Birds and Birth

As summer approaches those elsewhere on the island, the garden here is in full bloom. Clematis curls pornographically around the leaf-green gazebo at the back; the first few shoots of my shit-in-by-a-cat vegetable patch are starting to show; the wild garlic, purloined from the Altyre Estate grounds, bends with the wind. And, in the birdbox and around, the activity that accompanies a new birth. Sparrows have been tending to their new arrival for a few weeks now, congregating at the side of the garage and feeding in worms to its gaping maw. They alight on the branches of the rose tree and it gives, elastically, a perch for a few frantic moments. This morning there was an unusually enthusiastic chorus of tweets and clicks - something new was happening. I rolled up a cigarette at the back door and, ignoring the cold that fingered my chilly toes, bereft of socks, passed a while watching the scene.

Most of the birds were on the roof of the garage, sitting in strange poses, as if displaying their bravery. Other birds swooped and dove from the branches around the opening of the box, as if to coax out the youngster. It dawned on me that they were trying to help the baby out, to set its wings to air for its inaugural flight. It must have been a tense moment. Would the baby plummet to the gravel and lie there twitching, not knowing why it had to do these things, or would it soar onto low thermals and join its family on the wing? I didn't find out as the phone rang, me running like an idiot to answer a call from the Halifax bank, who must be the greatest cunts in the entire universe, both for ruining this moment and for making some surly Northerner phone me EVERY DAY to see whether or not I can make a payment. But today, of all days, I wanted them to go away for good. There were things happening outside. I lied, told them I was away, and hung up with a slam of the phone.

A surprising thing greeted me when I went back to the scene. On top of the garage, and depositing a small, black shit from between spindly legs, sat a fluffy, fat cuckoo. It was almost twice the size of the sparrows, and I realised that the sparrows had been so dumbly attentive to their baby, that they had been feeding this spy, this alien, for weeks, not knowing this was not theirs. They seemed almost stunned, as one-by-one they went slowly silent while the cuckoo baby peered over the edge of the garage, deciding whether or not to fly. It was a crippling moment. I forgot about my cigarette burning in the ashtray and thought of the sparrows and their fat, illegitimate kid. The phone rang again. I let it ring, forgot about my cigarette again, and went for a shower.