I could never shoot anything, but if I had to shoot something, I would shoot One For Sorrow

Weekly diary with Aida Austin

Sat, 20 May, 2017 - 01:00

Aida Austin

Monday

My husband arrives inside the front door of the new house.

“Close your eyes,” he calls from the hallway.

“Why?” I call from the kitchen.

“I’ve got you a present,” he says.

“No,” I say, “I’m making lasagne and covered in cheese.” “Just close your eyes and don’t be a pain,” he says. I close my eyes. “Put both your hands out, palms up,” he says. I close my eyes and put out my cheesy hands. “Just so you know,” I say, “I’m getting ready to say, “it’s the thought that counts.” “You’re being a pain,” he says. He places something into my hands. “Well, open your eyes then,” he says. I look down. It’s a fat-ball bird-feeder. “I’m in awe,” I say. “What kind of awe?” he says. “The proper kind,” I say. “You’ve been moaning about missing seeing birds at the bedroom window,” he says. “It’s so strange right now,” I say, fondling the fat-ball feeder, “not to be thinking ‘it’s the thought that counts’.” “What are you thinking instead?” he says. “That I literally can’t wait for you to put the fat-balls up,” I say.

Tuesday morning

I’m creeping around the bed. “What are you doing?” my husband says. “Budging closer to the window,” I say, “to see whether birds have made any dent in the bird food yet.” “What time is it?” he says. “Six-thirty,” I say. “Christ,” he says, rolling over and falling back to sleep.

7am

The fat-ball feeder is hanging from a hook that’s been screwed in under the roof-eaves. It’s positioned bang outside the bedroom window so that when I wake up, birds will be the very first thing I see.

All is quiet but I am nursing a secret fantasy: that this morning, Goldcrests will come.

I’ve never forgotten the time when these tiniest — no, these weeniest — of birds came to nest in the gnarly old ivy outside the bedroom window of our farmhouse. For weeks, I’d wake to tapping on the window and watch the Goldcrests go about their bright business — their mustard-yellow mohicans flashing in the sun, oblivious to me.

So, I’d like a pair of miniscule, pugnacious Goldcrests this morning, thank you. But I’ll settle for blue tits. Or a thrush.

8am.

“Any birds then?” my husband says. “Nothing yet,” I say. “Give it time,” he says, “it takes a while for birds to discover a new food source.” “I read that Goldcrests like mealworms,” I say. “I’m not sure there are mealworms in those fat-balls,” he says. “They’re tree-feeders,” I say, “but they’ve been known to visit fat-ball feeders. So I’m still in with a chance.” “Don’t you think you’re starting at the top a bit,” he says, “with Goldcrests?” “I’m starting at the top,” I say, “and will only work my way down to the bottom if I have to.”

Thursday I meet my husband for lunch.

“Any birds this morning?” he says. “No,” I say, “because there are five enormous crows and one magpie — just one for sorrow — all lined up on the telephone wire beside the window. It’s a sinister silhouette. Enough to frighten me off, never mind a blue tit.” “Crows are too heavy to hang onto a bird feeder,” he says, “you don’t need to worry about that.”

Friday

“Have the blue tits found the feeder yet?” my husband asks. “Chance would be a fine thing,” I say, “but the one-for-sorrow magpie has.”

Saturday morning.

I wish One For Sorrow would just piss off.

Sunday evening

We are watching an episode of The Durrells, in which Gerry’s pet magpies steal his eldest brother Larry’s precious new manuscript. Larry is furious. I feel for Larry. I really do. “I could never shoot anything,” I say, “but if I had to shoot something, I would shoot One For Sorrow.”

Monday

The five crows have taken up a new position on the guttering directly above the fat-balls. When I lie on my bed and look out of the window now, I see five, jet-black heads twisting down and round to look evilly at One For Sorrow who is swinging about on the fat-ball like a Dervish.

I definitely feel as if I’ve begun to work my way down to the bottom.

Tuesday 6am

I am woken by black flapping. Unless I’m mistaken, I think I’ll be arriving at the bottom very shortly.

Wednesday 6am

A crow has got its talons stuck in the fat-ball netting. It’s flapping around so strenuously that it keeps thudding into the window pane and hitting the glass with its beak.