Louder knocking. The door creaks. I take a tight hold on the broom, then stand up, noiselessly. He’s pushing a note under the door. Then his footsteps disappear into the distance. He could at least try to be quieter. Those notices aren’t there for nothing. I sit down again. Meanwhile the tea has gone cold. I close the biscuit tin. Pippa flies to her roosting place, an old cornflakes box above the dresser. In the passage I can hear that there are Crows in the garden, but I don’t have to worry about that. There are no nestlings now.
Dear Miss Howard,
My name is Jonathan Brown. I’m a journalist, working for the Guardian. I would very much like to interview you about your books and your life with birds. You can contact—
I fold the note in two, then in two again, and push it into my cardigan pocket. I put the broom in the alcove, against the wall. Perhaps he’s read my books. Or perhaps someone has commissioned him to do this. Since Joseph died I’ve heard nothing more from Roger. He must have died too in the meantime. Whether that publishing company still exists or not, I don’t know. They haven’t sent me Out of Doors and Countrygoer for years. It probably doesn’t exist any more. Or it’s been taken over.
The beans are almost finished. Tomorrow I’ll have to go to the village. Saturday, market day, that’s good. And I can call on Theo at the same time. He’ll probably know what has happened to Roger. Jonathan Brown, never heard of him. Star II flies past me to the sitting room.
You see, Great Tits never stay. At the very most they return.
Before I sit down on the green wooden bench behind the house, I put my cushion on it. They haven’t pecked it at all. Neat and tidy they are, these birds, they’re all very tidy, there are no more troublemakers now, like Drummer or Joker. I tap on the arm of the bench, three times. Oakleaf is there beside me before I can even see him moving. I give him a nut. Presto II comes and perches next to him. Oakleaf opens his beak, displaying his throat. Presto II recoils. Telling it all again, all over again. No, not all. I can tell him about the birds. They always want to know more. But what? Actually, there’s nothing more to tell. Further on, over the meadows, against the hillside, Starlings are twisting and tumbling through the air—a body made of so many bodies, constantly changing form.
A Nightingale. I wake up in a dark room that I don’t immediately recognise as my own, remember what my dream was, then forget it. Blackie lands by my head. I sit up, headache, can’t lift my hand. Then I can. Blackie flies up. “Good morning,” I say to the birds, as I do every morning. Bernie flies swiftly at me, then flutters around. “Come on then.” He doesn’t give me a kiss.
Thief flits about me as I walk with the plate to the bird table. I bump my foot against the threshold, but I don’t stumble since I’m moving so slowly. “Thief,” I grumble. “Careful now.” They’re a threat to life and limb, especially when they’re still young. The cobbles are slippery too. I should take the moss off. I must still have one of those scrapers somewhere. In the hall cupboard. Or the kitchen drawer. Blackie takes over. I move even more slowly, step by step across the terrace. I place some pieces of bacon on the edge of the table—here come the others now, Light Brown first, or is it Stripy? The butter, the crumbs of bread, the birdseed. I call Light Brown to me with a nut. He picks a piece of bacon first, eats it in the apple tree. Stripy isn’t here. Or is it Light Brown who isn’t here? Perhaps I should get my eyes checked again. “Light Brown.” Blackie arrives, chases Light Brown off, then Thief returns again. “Come on, boys and girls. No fighting.” I go to the wooden bench and sit down. Light Brown lands on my lap. Yes, it is Light Brown. I don’t understand how I thought it was Stripy, but where is Stripy then? In the autumn they stay near the house, in the misty garden they know so well. Good birds. But sometimes Baldhead went a-roving. Oh Baldhead, always so bold, always the boss till the very end, till that last spring when he never left my side. Brave little creature. Bronwen vanished in September. Sarah too. “Stripy!” Stripy sometimes listens to his name; at other times he clearly has better things to do. I hold my breath as I call, to keep the sound clear—after a couple of seconds I’m out of breath. I should do some singing exercises. “Jingle!” That dear little Great Tit comes to visit more and more frequently. She was so shy at first. I take a nut from my apron pocket. She lands on my hand to eat it, then flies swiftly off. The other birds come; I can see Stripy too, finally. Blackie has finished eating. I can’t see Thief. Over there?
Knock, knock. Creaky knee, getting up is difficult. Tap tap. Dodie is tapping against the lampshade. “Stop it.” I flap my hand in her direction, without any result. That thing is full of holes already.
The old wooden floor, slippers, the tiled passage. Fluff.
“Morning, Miss Howard. How are you today?”
“Hmm.”
“Better than last week, right? That blinking cold, everyone’s caught it.” She hangs her coat on the coat rail, with the familiarity of a good friend. “Luckily I’ve been nabbed by it already.” She’s wearing a tight dress, very short, too tight for her to move with real freedom. Women are always forced to wear the latest thing that constricts them.
“Quiet, please.” Dodie has flitted out already, only Petrus is in his roost. They will come back, though, they know Miranda well enough now, but her voice is so loud and bright.
I sit at the table again. I dreamed last night, for the first time ever, that I could fly. I flew over the yellow autumn fields surrounding Wallington, saw the square where Kingsley and Duds always played marbles, the bench outside the baker’s, all untouched by time. I couldn’t smell anything at all. Sometimes I smell things when I dream. Cheese. Grass.
“I’ll give the floor a quick clean, then the windows and then if we still have time the bathroom, but that could wait till Friday as well.” Her voice is less rasping than it used to be. Perhaps she has stopped smoking.
“All right.” I’ve learned not to discuss her plans with her: it just makes things harder and then she says more and more and it takes even longer for her to leave. “Please watch out for the spiders though.” A few weeks ago a new couple installed themselves in the corner behind the bookcase. Awfully useful creatures and interesting to watch.
The broom scrapes across the floor. “Won’t you think again about getting me to buy a vacuum cleaner for you? They’re pretty cheap nowadays. Handy for all those feathers.”
I’ve always managed perfectly well without one. “Would you like a cup of tea?” It’s important to keep moving. If I sit too long, then I’ll never get up. In the kitchen I put the kettle on. Dark Brown and Light Brown are playing in the hedge. These two little brothers were born this summer and they’ve stuck to the garden—they sleep in a little box above my bed. Sometimes they come and play on the bed when I’ve just woken up. Then they slide down my pillow, their feet held stiff, bird skiing. Perhaps they’re still here because they hatched late. They were part of Bella’s second brood, which she had late in the summer, after her first nest was robbed by that tabby cat who belongs to the new neighbours.