit the District Council. Then we’ll talk to those people.” I pick up the paper. “Thompson and Co. I’ll phone Roger a little later. And Joseph and Garth.”
Before we leave, I put food on the bird table: crumbled crusts from the brown bread, butter, some birdseed that needs finishing, three bruised apples cut into pieces. The birds come immediately. Joker flies to my hand first, to say hallo, and only then to the table. I feel a pain grip my belly, then I straighten my back.
We go in Theo’s car. At half past eight we’re at the District Council offices, in Lewes, but they don’t open till nine. It’s not worth driving back, so we perch on a new brick wall with trees behind us. Seagulls cry in the distance. We take it in turns to talk away the minutes, till the church clock strikes the hour.
The revolving door jams. I explain the problem at the reception desk. The young woman who serves us—brown lipstick, a white shift dress with green stripes, kohl-lined fish eyes—tells us that we can make an appointment for Thursday. That’s in three days’ time. “That’s too late. I shall stay here until I can speak to someone.”
She goes upstairs. Theo drums his fingers on the counter till he sees my raised eyebrows. “Sorry.”
The tap of high heels. “Mr Waters will see you at ten o’clock. Would you like a cup of tea?”
I shake my head. “Could I use your telephone?”
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“It’s very important.” I don’t wait for her answer but pick up the green phone behind the counter. I dial Roger’s number.
“Hallo?” More sleepiness than voice.
“Roger, I’m sorry to ring you so early, but there’s a problem. They want to construct a holiday park next to my house. That will mean the end of my research.”