The kettle whistles. Dark Brown is a crazy, creative little bird. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen sunbathing upside down: he hangs from a twig by his claws, his wings spread out—very clever: then the sun can reach the back and the front of his wings at once. But very risky too.
“Cup of tea?” I ask again as I sit down.
Miranda sits opposite me. “They’ve started building homes in Keymer, for older folk who need a bit more care. Sheltered housing. You can live there independently, but the home is nearby. And you get nursing when you need it. I know you want to live here as long as possible, but they’re really marvellous little homes. Light and roomy, with a beautiful large garden. Those Great Tits would like it too, I bet.”
Death on a stool in the corner of the room, on a stool in the corner of my head. “I’ll stay here.” That “here” gouges a line into the air between our faces. Pomfret, the Blackbird, comes through the top window, sees the guest, and twists herself round in the air. She vanishes swifter than she came.
“Your doctor thinks it’d be better if you lived a bit closer to other people.” She has a nervous tic, she rubs her fingers across her lips. It seemed to improve for a while, but she’s doing it again now. Perhaps she has problems. Everyone has problems these days.
“I have plenty of other people here.” Petrus also flies off.
She sighs. “But have you thought about that television?”
I don’t know which television she means. “There was a young man at the door recently. A Jonathan Brown. Do you happen to know him?”
She shakes her head. “What was he here for?”
“He wanted to interview me. About living with birds.”
“Well that’s nice, in’t it? A bit of appreciation. You deserve that.”
I have no idea if she knows anything at all about my books. “No. It’s not possible. It would disrupt everything, drive the Great Tits away. New people make them nervous.” I’ve had quite enough of that.
Miranda takes a sip of tea, then abruptly sets the cup down. “You should do this interview, you know. It’s a fantastic chance to get people thinking more about birds. What you said last week, not to peek inside nest boxes ’cos cats can work out where the birds are, no one knows those kinds of things. Even if it saved just one single bird!”
I nod, slowly, sensing the weight of my head, forward, backward—brains, blood, bone, cavities, fragile skull. Someone should really take it over, someone young, with true feeling for the Tits and the Blackbirds, with love for them and with a calm demeanour. There’s no one. No one has appeared and I’m too busy to look for someone. The days are so short, always growing shorter. I should write things down again. Make time tangible through writing.
Miranda stands up and fetches the mop from the hall cupboard. She goes to the kitchen, fills a bucket. The wooden heels of her sandals always tell me where she is. She has pretty calves.
“Miranda?” My voice sounds shrill.
She pops her head round the corner, holding her face at an angle, as if she’s on a photograph, as if she’s looking through my eyes at her own face, posing it as favourably as possible.
“Forget the windows, won’t you? They’ll still be here next summer.” All that water. What a waste.
“No, I won’t let you face the weekend like this. Anyway, won’t it be nice when you can see properly through them again?” A little laugh, her head vanishes.
I clench my fists a moment—release them. There’s no point in getting angry. On the table in front of me there’s a drawing of Dark Brown and Light Brown. I pick up my eraser. Dark Brown’s wing is too long. I’m not sure I can get it right now. An old people’s home. Indecent really to start talking about it.
There’s a ring at the door again. Miranda opens it before I can protest. It’s William Gill of the Sussex Naturalists’ Trust, a man with a voice like a tree stump. “Miss Howard.”
“Quiet, please,” I say. “You’ve driven them all away.”
“We were going to talk again about your estate. So that everything’s properly sorted out. Those plots of land you have free lease of too. I’ve just been to the solicitor’s in Lewes and he’s proposed this.” He winks at Miranda and places a folder of papers on the table. I search for my spectacles.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” Miranda smiles at him.
“No thanks, I’ve just come for the signature.”
Perhaps my spectacles are in the kitchen. I can hear them chattering in the sitting room. It’s wonderful that they want to take on Bird Cottage after my death, to create a bird sanctuary. But I simply don’t understand why he keeps bringing new contracts for me to sign. The price of land has risen enormously, perhaps that’s the reason. My spectacles aren’t on the worktop, or on the windowsill. Suddenly the house feels overfull, with all these people. He’ll have to return later.
“Miss Howard? This is Josephine Wolch, Dr Stuart’s assistant. We have received the results of your tests.”
I sweep the crumbs on the table into a little heap with the side of my hand.
“Are you still there?” She speaks too emphatically, as if I’m not quite right in the head.
“Hmm.” I brush the pile onto the plate on my lap, then put it on the table.
“Your coagulation factor is too high. But there are excellent medicines for this. We would just like to make an appointment for some follow-ups.” I don’t recognise her voice.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Josephine. Wolch. I’m Dr Stuart’s new assistant. Sandra is on maternity leave.”
I thought so. Sandra has a much lower voice, an alto inclining towards a bass, very low for a woman. But beautiful. She also speaks beautifully slowly. This one doesn’t. This one prattles.
“I’d like to make an appointment with you for a heart check-up.”
Tuesday is a good day. I’m expecting no one then and I can leave the birds alone with a clear conscience.
“How is your wrist now?”
“My wrist is fine, thank you.” They kept a tight hold on me, as if I was a child, first the nurse and then the doctor. They shifted my arm around, asked if it hurt—well, of course it hurt, that was why I’d gone there. I knew it needed some rest, I just didn’t know if it had to be in plaster. The steps in the kitchen toppled over. An accident. That can happen to anyone. I held on to a kitchen cupboard with my hand and then twisted it. I still can’t play the violin. It doesn’t matter. I can take it up again in a few weeks.
When she hangs up, I first put the receiver back, and then find a piece of paper. Tuesday, half past nine, Dr Stuart. I cradle my wrist in my other hand. I can feel that it’s hurting now, but I mustn’t dwell on that. The plate is on the edge of the table. I stand up and throw the crumbs out through the open window onto the little terrace—Sparrows, a Robin. I can take the bus. That would be best. But then I’ll have to leave in good time, because they often come earlier than it says on the timetable. I should go and take a look at what the times actually are. Perhaps I can still cancel it. Yes, it would be better to cancel it. There’s no need for a check-up. I feel perfectly well. Sometimes I’m a little short of breath, but that’s normal at my age. I’ll just have to practise a little with that wrist of mine. Otherwise it’ll stiffen up. I don’t have to ring immediately. After all, it’s next week. Dark Brown and Light Brown skim past me. I should clean the bird table. There was something in the local newspaper last week from the Sussex Ornithological Society saying that many diseases are spread via the feeding places. My birds haven’t been ill for years. When I started there were two outbreaks of some disease or other, two consecutive summers. I lost seven Great Tits then. But I don’t think it was anything to do with hygiene. It seemed to be some kind of virus, paratyphoid fever, I believe. They didn’t all die of it—some of them were just very weak for some time. They had diarrhoea too. And years later there was a whole brood of nestlings that didn’t survive. Joker’s babies. Perhaps they had pox or a fungal infection. Or mites—the youngsters die of those too.