The area where they were was not actually in the National Park, but it was very near. By car, it was less than ten minutes. But that was unimportant, because, to all intents and purposes, the land around the Park was virtually identical. The lower land was rich, green grass, and the hillsides were full of sheep. It was one of the few places in the world, he thought, that quite literally, wherever one looked anywhere, you’d see sheep. The number of sheep was higher than the population of the country. He seemed to recall that for every person, there were fourteen sheep. If one went into any small shop, or anywhere that sold postcards, you could guarantee that a full eighty percent of the postcards would have sheep on them. Other countries’ postcards had scenes of the beach, or jungle, or fruit, or fifteenth century buildings and so on. Here, it was the Beacons with sheep, the Black Mountains with sheep, the Wye valley with sheep. In one market town 40 kilometres away, in the central shopping area, there was a life size sculptor of a typical farmer - with a sheep. Just one of them this time, it was true; but still, there was a sheep. They were everywhere, and around here they could be heard morning, noon and night. It didn’t disturb people; if they found the noise too much, they could pack their bags, and sell their house. You had a certain type of person who would choose to buy a house in this area. They would like quiet, the slow way of life, the long country walks, the aroma of the rain on the trees, and of course, the sounds of the country, the sheep, birds, watching the Wye go under the old bridge that separated Breconshire from Radnorshire. The pleasure increased exponentially if one picked up a couple of cans of beer and a packet of crisps from Andrea’s shop, a minute’s walk away.
Their house was near the Wye, just where it doubled back on itself in the form of a large ox-bow. It ran over a shallow rocky bed, under the old and rather beautiful bridge. Further back and across the way, one could make out the ruins of the old railway bridge that had once brought the trains up to the centre of the country. As was the case with many things, they had disappeared, an irreplaceable part of both history and geography. The Wye here turned to the east; one could occasionally see a few people fishing. In the distance, the tops of the Black Mountains shone in the warm May light. At different times of the day and year, depending on the weather, they gleamed in white, purple, pink or orange. They were, most people would agree, quite beautiful; yes, even in the rain. That was quite fortunate, for here, the rain came for a sizeable chunk of the year.
In the garden, he could hear the birds singing. He walked to the window, and looked out.There they were, scrapping over the bread he had thrown out earlier in the morning. It was certainly a beautiful day, one of those rare days one gets in the summer, the kind that one sees on picture postcards. You felt good just looking at it. If it were like this even for four months of the year, it would be good here, he thought. He had listened to the weather forecast over breakfast, and much to his pleasure, it was set to continue for the next few days. Yesterday he had cut the lawn, something he loathed doing, but was a necessary chore. In May, the grass grew quickly. It was much easier now that he had the petrol mower; the old electric one, like mini-hovercraft, got the job done, but it would take an eternity. His wife was at work; she was teacher just up the road in Llanfair, and taught science. She was a committed environmental activist; in fact, that is where they had first met, at a protest meeting against some new buildings going up on the site of a ‘rare bird breeding ground’, but again, he had yet to hear of any bit of earth in the world that wasn’t a ‘rare breeding ground’ for one species or another. No one knew they were ‘rare breeding grounds’ until some unfortunate builder had bought the land, and was just about to sink the foundations of the project. Then the knowledgeable, intrepid environmentalists came out of their lecture halls and tutorial rooms, intoxicated with the prospect of the hashish or whatever of publicity.
‘You’re a callous capitalist,’ she had told him on many an occasion. ‘You think of money.’
‘I work for a bank, so that’s not surprising,’ he said in reply. ‘When you get your pay cheque, I’ll take it, okay?’
She would then keep quiet.He had met her when he was trying to get to work after lunch in a bistro patronised by many of the financial sector workers. It was like home from home; all you heard concerned money, accounts, shares, unit trusts, and pay. That was one reason he liked the place. The other was that it made him feel important. He felt a member of the money crowd. At that time, he was an assistant manager at a small branch of the bank in Swansea, and the protest, whilst not aimed at the bank, was taking place nearby. She handed him a leaflet, and then had screamed what he had thought an obscenity. When he swore back at her in remonstration, she answered back.
‘Why are you swearing at me, you prick?’
‘Because you swore at me first, that’s why.’
‘No I didn’t. I asked you if you wanted to help the ducks.’
He had thought she had said something else. She looked pretty, he thought.
‘If you buy me a drink this evening, I’ll forgive you,’ he answered.
‘Okay,’ and off she went. He shouted after her. ‘Where?’
She looked across the road, and caught sight of The Miners’ Arms.
‘There, 8 o’clock.’
He was taken aback at this for two reasons; firstly, that she had accepted so readily, without knowing anything about him. The thought crossed his mind she might be one of the street girls down by the ferry terminal. She didn’t seem that type; he didn’t think many would use their off hours early afternoon to walk around the city centre pleading for the world to take notice of two thousand birds nesting on the estuary of the Tawe or the Usk.The second thing that concerned him regarding their rendezvous was the place itself. Hardly a week went by when you didn’t read in the Echo of a fight, or arrest, or injury at the place; quite often, it was all three. It must have seemed like a second home to the local Police. He made a note to change the venue. He’d get there early, and they would find somewhere else.
That was many years ago; they’d gone out, got to be close with one another, got married, and settled into some kind of quiet yet pleasant marital routine. They still got on pretty well with each other after this time. Both she and the children were at school. The boy liked history and was quite studious; the girl was interested in piano, squash, and telephoning everyone and anyone. He had a couple of days off from work at the bank, and was planning a quiet, relaxing time.
‘What can I do?’ he said quietly. ‘The house is clean, the washing’s on the line, and the things are ready for dinner.’
He had taken the rack of lamb out of the freezer, and it was defrosting on the worktop. It won’t take that long, on a day like this, he thought. He had selected the vegetables for dinner and they too were on the top, waiting to be peeled and cut up; there were three large thick leeks, potatoes, two turnips, and a couple of onions. But that, he thought, I can do around five o’clock. I’m not going to miss the sun.He went into the entrance hall, and checked the front door. It was locked. There was little crime in this part of Powys, but he was just by nature a careful man. He checked the other rooms to make sure the small windows were open to get the fresh air, and then went out of the back door onto the stone patio. He went to the garage, paused, and then checked the garden door just around the corner. That was okay. It was wrought iron, and one needed a key to get in. He went back into the garage, and picked up a watering can. He went with this to the outside tap by the kitchen wall. He filled it up, and then poured the water over the patio floor, to make sure they were clean. He was planning to walk barefoot on them. On the patio were three wooden sun beds. He poured the water over one of them, washing away some dust and a cobweb. He put the watering can down, and went back into the kitchen to get a cloth. He wiped the sun bed. It was still a little wet in places.
‘That doesn’t matter. In this heat, it’ll dry in a few minutes.’
He went back into the house, and came out a minute later, barefoot, in a pair of shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, unbuttoned. He was carrying a towel and a jug of homemade fruit juice. Under one arm was a book. He placed the jug within arm’s reach, and did the same with the book. He draped the towel over the bed, checked to see that it was secure, and then lay down. He sighed in a happy way. That feels good, he thought. He looked around. To the east, the ridge of the hill was a bright green, broken in places with the sheep. On the top, the grass gave way to fern and bracken. To the south, he saw the tip of the mountains, a faint purple haze. The hill to the west was a Forestry Commission area, he assumed. It wasn’t natural growth. There, by the garden fence, a rich brown, against which were various flowering plants, some close to the ground, other growing a few feet high. In front of him lay the lawn, complete with ubiquitous daisies and marigolds. He looked at his watch. It was 10 30. He unbuckled it, and laid it on the patio. He automatically rubbed his wrist where the watch had left a faint imprint. The strap was actually a fraction too short, but he hadn’t thought the trouble of getting it changed worthwhile. He lay back on the sun bed, and picked up ‘Kolymsky Heights’. He opened the book, and began to read. He lost track of the time, being so engrossed in the book. The only time he stopped reading was to pour a glass of juice. It was about an hour later that he finally stopped, and put the book down. ‘That was good,’ he said to himself, ‘a fine read.’He yawned, and felt his skin. It was warm, but not burnt.
‘I’ll have bit of time on my front,’ he said dreaming, and turned over. In a matter of minutes, he was dozing. He felt the sun on his back, heard the song and movement of the birds. In the faint distance, there was the soft roar of occasional traffic. Even on a bad day, there were precious few vehicles. The main road wasn’t that ‘main’ on a national scale.He felt the wave of sleep coming over him. He wasn’t a day sleeper, but today was different. He couldn’t care less.
‘I’ll have a half hour, and then see about some lunch.’
It was a bird that woke him up. He blinked in the strong sunlight, and slowly turned over. A sparrow was pecked at the jug. It seemed unaware of his presence. A second sparrow came, and then a third. They were flitting around, almost as if they were taking turns. He raised himself slowly. The sparrows flew away. He got to his feet, and bent down to pick up the jug. A thought occurred to him.
‘Maybe they want something to drink,’ he said under his breath. ‘Yes, that may be it. I’ll get them some.’
With that, he put the jug under the tap, and filled it up. He walked a couple of metres to the potted plants. He found one with a large saucer. He lifted the pot, and picked up the saucer, moving it a short distance from the plant. Then he poured the water into the saucer. He walked back to the kitchen door, and turned. Within half a minute, a group of nine or ten birds were flocking around the water. He looked at them, and then went in. Compared to the garden, the house was chilly; He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly one pm.
‘That’s good timing,’ he said to himself. ‘It’s time for a bite to eat.’
He put the jug in to the sink, and rinsed it out. Then, he washed his hands, and picked up his
shirt from a stool. He put it on.
‘Right, what are we going to have?’
He opened the mini-fridge tucked under the worktop, and examined its contents. He picked up some salad things; on the top shelf, he found a tomato, an onion, half a lettuce, and the remains of a cucumber. He got a lime from the bottom of the fridge. He put them on the chopping board,and took a knife from the rack. He went to the window and looked out. It really was a glorious day, he thought. I need some herbs. He went back into the garden to the herb patch near the garage.
‘Mint,’ he thought. ‘It might be a bit too strong. I’ll take a leaf or two.’
Further in the small plot, he saw the oregano.
’That’s what I want,’ he thought. He walked across and picked a sprig of the herb. They would go well with the salad. He went back to the fridge and lifted a small plate with some cold chicken. He put it on the worktop, and went to the breadbasket. He picked up a loaf of granary, and put that by the chicken. He took a knife from the rack and cut three thick slices. He put the bread back. He returned to the chopping board, and using the same knife, prepared the vegetables. He put the chopped bits into a bowl, sprinkled the herb on the top, and added some oil and lemon juice. He gave them a mix with his hands.
‘That looks good,’ he said.He picked a little, and ate it. Yes, better than I thought. He went back to the fridge and got a small bottle of beer. He walked to the drawer and took out a bottle opener, lifted the cap off, replaced the opener, and poured the beer into a glass. He drank in the daytime on very rare occasions; in fact, off-hand, he couldn’t think of the last time. He turned to the food, put the glass on the worktop that had become the table, pulled up a stool, and settled down to eat. He switched on the radio.
‘Here now is the sports latest -‘
He switched channel. One of Bach’s (he assumed it was Bach) interminable harpsichord solos was in full swing. He resumed channel search.
‘Cynthia Monmouth-Hay made her name at the Isle of Wight Literature festival last year with her play ‘In the fullness of a winter’s moon’, likened by critics to a combination of -'
He switched off. The breeze in the trees and the sound of the birds were far better. He continued to eat, pausing now and again to take a sip of beer. When he had finished, he got up and went to the sink. He rinsed the glass, and washed the cutlery and both plates in warm, slightly soapy water. He rinsed them, and put them on the draining board. He raised his arms, and leaned back, stretching.
‘Ah,’ he said to himself, ‘that felt good. The food and drink too,’ he added as an afterthought.
He glanced at the clock again. It was 1 30. He decided to wait an hour before going out in the sun again, just as a precaution. The sun wasn’t that strong this far up; they were 52 degrees north. But again, neither were people used to fairly strong sunlight here. He went to the bathroom, and then thought he would continue with his reading. He went through the open backdoor, picked up the book, and came back in. He went into the lounge, and settled down in one of the comfortable armchairs. He began to read again. He laughed when the main character, after going through university, returned to his near Arctic village and beat up the uncle who had abused him as a child. His thoughts turned to the time. He went into the rear, and checked the clock. It was 2 30, time to get in the garden again. He poured a glass of water and drank it. Then, he filled the glass again, and went out and over to the sun bed, and again removed his shirt. He lay on his back, hands on his neck, and closed his eyes. The images of the north of Canada came into his mind. Then, he yawned and sleep came.
He awoke again to the sound of the birds. He looked at them, and noticed they were looking at him. They must have numbered between forty or fifty. He felt thirsty. He reached for the glass of water on the patio. It wasn’t there. He looked for the watch. He couldn’t find that, either. He began to sense that something was wrong. He opened his mouth to breathe in, and licked his lips. He was unable to. It felt peculiar. He looked around him. The garden had changed, but he couldn't work out why... or how. There were the apple trees, they seemed familiar, but looked different at the same time. The trees were taller and fuller, the foliage thicker. He noticed the garden seemed to have increased in size. He turned to the French window of the lounge. It was as if he was looking though it from a height, from an angle he had not seen before. The birds were watching him. He stood up, and peered into the lounge. A wave of near-terror went through him.
‘What on earth is happening to me?’ he asked in a voice, a voice he didn’t recognize. He went towards the kitchen door. It was shut. He tried to turn the handle. There was nothing. He went towards the garage. The sun was beginning to go down, and the orange brick walls of the house seemed to absorb the warmth of the evening air. He went back to the lounge window.
She was sitting on the sofa, the two children next to her. A tall man with a notebook was in front of her; another man, this one in uniform, was near the door. He listened. The police detective was talking.
‘Mrs Heron, people don’t ‘just’ disappear. They generally disappear for a reason. They might be kidnapped, they might be on the run from the law, they might want to run away; there are many possible scenarios. But it is most unusual for a man, or woman, to simply get up and go away. Have you had any arguments lately?’
‘No, we got on very well; you can ask the children.’
The two children nodded their agreement.
‘Did you husband have any money problems?’
‘No. We’re not that rich; that’s clear. But we’re quite comfortable. We own most of this place,and another one near the university. We rent that out. No, there’s no financial worry.’
‘What about enemies? Were there any threatening phone calls, or any untoward incidence in town, for example?’
‘No, there’s nothing. He’s only… I don’t mean this in a disparaging way…he’s a bank manager of a modest sized branch in a market town. He’s done very well for himself, and I’m proud of him, but the reality is, he’s earning a few thousand a month, not millions; nowhere near it. I don’t think people like him get any real enemies.’
He listened, and then looked around him. He couldn’t fathom out what was going on. Why didn’t they see him. Why didn’t they open the French windows and let him in. He had disappeared, they said. No, he hadn’t; he was right here. Why couldn’t they see that? A sparrow perched next to him.
‘How tame,’ was his first reaction. She spoke.
‘Hi, I’m looking for a mate. Would you be interested in me?’
He looked for a long time, in total chaos and astonishment. This was a dream, right. A very clear and real dream, but none the less, a dream; or was he hallucinating? Was it the beer he had drunk with lunch? It can’t be, he thought. It’s ... He trailed off. The sparrow was watching him.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if I’m not suitable for you, I’ll go.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he heard himself talking, ‘don’t go. I’m confused. You see, the woman in there, and the children, are my wife, my family.’
The sparrow laughed.
‘There’s always someone like you in any flock. The ones who think they are human.’
‘But I am human,' he retorted, ‘I’m a bank manager in a small town near here. I have worked there for nearly fifteen years.'‘
You’re a funny looking human,’ she answered. ‘Try looking at yourself in the window.’
He paused, and then turned towards the glass.
‘Oh, no,’ this cannot be; things don’t happen this way. It can’t be.’
In the reflection, he saw a small bird, a sparrow, just like the one next to him. She came closer, and he saw her too. Through the glass, he watched a the two policemen shook hands with his wife, and left the room.
‘Look up here,’ he shouted. ‘I’m here, up here.’
She didn’t respond. One of the children came towards the window. He heard her tell the others how tame some of the birds in the garden were.
‘I’m your father,’ he shouted through the window.’
The girl was laughing.
‘You noisy bird! Are you having fun up there?’
She turned and went out of the room. The other sparrow came closer.
‘They can’t hear you; at least, they can’t understand you. You can always come back and see them though, everyday if you wish.’
The terrible truth was beginning to take hold, and with a seeming ease of passing, he knew that she was right, and he couldn’t go back to his other life. But how could this happen? He found himself asking the question again and again, but then the whole thing seemed to pull away, and become less important. He turned to the other sparrow.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I don’t have a name…we don’t have names. There are too many of us, and names would be confusing.’
‘What can I call you?’ he asked, the initial despair and fear going away, much to his surprise.
‘At the moment, nothing. If you want to be my mate, then call me ‘my mate’, right?'.
He closed his eyes and breathed in. He opened his eyes again, and looked at her. She was very attractive; a nice beak, a gentle warble, and the feather colourings were artistic and pretty. She looked at him for what seemed a very long time.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’
He found himself in flight, next to her, as they flew over the garden and into the trees by the edge of the Wye.
‘This is my home,’ she said. ‘It’s second-hand, but in decent condition. We can tidy it up, and make it a nice place for our offspring.’
He looked around the place. Yes, he thought, it did have potential; there was water nearby, plenty of protection from the wind and sun, and high enough to be well away from any marauding enemy.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
‘It’s nice. Would you like me to remain here with you?’
Then, as an after thought, he added, ‘as your mate?’
She looked at him, came closer, and put her head on his shoulder.
‘Yes, mate,’ she murmured into the quiet breeze. They cuddled closer together in the nest, high up in the tree overlooking the Brecon Beacons, listening to the air and the water running over the rocks on the bed of the Wye.
A few months later, back in the house, the mother held the children. She sighed, and then said
‘I think your father must have run off with another woman. There’s no other explanation.’
The boy asked,
‘Are you sure?’
The mother answered,
‘Yes, we’ve checked family, acquaintances, bank staff; he hasn’t left the country because his passport is still here, there are no reports of any accident. He’s not a hill walker or rambler. The car is out the front. Someone must have come and collected him.’
The girl asked her mother.
‘Will we be alright if Dad doesn’t come back?’
There were tears in her eyes.
‘Yes, of course,’ answered her mother, holding her. ‘I’m working; this place is almost paid for as is the place in Pontypridd. We’re okay for money, don’t worry about that.’
'Will you be okay though, Mum?’ the boy asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she answered, ‘I’ll be alright… it’s your father I’m worried about. Even though I think he’s run away, I hope he’s alright.’
‘Are you angry with him, Mum?' the girl asked, on the sofa next to her mother.
'No, not really angry, because he did take good care of us for nearly twenty years. I suppose I’m a bit disappointed that he doesn’t want us now; but that perhaps isn’t fair. It might be that he just wants a break, or worse, is suffering from some kind of mental breakdown, and doesn’t really know what he’s doing. I just don’t know.’
The boy came in with a mug of tea.
‘Here you are Mum.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and began to sip the tea. The boy spread out on one of the armchairs whilst the mother curled her long legs under her. She put her arm round the girl, and pulled her close.
‘I just don’t know. We must get on with things; it’s no good sitting around and thinking or moping.’
There was knock on the front door.
‘Get that, will you?’ she asked the boy. He went out. The mother and the girl heard the door open, and then a startled exclamation.
‘Dad!’
They both got off the sofa as if a wasp had stung them. The lounge door opened, and the man came in. They stared at one another, before coming together and embracing. There was absolute silence. No one said anything. The broke apart and looked at each other. At last, the woman asked,
‘What on earth happened to you? Are you all right? Where did you get to?’
The man looked at her, and gently held her hand, leaned forward, and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m just fine. I had to go away for a few months; I had no choice…’
‘But why didn’t you tell us, why didn’t you phone, why…?’
'I can’t explain it, at least not yet. But I have kept an eye on you, trust me.’
‘But Dad…’ the girl began.
The man put his arm round her, and then put his finger on his lips.
’Shhh, not now. I’m just happy to be back with the three of you.’
He turned towards the boy, and pulled him closer.
‘I do love you lot, I love you very much. Don’t ever forget that.’
He sighed. ‘I need a cup of tea.’
He looked out of the lounge rear window. On the lawn was a sparrow, with several of her young. They were watching the people in the house.
‘I must feed the birds. They are like my family, too.’
He turned, and holding the children and his wife, walked into the kitchen, opened the door to the garden, picked up a couple of slices of bread, and threw them towards the birds on the grass. He walked out into the garden. They began to peck. His wife looked at him.
‘That’s unusual.'
‘What?’
‘The birds didn’t fly away. When we feed them, they always fly away until we go indoors, and then they come to eat.’
‘You’re right,’ said her husband. ‘But these are different. They are just like my family.’
'I'll put the kettle on for tea'. She went back in.
The two children began to giggle. The birds on the lawn stopped eating, and turned to look.
‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘they won’t fly away again. No way.’
The sparrows turned back to the bread, and began pecking. The mother bird began to chirrup.
‘Yes, I know,’ said the man quietly, ‘I know you miss me, but you can come here everyday, can’t you?’
The mother birds spread her wings, and flew towards him. She perched on his arm.
‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I love you too.’
The bird flew off to a tree as the rear door opened, and his wife came back into the garden. She looked puzzled.
‘Are you talking to the birds? They must be very tame. I haven’t seen them like this before.’
Her husband looked her.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was just thinking how much I love you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I know.’
'Mum, Dad's talking to the birds,' said the girl.
'Yeah, he told them he loves them, too!' said the boy, trying to stop laughing.
'I knew you were nuts the first time I met you...but I love you too.'
She put one arm around him. They held each other, the two children coming together, too. in the quiet of affection.
The breeze rustled the apple trees, and the sun came out from behind a thin, high cloud. In the warm afternoon air, they heard the waters of the Wye. The sparrows looked at them for a long time, then turned back to the bread on the lawn, and again began to peck.
