Read Online The Birds of the Innocent Wood by Deirdre Madden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deirdre Madden
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which she desired: fresh wallpaper, new carpets, and brightly coloured paint. She sensedthat James’s father – and James too – liked the house to remain as it had always been. Her presence did nothing to change the womanless air of the place, and even she was struck by the oddness of it.
One day, not very long after their marriage, she came into the kitchen to find James cleaning out a large brown and black double-barrelled shot-gun.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked falteringly.
‘What do you think it’s for?’ he replied laughing. ‘Killing things, that’s what,’ as he closed it with a click and playfully levelled the empty gun at her.
That night the weather was stormy, and the following morning James rose long before the dawn to go out wildfowling. When he had gone from the dim room Jane moved over to his side of the bed, into the warm depression which his body had made. Breathing in a smell of his absent body from the sheets and the soft pillow she listened, as she so often did, to the sound of the birds, but now their cries were broken by the sounds of the men’s guns. She was surprised to find how much this upset her, for until then she had always associated the bird cries with hostility: often she had wished for a natural silence. She felt ill at ease in the countryside, for it was not ‘nice’ as she had vaguely imagined it would be, any more than marriage was ‘nice’. The flat earth and the wide, wide sky frightened her, and to her the noise of the birds was the noise of nature: implacable, uncompromising, cruel: something which could not be contained or controlled. She was surprised, therefore, at the great pity which she felt for the birds as she lay in bed and thought of them, wounded and crying and frightened out there in the raw morning.
Later James came home, shamefaced at his lack of success. He threw a single mallard on the kitchen table, and Jane was shocked. She had never seriously thought of the birds as living creatures until that moment, when she saw one dead. She had considered them distant creatures and thought of them in terms of sound rather than of touch. At dusk she had watched them fly across the sky, pale against the turbid clouds: alwayssomething multiple, distant, untouchable. Never before had she been so close to a wild duck, and it filled her with wonder. For a long time she stood looking at the dead bird with a mixture Of admiration and revulsion. Plump, solid and heavy-looking, its little dead eyes glittered, and its fabulous glossy feathers deflected the light. Forcing herself to put out her hand and stroke it, Jane thought gladly of all the other birds which were still out there, in the water and in the air: alive.
James’s father plucked and cleaned out the bird and presented to Jane a lump of flesh that looked like nothing so much as a dismembered baby. It took the full power of her will to make her roast it in the oven. When it was ready she could not bear to watch the men eat the fowl, it make her sick even to think of it.
And then someone gave them a gift of fish and she had to cook that too, and then someone gave them a parcel of eels wrapped in thick black polythene which rolled and wriggled along the back step until James’s father opened the package up and killed and skinned them. All this was a revelation to Jane: that you could live comfortably with nature to such a degree that it did not threaten you but that you threatened it: only when she realized this did Jane feel that she was beginning to understand this strange place where she was to spend the rest of her life.
Jane found it no easier to make friends in the country than she had in town: in fact, she soon found herself longing for the city’s anonymity. At first she merely disliked going to the village to do shopping, but gradually the dislike grew to the point of dread. As she walked along the quiet main street she felt that someone peeped from every window. In shops she parried politely the
One day, not very long after their marriage, she came into the kitchen to find James cleaning out a large brown and black double-barrelled shot-gun.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked falteringly.
‘What do you think it’s for?’ he replied laughing. ‘Killing things, that’s what,’ as he closed it with a click and playfully levelled the empty gun at her.
That night the weather was stormy, and the following morning James rose long before the dawn to go out wildfowling. When he had gone from the dim room Jane moved over to his side of the bed, into the warm depression which his body had made. Breathing in a smell of his absent body from the sheets and the soft pillow she listened, as she so often did, to the sound of the birds, but now their cries were broken by the sounds of the men’s guns. She was surprised to find how much this upset her, for until then she had always associated the bird cries with hostility: often she had wished for a natural silence. She felt ill at ease in the countryside, for it was not ‘nice’ as she had vaguely imagined it would be, any more than marriage was ‘nice’. The flat earth and the wide, wide sky frightened her, and to her the noise of the birds was the noise of nature: implacable, uncompromising, cruel: something which could not be contained or controlled. She was surprised, therefore, at the great pity which she felt for the birds as she lay in bed and thought of them, wounded and crying and frightened out there in the raw morning.
Later James came home, shamefaced at his lack of success. He threw a single mallard on the kitchen table, and Jane was shocked. She had never seriously thought of the birds as living creatures until that moment, when she saw one dead. She had considered them distant creatures and thought of them in terms of sound rather than of touch. At dusk she had watched them fly across the sky, pale against the turbid clouds: alwayssomething multiple, distant, untouchable. Never before had she been so close to a wild duck, and it filled her with wonder. For a long time she stood looking at the dead bird with a mixture Of admiration and revulsion. Plump, solid and heavy-looking, its little dead eyes glittered, and its fabulous glossy feathers deflected the light. Forcing herself to put out her hand and stroke it, Jane thought gladly of all the other birds which were still out there, in the water and in the air: alive.
James’s father plucked and cleaned out the bird and presented to Jane a lump of flesh that looked like nothing so much as a dismembered baby. It took the full power of her will to make her roast it in the oven. When it was ready she could not bear to watch the men eat the fowl, it make her sick even to think of it.
And then someone gave them a gift of fish and she had to cook that too, and then someone gave them a parcel of eels wrapped in thick black polythene which rolled and wriggled along the back step until James’s father opened the package up and killed and skinned them. All this was a revelation to Jane: that you could live comfortably with nature to such a degree that it did not threaten you but that you threatened it: only when she realized this did Jane feel that she was beginning to understand this strange place where she was to spend the rest of her life.
Jane found it no easier to make friends in the country than she had in town: in fact, she soon found herself longing for the city’s anonymity. At first she merely disliked going to the village to do shopping, but gradually the dislike grew to the point of dread. As she walked along the quiet main street she felt that someone peeped from every window. In shops she parried politely the
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