“A nervous chap.”
I borrow Theo’s bicycle and take a new stack of posters with me. All the nearby villages have been taken care of—now it’s Brighton’s turn: its public places, cafés, theatres and cinemas.
That night I wake to the sound of a dull, loud bang that makes the house tremble—it must be thunder, but I can’t hear any rain. I get out of bed, walk through the darkness to the sitting room, the wooden floor cold and uneven under my bare feet. No storm, no footsteps of a possible burglar, just a gust of wind and two Great Tits who have flown from their roost box in shock and have landed on the edge of the bed. Perhaps the front door has blown open; it’s not so robust any more.
I smell it before I see it. Gunpowder. I open the door to the passage. The front door is off its hinges. There’s a hole in the wall. I switch on the light, very calmly, and pick up the broom that leans against the doorpost at the back of the passage. It’s clear outside, a starrier night than usual. I step into the silence. Everything in front of the house seems in order—the trees stand where they always stood, the picnic table, the garden chairs. I walk down the gravel path. On the wall at the side of the house someone has written in red paint: “THIS IS FOR STARTERS”. I put my hand on the bricks for support, their rough edges. Nothing is really wrong, I repeat to myself, the birds are still here, no one is sleeping in the passage.
Inside the house I make tea. My hand trembles as I put the kettle under the tap, and it still trembles when I pour the tea out. I could capture the Great Tits and take them with me, keep them inside till they’re used to a new place. I shake my head. I can’t do that, they’d hate it. They live here. They’re part of the place. They don’t belong to me. It would be a crime. And anyway, I’ve signed a contract for my third book. It’s meant to come out this year. A few months back I sent Roger and Joseph the first draft, but they found it too serious. “We want more of those delightful bird stories,” Roger said. “This is neither fish nor fowl; it’s too anecdotal to convince the scientist, and too serious to appeal to the ordinary reader.” Since then the manuscript has stayed on the table, under a tea towel.
On the following day Roger’s article about Thompson and Co. is published. It’s a long piece—a whole page. He has managed to include details about the attack, and even the television news has something about it.
On Monday morning the postman comes down the path. He had a hip operation last year and doesn’t walk well now. “Sorry,” he calls from a distance. “I know you don’t like this. But I can’t get them into the post-box.” He points at his bag.
I walk towards him. The bag is full of letters and cards sent from people throughout the whole country. Expressions of support, people offering to help with the campaign.
“Wonderful, eh?” the postman says proudly, as if he is responsible for the content of the post he carries.
“Truly wonderful.”
I walk in with the letters—it’s a huge pile. Perhaps when they start building we could form a living cordon round the house and garden.
The telephone rings. That’ll be Theo. He’ll think it’s wonderful, too, that so many people are concerned about us. We’ll have to organise a demonstration, or a sit-in at the District Council. “Miss Howard, Peter speaking. Peter Waters. I have good news for you. The Council has decided to revoke its permission for the moment, because of possible misconduct on the part of the firm. There’ll be an investigation, which could take years, so I assume that Thompson will make the best of a bad job and sell the land. Then the Council could buy it and rent it to you. I’m not saying that this will definitely happen, that would be jumping the gun, and I don’t want you to count your chickens before they’re hatched. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything about chicks not hatching. Well, anyway, definitely good news. I just wanted to tell you personally. And by the way, my wife was ever so pleased with the book you signed. Me too, of course.” His voice trills with enthusiasm.
After the call I stay at the table for a while, my hands on its cool top. In a moment I’ll walk to Theo’s to tell him the good news. But first the birds have to hear it.
STAR 15
Tinky was clearly upset. He would not take a peanut from me and flew back to the hedge. I followed him. He flitted back and forth there, calling loudly, and then to the tree and back. I knew immediately that something was wrong. I looked in the hedge, in the tall grasses beside it, in the uncut grass by the trees. Tinky kept fluttering around me. After an hour or so he went into his nest box, utterly exhausted, yet he swiftly came out again, but stayed close to the hedge. I could see no sign of anyone there, nor later that evening either.
The following day Star did not come for her morning nut. She did not come to tap. Nor did she visit the bird table, not even when I was on the bench observing the birds. She did not come at lunchtime, when I had my sandwich, nor later that afternoon when I filled the bird table for the second time. She did not come when I called her and Tinky at the end of the afternoon. Tinky was very agitated that day, spending a long time by the nest box. Once again I stayed outside when the birds went to sleep. It was quiet without their chatter.
The next morning, for the first time in years, I closed the sitting room window.
Two days later I spied the neighbour’s ginger cat creeping out of the hedge, near Star and Tinky’s nest box. I had no further doubts. He had caught her, at some point when she was flying to or from the nest. For years she had never been away from me for more than a few hours.
Star must have been nine years old when she died. She was at least a year old when, in the spring of 1946, she first flew into my garden. I realised immediately that she was special, although at that time she was still rather fearful. Her talent for mathematics was, of course, extremely unusual; yet just as unusual was the joy she derived from it. Star did not tap for reward, she found it fun to do, fun to work with me. Her understanding was unique; it seemed that she discovered things of her own accord. As if she truly understood me, often before I did so myself.
1973
They keep on knocking. Thief flies past. He’s gone before I can turn my head to the window. There is a board by the path: No Entry. There’s a board by the gate: No Visitors. Nesting Birds. Please Do Not Go In Front of Bird Cottage. It’s a good job that only Thief was inside. There’s a board on the door: No Knocking. There’s no need for it, no emergencies. There’s no one who could have died, it’s not wartime; when I go, I’ll simply go. There’s not a single reason for knocking. I get myself up, stiffer than ever, and peer through a crack in the shutters. It’s a young man, green corduroy trousers, a shirt without a jacket, most likely someone from the Council. Or he’s here to sell me something or measure something up. I walk back to the table. Thief is back on the windowsill already. Oakleaf comes to take a look. More knocking. I top up the cold tea with some hot. As I take a biscuit, Blackie flies to the table, followed by that little Thiefy. I crumble the last piece of the biscuit, then push the crumbs away with the edge of my hand. Oakleaf has flown out again. There’s probably an intruder who needs chasing off. He uses leaves to scare away his enemies. He’s the only bird I’ve ever seen who does this.
Thief is more temperamental than Blackie. He pecks as if his life depends on it. Recently he pecked at my hand when I didn’t give him his raisin swiftly enough. Blackie hops from crumb to crumb, in a stately fashion. I hold out a finger and Thief leaps away. Blackie lets me stroke him. Or could something be the matter with Theo? No, Esther would have come then. Or Linda. Or they’d have sent a card. That man is still there. I haven’t heard footsteps. Off they go: first Blackie, then Thief, but only when he’s sure there’s no more food. I lean to one side to pick up the broom. I have to half raise myself. My back. I hold the broom in my hand, then in my other hand, because that wrist has started complaining. I listen for footsteps. Outside Flea and Monocle II and Moses and someone else are calling. I think it must be Donny. I can feel a draught on my leg. I should ask Theo to ring that boy to mend the outside wall. One or two days, that should be enough for the job. But it’ll be a disaster for the spiders. Oh, they never watch out for the spiders. Or they say they will, then they don’t really try.