Page 49 of Hope and Happiness in Bluebell Wood
I stand and look at the feather for a moment – twisting it to and fro in my fingers.
Have the birds left this for me, like the other items that have appeared on the bird table recently? Or has it simply blown into the garden from somewhere else?
The mystery of where these objects are coming from seems to deepen as each day passes. I’m new to feeding wild birds, but surely this can’t be normal, can it?
The things that were being left for me were a very odd collection: a Trivial Pursuit wedge, pieces of a school mosaic, a fifty-pence piece, and now this red feather. It’s all very strange, and I can’t for the life of me work out why it’s happening. Whatever the reason, I’ve decided I quite like it. Whether the gifts have any meaning I really don’t know, but it feels like the birds might be thanking me for looking out for them, and for that I’m grateful to them.
I tuck the feather safely in the top pocket of my shirt and then I go about adding bird seed, nuts, currants and all the other different things I’d taken to feeding the birds lately. I had such a lovely variety of birds coming to the garden now, and I took so much pleasure in seeing them, that I didn’t mind the expense. I was glad to have made a success of something. It had been a while.
The robin flies down on to the ground next to the bird table before I’ve even had a chance to finish topping everything up.
‘You’re keen this morning,’ I tell it. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, tapping the feather in my pocket. ‘This isn’t one of yours.’
The robin cocks its head to one side and watches me.
‘Go ahead,’ I say, smiling at it. ‘I won’t hurt you. You should know better than that by now.’
The robin flaps his wings and hops up bravely on to the table. Then, still keeping a careful eye on me, it selects several mealworms in its beak, before it flies away in the swooping up-and-down motion I now recognise, across the garden and over the hedge.
‘Right, that’s you all set,’ I say to the various birds that I know are watching me from the trees, waiting for me to leave so they can begin feeding. ‘Let me just do your water, then it’s all yours.’
Using the garden hose, I quickly change the water in the little metal bird bath that I’d found stored away in Evelyn’s shed and put outside now the weather was getting warmer, then I head back inside to make my coffee and watch the comings and goings at the bird table that I knew would take place as soon as I’d gone.
When I get inside, I wash my hands and stick the red feather in a glass on the window sill. I make my coffee, then Merlin and I go and sit in the sitting room in our usual morning spot. With half an eye on the bird table, I pull out my phone and open Google.
‘Birds bringing things,’ I type in the search bar to begin with. But nothing comes up in the results to match what I’m thinking about.
‘Birds leaving things on a bird table’ brings up answers on how to clean bird poop from your wooden table.
Finally, I try ‘Birds leaving gifts on a bird table’, and I’m amazed at what I find.
There are several articles about birds, mainly crows and others from that family like jackdaws and ravens, actuallyleaving little presents for the people that put food out for them. It’s not just random stuff, either; it becomes very clear as I read on that these birds are leaving gifts that mean something to them – buttons, beads, small toys, sweet wrappers . . . The list goes on, and they seem to do it when they feel that the person they’re leaving the gifts for has been particularly kind to them.
Was that really what my birds were doing for me? Leaving me gifts to thank me for feeding them?
Even though it seems far-fetched, I feel warmed by the thought it might be true, and even keener to continue looking after them.
Merlin and I have a quiet Sunday. After a bright start, the rest of the day is a mix of clouds and April showers. In the morning we take our usual walk in the woods. Under the canopy of the trees we’re slightly protected from the showers, and I can hear the church bells ringing to announce the Sunday service. I think about Callum while I listen to the bells, and try to imagine him in full swing in the pulpit preaching his sermon to the gathered congregation.
After last night I had considered going to church this morning to support him. But I felt I’d be there under false pretences. I’ve never really been a churchgoer, even though I used to have some belief. But any belief in a greater good had been very quickly curtailed after certain events, and I’d yet to find a reason worthy of reintroducing it into my life.
As I shelter under the trees, I allow my mind to wander back to a time I rarely wanted to return to these days, and my last experience of a man of the cloth preaching to a congregation.
What a silly pretentious man he was, standing there telling us it was all in God’s plan. He had no idea of the pain people weresuffering – mentally and physically. All I heard was his nonsense, which instead of making me and the others feel better, only made us feel worse.
A drop of rain falls on my face from one of the trees above, and I’m brought back to a much more pleasant reality. I’d done the right thing in staying away from the church today, I was certain of that. Staying away from Callum, however, wasn’t going to be quite so easy . . .
After lunch I speak on the phone to Hannah about her upcoming visit over the Easter weekend, and I tell her how much I’m looking forward to seeing her. Matt is also due to visit before he leaves for New York on Good Friday, and I’m excited to see both of them again and show them how well things are going for me here in Bluebell Wood.
Later in the afternoon I awake from an impromptu nap in the armchair. I’m just wondering whether to have an early tea or take Merlin out again before I eat, when there’s a knock at the door.
Who’s that?I wonder. It’s five o’clock on a Sunday. I certainly hadn’t invited anyone, and no one other than delivery people or the postman ever knocked on my door, and it was unlikely they would be doing so at this time on a weekend.
Hesitantly I approach the door and look though the little peephole that I was glad Evelyn had had installed.
Outside I see a woman standing in the rain, looking extremely agitated – it’s Robin’s mother, Linnet.
‘Hello,’ I say, opening up the door to her. ‘What can I do for you?’
