This particular winter, however, he took to actually coming into the kitchen when he wanted food, walking flat-footedly through the door at ground level like a clockwork penguin on a pavement in Oxford Street. Sheba, who never missed anything, promptly took to sitting behind the door waiting for him. Solomon – without the faintest idea of what they were in ambush for but he always joined Sheba if he saw her doing anything interesting – took to sitting hopefully alongside her. A situation that gave us a dozen fits a day until we discovered that the blackbird was a lot wiser than he looked. Peer through the partly open door, which had to be kept ajar even in the coldest weather otherwise Solomon used it as a Wailing Wall, battering frantically at it howling to be let out, he couldn't breathe, claustrophobia was setting in – and there, while two Siamese waited expectantly on one side, the blackbird, with his head cocked, stood listening intently on the other. Waiting till they went away before he pattered familiarly in, and he never made a mistake.
He made a mistake in another direction, however. He took to staying up late to see us. If we got home at dusk on a winter's evening, there, long after the other birds had gone to roost, a solitary little black figure sat waiting on the coalhouse roof, chattering, presumably to tell us all the day's doings, as we came down the path.
One night we came home well after dark, trudging down the hill from the farm through the snow, and while Charles opened up the garage to get Annabel's hay, I went on into the cottage, switching on the porch and hall lights as I did so. There was no sign of the blackbird. At that time of night we wouldn't have expected him. I was halfway through the hall when I heard a noise as of a bird crashing against the window and rushed outside again. There was no sign of anything. No bird lying stunned in the snow. No bird anywhere in the garden. Charles said he wouldn't be so stupid, anyway, as to be trying to contact us at that time of night. But – roused presumably by my switching on the porch light – he must have been. The next morning, when we opened the kitchen door, he was squatting on the coalhouse roof with his legs folded under him. Damaged by the bang on the window, and now what were we to do?
He wouldn't let us near enough to catch him, and we were obviously only frightening him by our attempts, so we did the best we could by throwing a large sheet of cardboard on to the lawn where it would catch the sun. Throwing it, because that way it landed like a raft on a three-foot depth of untrammelled snow which even the most determined pair of Siamese were unlikely to cross unless they could borrow a sledge.
We tossed bread and bacon rind on to the cardboard and the blackbird got the idea at once. There he fed, and sat safe from ambush on the dry cardboard, while the faint March sun did its work. He stayed there, apart from exercise flights, for days. We propped the coalhouse door open and hoped he used that for shelter by night. Just in case he slept in the porch instead we bolted the front door at dusk, took the lamp bulbs out of the porch and hall lights so we wouldn't switch on by accident and disturb him, and in consequence had to grope for the hall table every time the telephone rang and Charles tripped upstairs twice.
It was worth it in the end. The blackbird's legs had been bruised, probably numbed by the cold, but not broken. First one and then the other returned to normal. The moment the first one was functioning he flew down and stood on it in the kitchen doorway to show us, chittering mockingly at the cats whom this manoeuvre had left sitting on the hall window-sill planning, from the expressions on their faces, how they could best throw a breeches buoy across the lawn and get out to the cardboard that way.
They'd have been a lot more useful if they'd taken a course in mining. Apart from the drifts the snow was going rapidly now, and as it melted from the big top lawn we discovered that another inhabitant of the great outdoors, hearing no doubt that we were fond of animals, had decided to live with us. We now had a resident mole.
Dozens of them, it seemed, watching the hillocks rear up like mountain ranges where once there was flat green lawn, but Father Adams said 'twere only one and offered to set a trap. Charles said we couldn't do a thing like that and it was a marvellous chance to study it. I didn't want it trapped either, but I drew the line at studying it on our front lawn. The day Charles came in and said if I went out quietly I could actually see it – it had looked at him out of a hole, he said, and how many people could say they'd seen that in their garden?... I enquired which hillock he'd seen it in, went outside, and jumped. Not on the hillock itself I had no wish to harm the mole. I just thought a few local tremors might move it off.
It worked. Some people going along the lane looked at me a bit peculiarly when they saw me doing what appeared to be a war-dance round a molehill, but it worked. We had no more mole heaps on that lawn. One or two appeared rather tentatively on the lower lawn, but when I jumped on that, those stopped too.
Unfortunately the mole then went berserk and submerged under the paving-stones that Charles was laying in the yard, its progress marked by long thin lines of earth rising, like the smoke from an excursion train, between the cracks. Rather on my conscience that was, imagining him coming up for air to be repeatedly met by paving-stones, and it was a great relief when his trail turned once more towards the lower lawn... no jumping on it this time; we didn't want him under those paving-stones again... across it, and finally OUT. Under the wall and across into the woods, where presumably he lives to this day telling of his adventures in the earthquake country.
The winter – the worst winter we'd had for years – was passing now, but two relics of it remained with us as inexorably as the Laws of the Medes and Persians. Annabel's addiction to a hot drink at bedtime and the cats' decision to sleep downstairs. Annabel's discovery of hot drinks had come about not as a result of our pampering her, but of our trying to ensure that she got a drink at all. On principle she wouldn't drink when we first took her bucket out. Didn't want it. Didn't like water anyway, she would snort when we offered it to her. By the time she did feel like it the bucket was invariably frozen, so we started pouring a kettleful of hot water in before we carried it up in the hope of it staying liquid longer. Annabel, intrigued by the steam, immediately investigated it. The warmth to her nose must have been wonderful... even more so to her stomach, when it got down on all that hay...
She drank it as if it were nectar, with long sucking noises and a smack of her lips at the end. We, knowing how we liked our own hot drinks, took to giving it to her regularly, and as a result, long after the frost had gone and the lighter nights were coming we were still chugging up in the evenings with a steaming bucket which, if we saw anybody coming, we hid surreptitiously in the greenhouse. We had no wish to reveal to people that if we now tried to make her go to bed without a hot drink, our donkey bawled the place down.
We were in a similar position with the cats. Ever since they were born they had, unless we had visitors, slept next door to us in the spare room. There, if they fought in the night or fell out of bed or decided that they didn't feel well, we could hear them at once and go to the rescue. There was also the advantage of their being unable to damage the furniture in there, the only upholstered item being the armchair in which they slept, whose covering and Hessian under-part they had demolished long ago, as kittens.