Bird Cottage

Prologue 1965 Jacob flies swiftly into the house, calls to me, and then immediately flies out again. He rarely makes a fuss about things, and never flies very far from the nest once his babies have hatched. He usually visits the bird table a few times in the morning, and then stays close to the wooden nesting box on the birch tree. He is a placid bird, large for a Great Tit, and a good father. I follow him out of doors and hear the machine even before I’ve left the garden. I run clumsily on clogs that almost slip off my feet. No. This can’t be happening. Not that hedge. Not in the springtime. But a stocky man is trimming the hedge with one of those electric hedge-cutter things. He can’t hear me through the racket. I squeeze between the hedge and the machine. The noise drowns out everything, crashing in waves over me, boring through my body. It gives him a shock to see me there, suddenly in front of him. He switches the thing off and removes his ear-protectors. “What’s up, missus?” “You mustn’t trim this hedge. It’s full of nests. Most of the eggs have already hatched.” My voice is shriller than usual. It feels as if someone is strangling me. “You’ll have to speak to the Council about it.” He turns the machine on again. No. Twigs jab at my back. I move to the left when he moves, and then to the right. “Get out of my way, please.” “If you want to trim this hedge, you’ll have to get rid of me first.” He sighs. “I’ll start work on the other side, then.” He holds the contraption at the ready, more as a shield than a weapon. But that’s where the Thrushes are, with their brownspeckled breasts. I shake my head. “No. You really mustn’t.” “Look, missus, I’m just doing my job.” “What is your boss’s phone number?” He gives me a name and the County Council number. I keep an eye on him until he has left the lane. He’s probably off to another hedge now. Cheeping and chirping everywhere. The parent birds are nowhere to be seen, but the babies make their presence known. The parents will return and with any luck they won’t have had too great a shock. I hurry to the house, sweat running down my back. I don’t even pause to take off my cardigan. “May I speak to Mr Everitt, please? It’s urgent.” While I’m waiting for him, Terra comes and perches beside me. She can always tell when something is wrong. Birds are much more sensitive than we are. I’m still panting a little. “Mr Everitt, I appreciate your coming to the telephone. Len Howard speaking, from Ditchling. This morning I discovered, to my great horror, that one of your workmen was trimming the hedges. It’s the nesting season! I’m making a study of these birds. My research will be ruined.” Mr Everitt says I have to send in a written request to have the hedge-cutting postponed so that the Council can decide on the matter. He can’t make that decision himself. I thank him very much and ask for a guarantee that there’ll be no further hedge-trimming till then. “I’ll try my best,” he says. “They do usually listen to me.” He coughs, like a smoker. I know the Great Tits would immediately warn me if they came back to trim the hedges, but for the rest of the day I feel very agitated. Sometimes the wind sounds like hedgetrimming; sometimes I’m tricked by a car in the distance. Jacob also remains restless. And that’s not like him at all. He’s old enough—at least six—to know better. I start writing my letter. They must listen to me.