The water is warmish by the edge of the pool, cooler where it gets deeper. Charles gives himself a shake, pecks at his feathers, stays in the shallows. Spatters of water pat onto the surface, clearly audible. We’re the only ones here. The water makes my legs slanted and slender below the knee, makes my hands when I put them in more supple than usual. “I have to practise and practise to be really good. I have to be awfully good. Then I can go to London.” Charles tilts his head and looks at me. “I’ll miss you though.” Olive has been hunting for men recently, at our soirées. She’s looking for a husband, though she’ll never admit it. Getting married, having children, gradually slipping into our parents’ habits—the boys don’t have to do that. They can do exactly as they like. I wet my arms, then wade out of the water.
Small birds are singing in the distance. They seem to be Blackbirds, but I can’t quite hear them. Charles is listening too. “You’re not allowed to eat any little birds, do you hear?” I say as he hops around me. He gives me a little look. “I do understand why. Margie is so beautiful. I just thought…” Charles flies some distance away, pecks at an insect. I sit down and wipe the dirt from the soles of my feet before putting my shoes on. “…that he understood me.”
STAR 3
In the early spring of 1946 an unknown Great Tit and her mate moved into my garden from my neighbour’s garden on the west side. She took possession of the nest box on the oak tree, beside the path that leads to my house. She had a small, white, star-shaped patch on her forehead, and moved with exceptional elegance. I called her Star. The regular visitors to my garden kept the new couple at a distance and I would only see them in passing.
In the summer of 1949 she lost her mate and set her heart on Baldhead instead. Baldhead had always lived in my garden. He was a robust, sturdy little Great Tit who completely trusted me. Star did not instantly charm him. He had a mate already, whom I called Monocle, because of the white rim around her left eye, and at first he regarded Star as nothing more than a troublemaker. She was very persistent, however. First she chased Monocle away and then she pursued Baldhead for the whole of that autumn, until halfway through the winter she finally won his heart.
Together they launched a battle against Inkey, Baldhead’s old enemy, for possession of Baldhead’s former nest box at the side of the house. Inkey was to blame for Baldhead’s bald head and his lame foot—when Great Tits fight they sometimes lock their claws together and roll over the ground until one of them has the other on its back and in its grip. The conflict between these two birds had started when they first came as youngsters to the garden, and it flared up again each spring. The feathers that Baldhead lost last year, in his continuous fights with Inkey, did grow back again, but the enmity remained as fierce as ever. Baldhead lost the war last year because Monocle had let him do all the fighting. This year, however, he had Star at his side and the outcome was very different. Star fought against Smoke, Inkey’s partner, and although these two were equally matched in physical terms, Star was much more tenacious. Baldhead, however, was not really able to do battle with Inkey because of his lame foot. Instead of this he would swoop down whenever Inkey came too close to their nest, and call as loudly and fiercely as possible to warn him off. In the end, because of their determination and strong characters, Star and Baldhead won back the nest box.
Monocle returned in the early spring, but Star chased her off so forcefully that she almost never came back to the garden again. Instead she retreated some distance away and nested with a younger bird. Her new mate, Peetur, became friends with Baldhead and the two males would often forage in each other’s territories. The females, however, maintained their distance. If she caught sight of Star, Monocle would sometimes hide herself under the hair in the nape of my neck. She knew me very well, in fact, and trusted me, because when she was still Baldhead’s mate she would often come inside the house. There are some Great Tits who readily trust me, and others whose trust I shall never win. These birds are also more introverted in their relationships with other Great Tits. But birds can learn trust from each other. When Star was living in the nest box by the path she was still quite afraid of humans, but because Baldhead was so fond of me, it was not long before she trusted me too.
1911
“Gwendolen? Will you play the Mozart suite this evening?”
I shake my head.
“Why ever not?” My mother gives me a surprised look, her eyes deliberately widened, the look she turns on men: she knows nothing at all, do enlighten her, give her a hand.
“I always have to play.” I walk away from her, into the garden, into the late August warmth.
“Pardon me, young lady, but that’s not how it goes. We’re counting on you.” She follows me, the heels of her white shoes sinking into the damp earth. “Gwen, wait a moment.” My mother takes hold of my face with both her hands. “What’s wrong with you these days?”
“Nothing.” I push her damp hands away from my face.
“But I know you, darling.” I smell the sherry on her breath (strange how something from the outer world enters the body, then still wants to get back out) and I take a step backwards. I understand. I’d also go mad with boredom. She holds her hands in the air a moment, as if to indicate the shape of my face. “We’re worried about you.”
“I want to study music. In London.”
“I realise that, sweetheart. Let’s talk about it next week, when your father’s here.” Newman is in London at present, seeing his publisher. “Not that he’ll have anything useful to say.” She attempts a sideways step, totters. A heel is still stuck in the earth. “Give me a hand then.”
“Mrs Howard. Let me help you back into the house.” Dimitri gives my mother an arm, me a wink. He coaxes her back over the cockleshell path. Muffled footsteps, then crunching.
In the conservatory Paul’s face is bright among the other faces. I pretend I can’t see him.
“Gwen, are you playing tonight? Dimitri’s going to read his work. Me too. New stuff.” He puts a hand on my shoulder.
“No, I haven’t studied enough this week.”
He takes his hand away. I can still feel its imprint. “This is my sister, Patricia.”
The young woman standing by his side looks like him. Her eyes are just as bright as his. She has a bobbed hairstyle, as is the mode now. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” She has just arrived and is staying with Paul.
Dimitri joins us. He drains his glass in a single gulp.
“Nervous?” I ask him.
His face flushes. “A little, yes.”
“Don’t worry. They’re tipsy and will think everything is marvellous. Everyone’s bored to death here, you know. The tedium of Aberdovey and Towyn has stunned their senses.”
He lets out a high-pitched giggle and picks up his folder of poems. His hand is trembling. “I ought to give them another look.”
All around us people are conversing, glancing over shoulders, searching for better people to chat with—the conversations are all about neighbours, love affairs, everything that’s off limits, and never about why those limits exist.