steps up from the ditch, the bird’s body cradled in one large-knuckled hand, against the fuzz of his chest. His other hand rests over the folded wings. The hair on Harry’s forearm spreads over his watchstrap. Nora moves closer; the bird blinks at the fall of her shadow. Against her ribs, her heartbeat skitters as she and Harry gaze down at the bird with its elastic smile of a beak.
‘Will it survive, do you think?’
Harry shrugs. ‘These birds, man, they are something else.’
In the kitchen, Harry stands with the bird cupped in his hands, his fingers encircling the wings. Part of a black-banded leg and a foot slip out to dangle and thrust at air before withdrawing. When the foot slips out again, Nora reaches out with her forefinger; the bird’s toenails – delicate, translucent – graze her skin and pause, mid-air.
Harry sends her to fetch a bundle of old cloths from his van to put down near the boiler as bedding. He arranges a hollow in the cloth and eases the bird from his hand. The black head bobs and jerks.
‘Can it fly yet?’
Harry doesn’t seem to hear. ‘He needs . . .’ he murmurs to himself. The furrows in his forehead deepen the scar. He looks up at her. ‘Body warmth.’
Of course, body warmth. With the ducklings they’d used a lamp to keep them warm once they were out of the incubator. She fetches the old Anglepoise from upstairs, her father’s, the cream paint scratched and chipped. The base, a chunk of metal, crashes to the ground as she rushes back down the stairs and Nora freezes, halfway down, but there’s no sound from the bedroom at the back of the house; Ada’s nap has not been disturbed.
Harry positions the lamp carefully, raising and lowering the metal shade, moving his palm between the bird and the bulb to test the temperature.
‘It gets really hot,’ Nora says. During long nights spent on the computer when she can’t sleep, her forehead often films with sweat and she has to turn away the lamp’s glare.
Harry nods, and stands to usher her from the room. At this sudden movement the bird’s neck strains, beak flipping wide to show the scarlet inside, but it makes no sound.
‘Perhaps it’s in shock,’ Nora says, pacing up and down between the French doors and the sofa where Harry is sprawled, hands linked behind his head. ‘Won’t it be hungry? Or thirsty? What do we give it to eat? Was it the boys who hurt it? Perhaps we should phone the RSPCA?’
She stops in front of Harry, who is gazing into the sooty throat of the fireplace, a half-smile on his face. ‘Harry, how do you know it’s a “he”?’
Harry nods slowly, deep in thought. Nora folds her arms tight across her ribs to prevent her hands passing over and over each other. S oaping up a lather , her mother used to say when Nora was a girl, and she’d put out a hand to still Nora’s restlessness. A creak of the floorboards overhead; Ada must have woken.
‘There’s Mum. She’ll want tea. I’ll just . . .’ Upstairs, a door opens and closes. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’ Nora waves her fingers towards the kitchen, unsure why they have left the bird in there behind a closed door and alone.
Upstairs, the bedroom air is misty with eau de Cologne. Ada, hair sleek in a chignon, is seated at her dressing table, leaning close to the mirror, rolling her lips and squeezing them together to distribute her freshly applied lipstick. Nora catches sight of her own reflection, her hair a mass of frayed kinks like old rope. She steps sideways, out of the mirror’s range. She should get her hair cut.
‘Are you feeling OK?’
Ada doesn’t answer. She picks up the silver-backed hairbrush, her movements deft. ‘I knew that was a man’s voice I heard.’ She smiles coquettishly at her own reflection before bending to caress the leather of a pair of knee-length boots leaning against the dressing-table leg. No slopping around in slippers today, then.
‘Mum, it’s only Harry.’
Ada zips
‘Will it survive, do you think?’
Harry shrugs. ‘These birds, man, they are something else.’
In the kitchen, Harry stands with the bird cupped in his hands, his fingers encircling the wings. Part of a black-banded leg and a foot slip out to dangle and thrust at air before withdrawing. When the foot slips out again, Nora reaches out with her forefinger; the bird’s toenails – delicate, translucent – graze her skin and pause, mid-air.
Harry sends her to fetch a bundle of old cloths from his van to put down near the boiler as bedding. He arranges a hollow in the cloth and eases the bird from his hand. The black head bobs and jerks.
‘Can it fly yet?’
Harry doesn’t seem to hear. ‘He needs . . .’ he murmurs to himself. The furrows in his forehead deepen the scar. He looks up at her. ‘Body warmth.’
Of course, body warmth. With the ducklings they’d used a lamp to keep them warm once they were out of the incubator. She fetches the old Anglepoise from upstairs, her father’s, the cream paint scratched and chipped. The base, a chunk of metal, crashes to the ground as she rushes back down the stairs and Nora freezes, halfway down, but there’s no sound from the bedroom at the back of the house; Ada’s nap has not been disturbed.
Harry positions the lamp carefully, raising and lowering the metal shade, moving his palm between the bird and the bulb to test the temperature.
‘It gets really hot,’ Nora says. During long nights spent on the computer when she can’t sleep, her forehead often films with sweat and she has to turn away the lamp’s glare.
Harry nods, and stands to usher her from the room. At this sudden movement the bird’s neck strains, beak flipping wide to show the scarlet inside, but it makes no sound.
‘Perhaps it’s in shock,’ Nora says, pacing up and down between the French doors and the sofa where Harry is sprawled, hands linked behind his head. ‘Won’t it be hungry? Or thirsty? What do we give it to eat? Was it the boys who hurt it? Perhaps we should phone the RSPCA?’
She stops in front of Harry, who is gazing into the sooty throat of the fireplace, a half-smile on his face. ‘Harry, how do you know it’s a “he”?’
Harry nods slowly, deep in thought. Nora folds her arms tight across her ribs to prevent her hands passing over and over each other. S oaping up a lather , her mother used to say when Nora was a girl, and she’d put out a hand to still Nora’s restlessness. A creak of the floorboards overhead; Ada must have woken.
‘There’s Mum. She’ll want tea. I’ll just . . .’ Upstairs, a door opens and closes. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’ Nora waves her fingers towards the kitchen, unsure why they have left the bird in there behind a closed door and alone.
Upstairs, the bedroom air is misty with eau de Cologne. Ada, hair sleek in a chignon, is seated at her dressing table, leaning close to the mirror, rolling her lips and squeezing them together to distribute her freshly applied lipstick. Nora catches sight of her own reflection, her hair a mass of frayed kinks like old rope. She steps sideways, out of the mirror’s range. She should get her hair cut.
‘Are you feeling OK?’
Ada doesn’t answer. She picks up the silver-backed hairbrush, her movements deft. ‘I knew that was a man’s voice I heard.’ She smiles coquettishly at her own reflection before bending to caress the leather of a pair of knee-length boots leaning against the dressing-table leg. No slopping around in slippers today, then.
‘Mum, it’s only Harry.’
Ada zips
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